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Will was wearing a sundress. It hit the tops of his thighs, light airy cotton in pale yellow, cotton eyelet lace around the hem. He was barefoot on the cool kitchen tile, stirring sugar syrup into basil lemonade.
He’d looked up the recipe online two weeks ago, bought the tray and the pitcher in town, worked this whole thing out in his head. Now, like a lot of things that he tried to evict from his head to live in the real world, it seemed like too much. He was going through with it anyway.
He put ice in the tall glass and poured lemonade over it and floated a lemon slice on top (seeds removed, paper thin like something out of a magazine, never mind the three mangled ones lying on the cutting board). He put it on the tray and carried it out to Hannibal. He was wearing lip gloss and perfume, and really this was all he wanted: Hannibal sitting his chair under the cedar tree, smiling up at him as he took the lemonade and thanked Will for it. Just this image, this picture-perfect second, like the lemon slices, out of a glossy magazine or an old TV show. He’d shaved his legs for it. And his armpits. And they didn’t even show in the dress.
Hannibal’s reaction, past the pro forma gratitude, hadn’t really figured into his calculations. He didn’t expect Hannibal’s eyes to go soft or Hannibal to catch his hand and pull him close.
“You’re not going to keep me company?” Hannibal said.
“Wasn’t planning on it. You’re reading anyway.”
Hannibal set his book on the grass and patted his lap.
“Are you sure?”
“Very,” Hannibal said.
Will swallowed and sat in Hannibal’s lap, one arm curled around his neck. Feet not quite touching the ground.
“I wish you had let me watch you make it,” Hannibal murmured against his neck. His lips were cold from the ice.
“I wanted it to be—“ A surprise? Not really. Just. “Like this.
“This is good.” Hannibal took another sip of the lemonade and then set it aside in favor of sweeping Will’s hair away from his neck in order to kiss him there again.
Will nudged him. “Drink up. Do you know how long that took to make?”
“I have some idea, yes.” Hannibal sounded amused. “Not to mention the dress, which I don’t believe I’ve seen before. Did you buy it to match?”
“Not on purpose. Maybe though. It was like a picture in my head.”
“May I contribute to the picture?”
Will opened his mouth to agree and then stopped. “How? Because if you want to debauch me in the garden, the answer’s no. The road’s right there.”
“No debauchery. For now.”
“Then okay. I guess.”
“Will you sit on the grass, just here?”
Will slid down to sit at his feet and closed his eyes as he felt Hannibal’s fingers sink into his hair. For a few minutes it was just that, Hannibal combing through it and lifting it away from his neck, and then he divided it into three parts and began to plait them together.
“You don’t have a tie for it.” Will leaned against his knee, bare legs stretched out in the sun, palms resting on the warm grass. “It’ll unravel.”
Hannibal handed him the glass of lemonade. He brushed his fingers across Will’s cheek and plucked a daisy to weave into the braid. “Then I shall do it again. And again. All afternoon if need be.”