Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will stood at the edge of the forest, heart pounding like a warning drum in his chest. The redwoods towered above him, silent and unmoved by the human turmoil below. His hands trembled slightly as he stepped over fallen leaves, each crunch beneath his feet a reminder that he had come too far to turn back now.

He saw him there—Caesar—poised high on a branch, his amber eyes watching him with a stillness that was too calm for the storm raging in Will’s chest. The sun filtered through the trees, catching in Caesar’s fur, casting him in gold. It hit Will then, all over again. How much he missed him. Not just the presence or the warmth or the brilliant mind behind the quiet. He missed Caesar’s steadiness. His wordless loyalty. The way he used to sit beside him on the couch and lean gently against his shoulder, the world safely locked outside for just a few stolen moments.

“I came to bring you home,” Will said quietly, forcing his voice to stay steady. “It’s not the same without you. Nothing is.”

Caesar looked at him for a long moment. Then he climbed down slowly, with a grace that reminded Will just how far from human he now was. But when he stood before him, there was something still familiar. That quiet intelligence. The way he tilted his head, as if listening more with his heart than his ears.

“Home,” Will said again, voice cracking. “Please, Caesar. Come back. We can go somewhere new. We can start over.”

Caesar stepped forward. Close enough now that Will could feel his warmth in the crisp forest air. He raised a hand and placed it softly on Will’s chest, right over his heart.

“Caesar is home,” he said.

Will blinked hard. His throat closed up. “You mean here,” he whispered.

Caesar nodded.

And with that simple truth, Will’s world crumbled.

He stayed for a few more minutes. Long enough to look at Caesar like he might never see him again. Long enough to memorize the way the sunlight caught in his eyes, the way the wind stirred the fur on his shoulders. He reached out, brushing his fingers against Caesar’s hand for just a moment.

“I hope you know,” Will said. “I only ever wanted you to be safe. To be free. But I didn’t think it would mean losing you.”

Caesar didn’t respond. But he didn’t look away either.

Will turned and walked back down the path, and with each step, it felt like something inside him broke a little more.

___________________________________

Back in San Francisco, Will’s house was too quiet. The rooms echoed. Every corner held a ghost. The blanket on the couch still smelled faintly of Caesar’s fur. The lab was colder, emptier, filled with people who looked at him with a mix of pity and distance.

He tried to keep going. He tried to lose himself in work. But the passion that once fueled him had gone dull. He barely spoke at meetings. He stopped playing the piano. Some nights he would fall asleep on the couch, still holding the collar Caesar had once worn, his hand clutching it like a lifeline.

The silence became unbearable.

He started visiting the redwoods on weekends. Just in case. Just to be close. He’d walk the trail and stare up at the trees and sometimes he swore he could feel Caesar watching him. He never said anything. Never made himself known. But Will held onto the hope that maybe he was still there. Still thinking about him.

Because Will couldn’t stop thinking about Caesar.

And nothing—no work, no distraction, no time—could fill the space he left behind.

Chapter Text

Will hadn’t spoken to another person in over two years. Not really. Not with trust. Not with warmth. His words had become short commands muttered to himself. Stay low. Move fast. Don’t linger. Don’t hope. The cities had fallen quiet long ago, overrun by vines, shattered glass, and silence. Nature took back what it was owed. So did the fear.

Each day was about rationing — food, water, memories. Will kept one worn photograph tucked in the pages of a damp book, but he didn’t look at it anymore. It hurt too much. He didn’t even know if Caesar was alive. Hope was a dangerous thing to keep.

It was a forest that brought him back to the beginning. Old growth he recognized from trips with Caesar back when the world still had morning traffic and coffee shops. The air felt heavy with familiarity and something else. Watchful eyes.

He had a rusted knife in one hand when he heard the softest movement behind him. Barely a whisper. Will froze. His breath hitched. He turned.

And there he was.

Older. Broader. Wearing that expression — somewhere between caution and sorrow — like a ghost stepping out of Will’s own memory.

“Caesar?” His voice cracked, nearly unrecognizable to himself.

The ape didn’t move. Just watched.

