Will can easily see that Hannibal wants the same thing he does, that the desire is right beneath the surface for him as well, threatening to spill over. They're strong men, and denying themselves this for only a few more hours is far less difficult than almost any other denial they've had to face, but it feels torturous in this moment, so close to each other and yet unable to touch. When they finally can have what they're so desperate for their patience will be rewarded, but the payoff is far enough away that Will can't imagine enduring for that long.
When Hannibal replies silently, the same word as the last one he'd spoken aloud, Will has to close his eyes to fight off a wave of arousal, taking a deep breath through his nose before he opens his eyes again. He knows he should break eye contact with Hannibal, because they longer they look at each other the farther from their characters they become, and the harder it is for Will to keep his very obvious attraction under wraps. As it is his blood is pooling, his body reacting, and Will squeezes the muscles of his pelvic floor, feeling the soreness from earlier that evening, the dampness of the skin and the fabric of his underwear. He can feel heat rising his his cheeks, his lips, and he knows his expression is hiding absolutely nothing.
Reluctantly, he shifts his eyes away, and turns his head, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. He thinks of the beach of the frozen Atlantic, the frigid air blowing off the waves, cold enough to sting the exposed skin of his face. He think about crunchy, unblemished snow, deep enough to get into his shoes if he tried to walk across it, the burning ice against his ankle bones. It's helping a little, to cool him down, but it's difficult to not think about Hannibal, his body heat and his smell, the sound of his breathing. A battle goes on inside Will's brain, between ice and snow and wind and the memory of the heat of Hannibal's hands on his skin, Hannibal's mouth on his own, Hannibal's cock inside him.
He thinks about getting up to use the bathroom, but he knows if he does he won't be able to stop from touching himself, and if he does he won't be able to stop. There's no way to cover up the smell of that, and it will immediately put him on the flight attendants' radar. Not only that, but he knows it will be so much better if he waits, if, by the time they reach the apartment in Paris, he's so raw from waiting he's coming apart at the seams. He decides instead he'll ask for ice water when the beverage service starts, hoping that will help in tempering him.
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When Hannibal replies silently, the same word as the last one he'd spoken aloud, Will has to close his eyes to fight off a wave of arousal, taking a deep breath through his nose before he opens his eyes again. He knows he should break eye contact with Hannibal, because they longer they look at each other the farther from their characters they become, and the harder it is for Will to keep his very obvious attraction under wraps. As it is his blood is pooling, his body reacting, and Will squeezes the muscles of his pelvic floor, feeling the soreness from earlier that evening, the dampness of the skin and the fabric of his underwear. He can feel heat rising his his cheeks, his lips, and he knows his expression is hiding absolutely nothing.
Reluctantly, he shifts his eyes away, and turns his head, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. He thinks of the beach of the frozen Atlantic, the frigid air blowing off the waves, cold enough to sting the exposed skin of his face. He think about crunchy, unblemished snow, deep enough to get into his shoes if he tried to walk across it, the burning ice against his ankle bones. It's helping a little, to cool him down, but it's difficult to not think about Hannibal, his body heat and his smell, the sound of his breathing. A battle goes on inside Will's brain, between ice and snow and wind and the memory of the heat of Hannibal's hands on his skin, Hannibal's mouth on his own, Hannibal's cock inside him.
He thinks about getting up to use the bathroom, but he knows if he does he won't be able to stop from touching himself, and if he does he won't be able to stop. There's no way to cover up the smell of that, and it will immediately put him on the flight attendants' radar. Not only that, but he knows it will be so much better if he waits, if, by the time they reach the apartment in Paris, he's so raw from waiting he's coming apart at the seams. He decides instead he'll ask for ice water when the beverage service starts, hoping that will help in tempering him.