Work Text:
The sun flickered her beautiful rays towards the land, bouncing off of grass and pleasant sea. She made her presence known, in all sense of the word, with her unmatched heat and brightness, casting a glow on anything that dares stand in her wake. Within that wake are kittens, curled up and mewling, begging the sun for her heat that she gives so freely. There are white mariposa's soaking up in her beams, blooming beautifully in spite of her heat. There are people, basking in the sun, doing daily tasks, accidentally accepting the gift the sun offers.
And, within those things, a certain Will Graham is lavishly laying across a beloved sofa reading an old horror novel. His hair was swept back, displaying for the world, or his world, his mark. He was in cheap clothes, nothing more than a plain button up and a pair of old jeans. Boots abandoned in favour of atrocious socks, who have as many holes as Swiss cheese. Legs swung over each other, careless and lax, as he hoisted his shoulder against the back of the sofa. It never truly healed properly after the stab wound, causing enough irritation that it was painful to hold in place.
And, as he laid reading his novel, the sun creeped through the window, bathing Will in her golden afternoon light. It made him look angelic, plastered among God's favourites, blessing the rugged and disorderly sofa with his presence. He graced the room, looking as though a halo created the glow shining down on him rather than the golden sun inviting herself in.
Hannibal was fixated on the effortless beauty Will somehow managed. He had been sketching, doing studies of whatever crossed his sight, and the most common thing he seemed to see was the soft beauty of Will. His sketchbook's rich paper seemed to hold the soft and tender strokes of one man, his beauty held above all else. As Will lays there, entranced with the novel, Hannibal softly sketches him from where he sits.
The sound of graphite disturbs the gentle music playing from a small portable speaker. The tender and loving strokes being used to carve out an image; an angel. His angel, Hannibal thinks casually, as he draws the unkempt but orderly curls that frame Will's face. Pencil dragging and twirling, softly and hard to bring the image from his mind to his paper. He watches his work, as he guides the pencil effortlessly along the crisp paper. His face tender and vulnerable, as though he felt he shouldn't be doing this. As though Will was not to be viewed from impure eyes. He marvels at Will's ability to make him feel unworthy, disallowed from expressing his muted and unfortunate feelings of love towards the man.
Hannibal's pencil strokes were unmatched in care and precision, gently layering graphite upon graphite creating the most delicate depiction of his love. Messy construction lines form from under Will's drawn body, framing what will be the warn out and well-loved couch. They are faint, barely there, the complete opposite of Will and his posture. The strokes make the beautiful noise of loving scratches, etching into paper, of their meaning. Their purpose. To bring the beautiful image that decors his imagination to his collection of works with the same subject matter. To have his loved displayed on paper, even if it is for his own private pleasure.
Hannibal sits across from Will in a dreadfully ugly chair. He is folded into himself, carefully ignoring whatever song softly plays in the speaker behind him. Comfortably lazing with his sketchbook in his lap, pencils askew on the oak end table next to the chair. He grasps for a harder pencil mindlessly, hoping by touch alone he can find what he is looking for; in which he does. Adding more texture to the hair Will aimlessly tosses back, and to his plain and boring shirt. To bring detail he gazes from the man across from him, to bring him to life again on paper. To give what he sees light. The sketches are soft, gentle even. They sound peaceful, calm, like the careful thoughts of someone alone trying desperately to feel the love they crave.
“What are you drawing?” A voice asks him, tired and unused.
Hannibal looks up to see the blue eyes Will yields focused on the sketchbook. He slides a piece of paper into the book, closing it and placing it at his feet.
“I was doing a study, making sure my artistic skills have not faltered.” Hannibal says clearly, gesturing towards his pencils and now closed book.
“You were drawing me.” Will states, as though it is a commonly known fact. “That’s why you didn’t show me, you always show me your sketches.” He places his novel open onto his chest.
“You, unfortunately, know me too well.” He chuckles lightly, lifting the book up again, carefully opening to the page he just occupied. “I was drawing you, how could I not? You spike inspiration in me like the humble sunflower to Vincent van Gogh.”
He stands, gesturing for Will to sit up so he can join him on the sofa. Will makes a show of throwing his legs off of the couch, scooting up against the arm. He places his now dog eared novel next to him, shoved between him and the arm. Hannibal plops down next to him letting go of the thread of pride he had left, as he hands the sketchbook to Will. He takes it, grasping it like a lifeline.
“You’re free to browse through it.” He peers over Will, watching as he carefully slides the sheet of paper from the book, discarding it onto the floor. He gazes at Will with a gecko like expression, curious and devoid of any visible emotion, craving the idle reaction cast so deeply within him.
Will reaches out to touch the sketch. It is graphite, it will smudge and the meticulousness it harboured, that he spent careful time on, would be ruined. He touched the faint scratches, ignoring the deep grey staining his fingertips. He blurred the details, ruining a small section of the half-finished sketch. Will slips the paper back onto the page, to protect whatever was left of the now smudged study. Hannibal silently watched him, nothing to say nor do.
Will flips through the rest of the studies. They consist of fruit, buildings from their street and random portraits. But, above all else, there were drawings of Will. They looked like him, they captured him as well as a photograph. Him resting, working, eating. Caught in time forever within Hannibal’s loving strokes, immortalised there within the pages. He began to touch the lighter drawings, accidentally drawing a line of his own with the graphite on the tips of his fingers.
Will stared at some of the more detailed sketches, deciding it is best not to disturb them. He marvels at their soft, loving, strokes. The details etched in with a purpose; of displaying Will. Of displaying him as Hannibal saw him.
“These are beautiful drawings.” He whispered, keeping his eyes on the pages as he turns to more, and more, of himself. Along with the occasional pomegranate.
“Thank you, I try to capture beauty when I see it.” He smiles subtly, looking down at the etched in picture of will asleep on the very sofa they sit on. “It would be terrible to lose my ability to draw.”
“I don’t think you’ll lose that ability any time soon.” He closes the book, gently passing it back to Hannibal with a mouthed ‘thank you’. Hannibal takes it from him, placing it down on at his feet again.
“I doubt I will, especially with such an awe-inspiring model to study.” He smiles again, placing his hand on Will’s knee.
“You really do draw beautifully, y’know?” Will gestures towards the book that now resides against Hannibal’s foot. “Elegant sketches, I really liked the pomegranates.”
“The pomegranates?” Hannibal mused. “Why not the sketches of yourself?” he asked in good humour, as though the entire conversation was a joke.
“Because you like them.” Will responded, in relation to the pomegranate question.
Hannibal hummed, knowing where this conversation would end up going. Letting Will win, this time at least. He moved his hand from Will’s knee, grasping his hand instead. He brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles softly and then letting go. He rose, looking towards their kitchen.
“I think I’m in the mood for pomegranates, would you like some?”