Will took one shaking step forward. Then another. And something in him, something buried deep for years, snapped. His knees buckled. He dropped the knife. A sound escaped his throat — more sob than word — and he collapsed forward.

He hadn’t realized how broken he was until he saw Caesar.

“I felt so....” he said, voice shaking as his forehead pressed against Caesar’s shoulder. “I was alone for so long.”

Caesar reached out slowly, carefully. As if touching a sacred thing. His strong arms wrapped around Will and held him as though he never meant to let go.

“You are not alone,” Caesar murmured against his hair.

Will clung tighter, breath shuddering. His body trembled with everything he had locked inside for years — fear, grief, longing, love.

But then, something cold crept in behind the warmth. A surge of panic beneath the flood of relief. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel this much again.

He pulled back suddenly, stumbling a step away from Caesar like the contact had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” Will breathed, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “I—I didn’t mean to fall apart like that. I shouldn’t have come here.”

He looked away, shame creeping into every line of his face. “You’ve built something here. A home. A life. You don’t owe me anything.”

His voice broke at the edges.

“I should go.”

He turned, heart pounding, about to retreat into the forest, into the silence he had learned to live with—until a shadow moved in front of him.

Caesar.

He stepped directly into Will’s path and raised a hand — not forcefully, just enough to stop him.

“You were my family,” Caesar said quietly. “Before all of this.”

Will froze.

Caesar looked at him — not like a leader watching a broken man, but like someone seeing the only part of his old life he had missed every day.

“You still are.”

Will’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat ached with words he didn’t trust himself to say.

Caesar stepped closer, his voice lower now, like a secret meant for only one.

“Home was never a place,” he said. “It was you.”

And just like that, something in Will’s chest — long frozen — cracked open.

He didn’t move again.

He couldn’t.

Not when the only warmth he’d ever known was approaching him, arms wrapping around his lean figure as he pulled him into an embrace.

Will stood frozen in the circle of Caesar’s arms, the tremble in his shoulders betraying the years of solitude he had forced himself through. The ruins of the world had aged him, thinned him, left his eyes hollow and cautious — but in this moment, pressed to the only soul who had ever truly seen him, the weight cracked.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he choked out, voice muffled against Caesar’s shoulder.

Caesar pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning Will’s face, older now, wearier, but still Will. “You are alone?” he asked, voice rough with concern.

Will gave a short, breathless laugh, wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. Been alone a long time now. Just me and ghosts.”

Caesar's gaze softened. “That is not life.”

“No,” Will whispered. “It’s not.”

A pause stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

“I missed you,” Caesar said simply.

Will swallowed hard. His voice cracked as he responded, “I missed you too. Every day.”

Then, quietly, eyes not meeting Caesar’s, he asked, “How am I supposed to move on from this?”

Caesar didn’t hesitate. He placed a hand on Will’s chest, right over his heart. “Then don’t,” he said. “Come with me. I will take care of you — the way you took care of me.”

Will looked up at him, startled, something trembling behind his eyes. His chest tightened, breath hitching. The offer struck deep, and his thoughts raced.

Did Caesar mean as a brother? A friend? Or as the man who raised him? He didn’t dare ask. He wasn’t ready to hear an answer he couldn’t live with.

But right now, none of that mattered. The relief that Caesar still thought of him — still cared — was enough to soften the edges of Will’s fear.

Still, he shook his head slowly. “I can’t. I don't fit in with you...with the other apes.”

Caesar nodded solemnly. “Many of your kind are sick. Others, violent. Apes fight them. Many have died.” He looked at Will, firm. “That is why I worry. You are alone. Exposed.”

Will looked down, jaw clenched. “I’ve survived this long.”

“But at what cost?” Caesar stepped closer again. “Let me protect you. Just like you once protected me.”

Will met his gaze — and in Caesar’s eyes, he saw no judgment, no pity, only the quiet devotion of someone who had never forgotten.

He didn’t have words. Only a nod.

Caesar opened his arms again, and this time, Will didn’t hesitate.

Chapter Text

Will stayed.

At first, it was just a few days—long enough for the ache in his chest to settle and the surreal nature of it all to wear off. But as the days stretched, so did the quiet understanding between him and Caesar.

