Work Text:
The first time Will sees Hannibal in shorts, his brain short-circuits for an entire minute.
It’s a swelteringly hot day, sure. And he’s early, certainly. But he has been before, and Hannibal would always answer the door in a spiffy suit, nary a hair out of place.
Today he’s wearing white. White t-shirt, white shorts, white wristbands, white socks and sneakers. His fine hair is slicked back over his head, and there’s a bead of sweat at his hairline that immediately steals Will’s attention when the door swings open. From there, he observes the muscles practically bulging out of the too-tight (and too little) fabric covering the man’s tall body.
“Good afternoon, Will,” Said man’s voice slices through Will’s brain like lightning striking him twice.
Will jumps and attempts to recover, “Doctor Lecter!”
And then he freezes. He’s aware that his face is probably smoking from how hot and red it is. He’s also aware that his pants are uncomfortably tight.
“Are you well?” The concerned doctor asks.
He makes everything better by reaching forward to press his hand against Will’s forehead.
“I’m not staring!” Will replies when he can find his voice. His heart jumps into his throat as he realises he absolutely did not say what he meant to.
Hannibal is quiet, Will is quiet.
The strong fingers are still pressing on his sweaty skin gently, until they aren’t. The older man withdraws his hand, and it’s at this moment that Will notices he’s holding a tennis racket in his other. The sight serves to sober him for some reason, and he coughs loudly.
“Can we forget this happened, please?” He finally meets Hannibal’s dark eyes, relieved to see concern there instead of anything else -like judgement.
“Of course,” Hannibal says, sounding neutral. He runs a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty, and that does nothing to help Will forget the last several minutes.
So he averts his eyes again, downwards this time, and is met with the sight of Hannibal Lecter’s thick, muscular thighs. If ever there is a more beautiful sight in the world, he has yet to see it.
“Can I come in?” Will nearly shouts the question.
“Of course.”
Will storms in and throws his jacket on the nearest surface. The door closing behind him with a click makes his shoulders stiffen, raising up under his ears as tension snaps tightly within him. He stares stubbornly at an animal skull eyeing him from a shelf nearby.
“Shall I pour us some tea?” The doctor asks after a beat of quiet.
“Yes, please,” Will answers gruffly.
Sitting at the table is a little better. He can hide his growing...situation, and can no longer see Hannibal’s thighs. They sip their tea, the sound of the wind whispering through the garden outside serenading them from the open back door. Will realizes he’s tapping his fingers on the table only when Hannibal clears his throat loudly.
“You appear to be rather aggravated today,” He says. “Perhaps you’d like to talk about it.”
“I’d really rather not,” Will bangs his cup down onto the expensive saucer, and then feels instantly bad for it. He changes the subject. “So what’s for dinner?”
“I hadn’t decided yet, if I’m honest,” Hannibal is smiling when Will looks at his face for a heartbeat.
“Oh.”
Will blinks and surreptitiously looks at his watch. Three hours early. Oh.
Dammit, Will. Again?!
Flashback to last week, when he had done the same thing. And the week before. And the we-
“Perhaps you’d like to join me in the kitchen,” Hannibal stands and looks at him with a softness in his gaze that has Will gulping audibly.
“Okay,” He follows the man. He doesn’t look at his ass. He is not staring at the back of his shins, which are thicker than Will’s forearm.
And he doesn’t bump straight into Hannibal when the man stops. Nope.
“Sorry!” Will jumps away, or tries to.
Hannibal wraps his arms around Will, both to catch him from falling and to draw him close.
“You really ought to calm down, darling,” He speaks into Will’s ear, causing him to shiver delightfully. “If my wearing shorts is enough to derail you so noticeably, what will your reaction be when you see me without clothes at all?”
“Uhhhh,” Will gulps again. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, honestly.”
Oh my god, Will thinks. He’s not sure how Hannibal doesn’t think he’s pathetic, even now. They’ve been dating for two months, have made out on the couch more times than he can count on two hands, and yet--
“I’m sorry you’re dating a weirdo,” He whispers into Hannibal’s shoulder.
“I’m not sorry,” The doctor rumbles a laugh. “Just relax, Will.”
“I’m trying that right now,” He returns the laugh shakily. “Somehow I’m not managing it.”
Hannibal holds onto him tighter in response.
“Would you like to touch them?” The older man asks suddenly.
Will pulls away and stares wide-eyed at the other, confused.
Hannibal’s eyes are glittering mischievously, and he demonstratively flexes one arm. Will’s gaze snaps onto the cords of muscle practically leaping out at him, and swallows the sudden, overwhelming amount of saliva gathering in his mouth.
“You’re rude,” He finally manages. “Rude, Doctor.”
“Pardon me, then,” He steps away and bows neatly. “Wait here, and I shall change into something more appropriate.”
He takes two steps, looks at Will over his shoulder with a salacious wink, and then strides away.
Will snaps his jaw shut and chases the man.
Maybe he does want to touch them.