Will doesn't expect Hannibal's shift, and he's more than a little impressed that Hannibal has the strength to pull himself up onto the table, especially considering the amount of energy he just expended fucking Will out of his mind. Will feels like he's out of phase with reality, his skin damp with sweat but chilled as his heart finally begins to slow, making him a little shivery despite not really being cold. It helps immensely when Hannibal gathers him in his arms, the two of them tangled together in the center of the tabletop like a sacrifice, or the subject of a renaissance painting. The room is quiet now, still but for the sound of their heavy breathing, the heaving of their chests. A wistful part of Will's mind wishes there was some way to see what they look like from above, the image they make, flushed skin, sweat streaked hair, the mess of olive oil and Will's semen smeared between them and over the surface of the table top.

The whim doesn't last, however; despite how unforgiving the mahogany is beneath Will's shoulder and hip, the pillow of Hannibal's upper arm supports Will's head well enough, and Hannibal's even breathing is already lulling Will toward sleep. He's beyond exhausted now, they both are, drained from traveling and sex, the intensity of their feelings for each other, and Will thinks they could sleep probably in the middle of a busy highway at this point. There's a part of Will that wants to vocalize what he feels, to tell Hannibal what's in his heart, but he realizes as he tries to find the words that he doesn't have them. What he feels for this other man in intangible, unexplainable. Moreover there's no need to tell Hannibal, because it's something Hannibal already knows, the same way Will knows about Hannibal's feelings for him.

So Will let's go, allowing the warm insistence of sleep to drag him under, cast adrift into the sea of unconsciousness in the arms of the man he loves.