The ape community, curious but cautious, watched him with wary eyes. Some remembered him. Others had only heard stories.

Will stayed close to Caesar.

Caesar noticed.

When the others trained or worked together to fortify the new encampment, Will sat a little ways off, hands clasped, quiet. He never interfered, never inserted himself. He wasn't sure if he belonged.

One afternoon, as the apes gathered food, Caesar approached Will with a bundle of ripe fruit.

"You haven’t eaten much," Caesar said simply, offering it to him.

Will blinked, took it with a murmured, "Thanks."

A young orangutan—bright-eyed, inquisitive—ambled up to Will and tilted its head. Will smiled awkwardly and held out a piece of fruit. The ape snatched it and scampered off, laughing in its own wild way.

Caesar huffed a small laugh. "They like you."

"Not sure I know how to talk to them anymore," Will admitted, voice low.

"You don’t need to," Caesar said. "They know who you are."

That night, the fire crackled low. Apes nestled into their sleeping places in trees and dens, their voices faded into the sounds of the forest.

Will sat beside Caesar near the fire, shoulders slightly hunched, trying not to take up too much space. Caesar had noticed that, too—how Will always shrank, trying not to intrude.

"You’re not intruding," Caesar said softly, as if reading his thoughts.

Will glanced at him. "...Feels like I am."

"You’re not."

Will looked away, silent.

Then Caesar leaned forward. "I want you to feel safe here. With us. With me."

Will's throat worked around emotion he didn’t know how to name. "It’s just... been a long time."

Caesar nodded, his voice low, intimate. "You stayed with me when I was young. I remember every day."

Will looked up, eyes catching the firelight. “You don’t owe me anything for that.”

Caesar's gaze was unwavering. "I know. That’s why it means more."

The silence stretched, comfortable. Will found himself watching the flames and not feeling like he had to explain anything.

In the following days, Caesar didn’t leave him alone.

He brought him meals. Sat beside him. Invited him—gently—into conversations with other apes. Even asked his opinion on where to build shelters, how to organize supplies. It was subtle, but deliberate.

Will wasn’t sure when it started—this ache in his chest every time Caesar brushed against him or looked at him too long. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. It was something heavier, something warmer.

Caesar was careful with him. Always asking if he was cold, hungry, tired. He made room beside him at the fire when the other apes kept their distance. If Will hesitated in climbing over the uneven terrain, Caesar would offer his hand without a word. If Will looked lost, Caesar would glance back and wait.

And when Caesar touched him—a hand on his back, a quiet squeeze on his arm—Will would freeze, caught in that moment longer than he should be.

He hated himself for how aware he’d become. How every time Caesar leaned close to explain something, his voice low and sure, Will had to remind himself to breathe.

Caesar caught his eyes sometimes and held them for just a second too long. Not in a way that said anything loud. But in a way that made Will wonder.

Was it kindness? Familiarity? Something deeper?

Don’t be stupid, he told himself. He sees you as someone from another life. Someone who took care of him when he was young. That’s all.

So he pushed it down.

Even when Caesar embraced him before heading off to scout—arms strong and grounding—Will said nothing. Even when Caesar’s hand lingered on his arm, thumb brushing once, gently… Will didn’t move. Didn’t lean into it.

He just nodded. “Be safe.”

Because no matter what it felt like, no matter how badly he wanted to ask—What am I to you now?—he wouldn’t risk it.

The forest had dimmed slightly under the cover of evening clouds when Caesar returned from the scout. His gait was steady, yet there was a worn edge to his movements — a tension in his shoulders that Will recognized instantly.

Will stood near the edge of the clearing where they'd built a small shelter for him. A quiet sense of anticipation had been building all day. He didn’t realize how much he had been waiting — listening for the soft rustle of branches, the distant hoots of returning scouts — until he saw Caesar emerging from the tree line.

“Caesar,” Will called, trying to keep his voice calm and not too eager.

Caesar’s head lifted, golden eyes catching on him instantly. His expression shifted, softening. A brief but unmistakable smile crossed his face.

“Will,” he greeted simply.

Will moved to meet him halfway, brushing aside low-hanging branches. “Everything okay?”

Caesar nodded. “Yes. No sign of humans nearby. Quiet. Safer.”

Will exhaled a little. “Good.”

There was a pause — the kind that had become more common between them. Full of quiet things left unsaid.

“You look tired,” Will offered. “Did you… eat?”

Caesar tilted his head slightly, amused. “You worry like a mother.”

Will flushed, chuckling awkwardly. “I mean—someone has to.”

“I am not so fragile,” Caesar said, but his tone was light. He reached out and touched Will’s arm — a familiar, steadying gesture he often did now — but lingered a little longer than usual. His palm was warm, grounding.

Will didn’t move. He let himself feel it. Just for a moment.

When Caesar’s hand dropped, Will cleared his throat. “Well… your home’s still here.”

“Our home,” Caesar corrected gently.

Will glanced away, pretending to inspect the shelter. “Right. Of course.”

Caesar stepped beside him, their arms brushing.

Will’s breath caught.

The fire that had started as a flicker — an ache of something once fatherly, then platonic, then something else entirely — now burned slow and constant. Will had always loved Caesar. But now… now it was different. It filled his chest and ached behind his ribs. It made him restless.

But he said nothing.

He couldn’t.

Instead, he asked, “Did Rocket give you a hard time again?”

Caesar grunted. “Always. He doesn’t like that I leave him in charge. Says I go soft when I’m near you.”

Will stiffened. “And… do you?”

Caesar turned to him, quiet for a long beat. “No. I am not soft. But I remember. And I protect what I care about.”

Will felt something thick rise in his throat, but he forced it down. He smiled — small, weak, but enough to shift the moment.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.

Caesar’s gaze lingered on him.

“I always come back,” he replied.

Chapter Text

Later that evening, Will passed by the communal fire circle where a few younger apes were gathered with Caesar, swapping stories from their youth. Will lingered just out of sight, not intending to eavesdrop—only to hear Caesar’s voice, maybe catch a piece of him in an unguarded moment.

One of the younger apes teased, “You trust Will more than any of us.”

There was a pause. A log cracked in the fire.

“He is… like family,” Caesar said after a moment. “A bond like… like brother. Or father, maybe. But not more.”

Will froze.

His heart sank slowly, like a stone dropped in a deep well. He hadn’t realized just how tightly he’d been holding onto the small touches, the lingering glances, the way Caesar always found him in a crowd—until that weight of clarity crushed it all.

Not more.

The words rang in his ears as he stepped back, slipping into the shadows. That night, he avoided the fire. The next morning, when Caesar called for him, Will claimed fatigue. When Caesar sought him out by the river, Will busied himself with baskets, refusing to meet his eyes.

And when Caesar brushed past him in greeting—his hand ghosting over Will’s arm the way it always had—Will flinched before he could stop himself.

Caesar paused, brows furrowing in concern. “Will?”

But Will simply shook his head, offering a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

And he walked away.

The next day, he offered to help the older apes reinforce the northern perimeter, even though it meant being far from Caesar’s usual routine. When Caesar came by later, catching Will in the middle of hoisting a thick branch, Will barely met his eyes. He muttered something about needing to finish before sundown and turned away.

It didn’t stop there.

If Caesar sat near him, Will shifted. If Caesar reached to touch his shoulder in passing, Will flinched just slightly—enough to notice, not enough to be called out. He stopped joining in on shared meals. Stopped looking up when Caesar entered a space.

And Caesar noticed.

The final straw was when Will volunteered to join a foraging group headed farther west—something he’d never done, not without Caesar.

As Will packed his small satchel, Caesar stood in the doorway of the hut. Watching. Quiet.

“Why?” Caesar finally asked, his voice low.

Will kept his hands busy, rolling up the leather strap. “Needed a change of pace.”

Caesar took a slow step forward. “You’ve been changing your pace all week. Avoiding me.”

Will stilled.

“I’m not stupid,” Caesar added gently, a thread of pain in his voice. “Did I do something?”

Will didn’t respond. He didn’t look up.

Caesar stepped closer, close enough that Will could smell the familiar earth-and-pine scent of him. “You used to look at me like I was… more than just another ape. Now you won’t even look at all.”

Will swallowed thickly, trying to steady his voice before answering—but nothing came out.

“Tell me what changed,” Caesar pressed, softly.

Will shook his head once. “Nothing,” he whispered. “I just need space.”

And with that, he picked up the satchel and walked past Caesar, not daring to see the expression he left behind.

---------------------------

The moment Will came limping into the clearing, leaning heavily on one of the older gorillas, Caesar’s heart dropped.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “What happened?” he demanded, voice low and sharp. The scouts around Will shifted uncomfortably.

“He slipped,” one of them muttered. “On the ridge. Twisted something. It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Caesar snapped. “Then why is he not walking on his own?” His gaze cut through the small group before landing on Will—dirt-smudged, breathing hard, trying to smile it off like he always did.

“It’s just a sprain,” Will said, waving him off. “Nothing worth the dramatic reaction.”

“You should have been watched,” Caesar snapped at the scouts. “You knew the trail was steep. You don’t let him fall behind.”

The gorillas flinched under his tone. Will stepped forward, but the moment his weight shifted to his injured ankle, he stumbled. Caesar was already there, catching him before he hit the ground.

“I said I’m fine—”

But Caesar ignored him, lifting him easily into his arms.

“Put me down,” Will protested, struggling, but Caesar was stone. He carried him through the clearing, past the curious stares of apes and humans alike, all the way to the small hut they shared on the edge of the camp.

Inside, he set Will down on the bedding gently—but the fire in his eyes had not dimmed.

“What is going on with you?” Caesar asked, voice quiet but intense. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Will looked away.

“I heard you,” he said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “The other day. Telling Rocket I’m like family to you. Like a brother.”

Caesar stilled.

Will laughed once, hollow. “It’s stupid, I know. I just—I let myself think that maybe you saw me the way I… see you. But I was wrong. And I felt like an idiot for hoping, so I stayed away. I didn’t want to hear you say it again.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Then Caesar exhaled, and sat beside him.

“I said you were family,” he murmured, “because I didn’t want to assume you felt more. I didn’t want to scare you away. But you’re not alone in feeling this way.”

Will looked up, confused. “What?”

Caesar met his eyes, firm and sincere. “You are more to me than family, Will. I didn’t know if I had the right to say it. I didn’t think you’d ever want this… with someone like me.”

For a moment, Will could only stare.

And then—he didn’t have to say anything. The weight in his chest lifted, just a little, as Caesar reached for his hand.

Caesar turned his face toward him slowly, deliberately.

“Will,” he said, voice husky.

Will opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could come, Caesar leaned in.

Their mouths met.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was hungry.

Will gasped into it — surprised, maybe, but not resisting. His hands gripped Caesar’s broad shoulders, fingers curling into thick fur, and Caesar pulled him closer, one arm wrapping tightly around his waist, the other threading through the back of his hair.

Their kiss deepened, breath shared and stolen, a collision of years of separation, longing, and the ache of knowing they’d both suffered in silence. It was raw. Messy. Real.

Will let out a broken sound against Caesar’s lips — not quite a moan, not quite a cry — and Caesar responded with a low growl, not aggressive, but possessive in a way that made Will’s heart pound.

Neither of them cared about the forest around them. Or the rules. Or what the world would say.

Because this was theirs.

Will’s lips broke away just long enough to whisper, “You’ve changed.”

Caesar’s eyes searched his.

“So have you.”

Then he kissed him again — slower this time, more like worship than hunger. His large hands held Will as if he were something sacred. Something his.

And Will… let himself fall.

Into the kiss. Into Caesar.

Into everything they were never supposed to be — but always were.

------------------------------

Will didn’t remember falling asleep — only the feeling of Caesar’s arms around him, strong and warm, the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark.

For the first time in years, he felt safe.

His head had rested on Caesar’s chest, legs tangled, one arm across the ape’s torso as if it had always belonged there. He hadn’t let go, even in sleep.

But it wasn’t sleep anymore.

A soft pressure ghosted across his jaw — lips, unmistakably. Slow. Testing. Then another, just below his ear. Then lower.

Will stirred, eyes fluttering open.

He was still in Caesar’s arms, the morning light soft through the thatched walls, and the fire now embers.

But Caesar’s mouth was on his neck.

And not in the same way it had been last night.

Will’s breath caught. “Caesar…”

The ape didn’t speak. He only pulled Will closer, burying his face into the crook of his neck, lips dragging across skin like he needed to taste him again and again to believe he was real. His hands roamed more boldly now — not just holding, but exploring.

Will's pulse quickened, his fingers curling into Caesar’s fur.

“Waking me up like this?” he murmured, voice husky. “That’s not very leader-like of you.”

Caesar’s voice was low, rough with sleep and something deeper. “Leader… wants this. Has always wanted this.”

Will gave a breathless laugh. “Yeah? What else does the leader want?”

Instead of answering, Caesar kissed him — this time with no hesitation, no restraint. His mouth was hot and insistent, tongue sliding past Will’s lips as their bodies pressed together more tightly. Hands crawling up his thighs, squeezing gently. Will arched into him, heart pounding, skin flushed.

The heat between them was real — urgent, rising, unstoppable.

“Caesar?”

Both of them froze.

The voice came from outside the shelter — too close.

It was Rocket.

Will panicked, trying to untangle himself, but Caesar kept one arm around him protectively even as he shifted to sit up.

“Wait,” Caesar whispered, then called out, “What is it?”

Rocket’s voice was hesitant. “Hunting party returned early. You are needed.”

There was a pause.

Then, too curiously: “...You are not alone?”

Will nearly died.

Caesar’s arm tightened around him.

“No,” he said simply. “Not alone.”

A long silence followed. Then, the sound of footsteps walking away.

Will groaned and buried his face in Caesar’s chest. “Oh my God.”

Caesar chuckled softly — actually chuckled — and stroked his back.

“Embarrassed?”

“I just got caught half-naked, kissing the alpha of the forest. What do you think?”

Caesar pulled him back by the chin, kissed his flushed cheek.

“I think,” he said, “you are mine. Let them see.”

Will looked at him — wild, affectionate, a little exasperated.

Then smiled.

“Next time, maybe warn me before we make out like that?”

Caesar nuzzled his cheek.

"Next time, I won't stop."

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the canopy, casting golden shafts of light across the camp. Will had started venturing out more — talking to a few of the younger apes, helping with food sorting, asking about their tools and fire-building.

He was trying to fit.

But not everyone approved.

Koba watched him like he was a threat.

Rocket looked confused half the time.

So when he knelt to help one of the younger scouts wrap a wounded wrist, he didn’t notice when Stone — one of the stronger, bolder males — came up behind him, too close.

Too curious.

The ape crouched beside him, sniffing near his neck, brushing against his shoulder.

Will flinched.

“I—I’m good,” he said, backing away slightly.

Stone growled softly — not in threat, but in a way that sent Will’s stomach twisting. Curious. Intrigued.

And too bold.

That’s when Caesar saw it.

From across the clearing, his eyes locked on the scene — Stone brushing too close, Will looking uncomfortable, no guards intervening.

Something snapped.

The leader moved like a shadow through the trees, powerful and fast. In seconds, he was behind Stone — and then he shoved.

Hard.

The young ape stumbled, crashing into a log.

Silence fell.

Will’s eyes went wide. “Caesar, it’s fine, he didn’t—”

But Caesar wasn’t listening.

He loomed over Stone, chest heaving, fangs bared — the leader no longer calm and composed, but animal.

“He. Is. Mine,” Caesar growled, each word like thunder, his voice trembling with rage. “No one touches him.”

Stone scrambled backward, bowing his head in submission.

“Caesar,” Will tried again, stepping closer, heart racing. “I’m okay. Really.”

But Caesar turned to him — still breathing hard — and pulled him close.

Right there, in front of the entire camp, he gripped Will by the waist, possessive and primal, and pressed his forehead against Will’s — a claiming gesture, deep and ancient.

Will could feel the tension humming off him like heat.

“Mine,” Caesar repeated, softer now, voice rough. “You… are mine.”

Will didn’t argue.

He didn’t even speak.

He just reached up and touched Caesar’s face gently, grounding him.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Yours.”

Later in their hut.

Caesar didn’t speak much at first. He just touched — running his hands along Will’s sides, holding his jaw, pressing kisses to his throat as if trying to erase every trace of anyone else.

“You let him too close,” he said at last.

Will laughed under his breath, breath hitching as Caesar’s mouth dragged lower. “I didn’t let him. I just didn’t want to make a scene.”

“You are mine to protect,” Caesar growled, pulling Will down into the bedding.

“And I’m yours,” Will said softly, wrapping his arms around him. “Only yours.”

Caesar’s lips crashed into his — no hesitation now, no restraint. His need burned into every kiss, every movement, every grip of Will’s hips and gasp he stole from his mouth.

When their bodies met again, it wasn’t slow or careful.

It was claiming.

"Let me show you.” Ceasar whispered.

Will swallowed, nodding, barely able to speak. “Show me what?”

“That I need you,” Caesar said, pulling him in. “That I have always needed you.”

And then he kissed him again.

But this kiss was different.

It wasn’t shy, or teasing, or playful.

It was fierce.

Caesar’s mouth captured his with a hunger that had been years in the making — his lips demanding, his breath hot. Will moaned against him, hands fisting in the fur at Caesar’s shoulders as he was backed toward the bedding, stumbling and breathless.

When they sank down together, it wasn’t careful. It was a collision — all mouths and hands and fevered skin. Caesar kissed him like he’d been starved of him. Will gasped as Caesar’s teeth scraped his collarbone, tongue soothing after the sting, and he arched, grinding against him without shame.

“You drive me insane,” Will said between panting breaths.

“Good,” Caesar growled.

Their clothes were half-peeled away, bodies tangled, heat surging between them with every movement. Will’s hands roamed Caesar’s powerful frame — reverent, hungry — and Caesar responded with low, rumbling sounds that made Will’s knees weak.

Ceasar's hands roamed, squeezing Will's nipples between his fingers, lips sucking on a soft spot just under Will's perfect jaw.

"Ceasar..." Will gasped breathless as Ceasar's other hand snuck down to grab at Will's length.

Will had never been touched like this. Never been wanted like this. Caesar didn’t just touch— he claimed.

Ceasar groans approvingly as Will bucks up into his hand. The ape didn't bother giving a warning before he was rubbing their lengths together, claiming his lips again as if he couldn't get enough.

And Will, who had lived so long in guilt and distance, finally let himself feel it, eyes rolling to the back of his head as Ceasar's large hands worked them both.

Will arches into the touch, hands finding purchase on Ceasar's broad shoulders as they both eventually reached their climax.

Will falls back breathless as Ceasar sits up, admiring the human below him. Kisses were placed on his stomach. Soft sweet kisses, then they went lower, and Will's breath hitched.

Every touch was focused — slow, deliberate, reverent. His mouth worshipped Will’s length, his hands explored every place that had been left untouched for too long. Will gasped, trembling.

He moaned his name. He clung to him just as Caesar inserted a finger.

"Ceasar..." Will tried to speak over the drumming of his heart. "I've never..."

Ceasar smirks against his thigh. "Don't be afraid."

Will's face flushes. "Not with you."

Ceasar held him, placing careful kisses on his Adam's apple when he entered. Will moaned, fingers scraping against the ape's back.

Their bodies moved, rhythmic, ever so close. Will could feel every inch of breath between them.

His tears spilled freely when Caesar whispered, “I love you.”

And when they finally came undone, body shuddering, overwhelmed with both release and emotion — Caesar kissed the wetness on his cheeks and held him close, skin to skin, heart to heart.

By the time they collapsed against each other — sweat-slicked, skin marked, hearts pounding — the morning outside had fully broken.

As Will sat catching his breath, gaze caught by Ceasar he realized. No matter how far he ran or how long he tried to forget, Will always found himself drawn back to Caesar—not just by memory, or guilt, but by something deeper he could never name until now, something that felt a lot like love.