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He was sitting at his desk with a sharp pencil in his hand and a blank paper in front of him. There was nothing much to do in his imprisoned time beside reading, drawing and drifting off into one of the many rooms of his mind's palace. He had lots of things to preoccupy his mind with and many more mental images he could represent on paper, but today everything was agonizingly boring. All his knowledge seemed useless between these walls and he had no real motivation to do anything (again, not that there was much to do anyway), not even sketching, but he knew that stagnation to this state of inactivity was the first step toward laziness and procrastination, and for a man used to a very diverse and carefully planned daily schedule this was not a pleasant thought. So, he started thinking about what he could draw, going from Botticelli's soft renaissance figures, trough dramatic biblical scenes and to the finesse of ancient Greek sculptures and mythology, but to no avail, none of these inspired him enough to make him start moving his pencil across the piece of paper displayed before him.
Even so, there was something so beautiful that, despite sketching it dozens of times, never felt enough, because the real, living model was far more mesmerizing than anything he could reproduce on the small, limited, bidimensional piece of paper.
Will.
It felt like self flagellation to rely on his memory when drawing Will, to imagine how his body was looking under his clothes everytime he moved, the desire to reach and just touch which was mercilessly cut off by the reality of the fact that he wasn't there. Nothing could compare to the ideal fantasy in his mind, of having Will model for him, walking in his office with slow, tantalizing steps, allowing Hannibal to watch as Will's naked body faced him and closely observe as his lips part, asking in a suggestively low tone:
"- What position would you prefer me in?" While his blue eyes coldly fixed Hannibal's.
There were many unorthodox ways he could answer that question, but Hannibal wouldn't let his self control be stripped away from him, keeping on the professional relationship facade they've played for so long, even if both of them knew what the other one wanted to obtain: total control over each other.
"-Just sit on the chair however you feel comfortable. I must warn you that modeling for a drawing requires quite a lot of patience, so you must sit in a way you feel relaxed."
Will turns around and walks towards the chair he had sat in many times before, confessing he feared himself, confessing his doubts and insecurities, opening up his mind to Hannibal's delight.
But now he wasn't afraid anymore. He knew exactly the effect he had on Hannibal, holding his straight posture as he walked the distance to the chair, being fully aware of Hannibal's gaze feasting upon the sight of his back, the playful shadows contouring his muscular shoulders and shifting on his callipygian behind with each step towards the chair.
He sat down carelessly, confident in the fact that for Hannibal he was as flawless as an ancient Greek sculpture in the flesh. He was proud of helping Will to become like this; not ashamed of who he is, not afraid of his own power. Will knew that he was always undressed in front of his psychiatrist, in a much deeper way than of his clothes.
Hannibal is moving his impassable gaze along the detective's body, sharp eyes meeting with the cunningly taunting ones of the muse. Will's body is relaxed and fully displayed, with manly legs casually spread and arms resting on the chair. There wasn't a single muscle tensed and his body was fitting on the green chair as naturally as a king's on a throne.
A dear memory crossed Hannibal's mind for a second, reminiscing the first time this man has sat on that chair, awkward, tensioned and dreading visual contact. Alluring cold eyes, contained behind glasses, looking only down. His gracious curls, a careless mess of natural beauty that Hannibal yearned to touch, pet and pull. And the unmistakable smell of his cheap cologne, masking the primal, wild one of animal, of dog.
As he moved his pencil across the paper, lifting his eyes to measure the proportions of the model, but truly only doing it to lock eyes with Will, Hannibal realizes that he had already memorized this man's features by heart. His height, the width of his shoulders and the angle in which they slide down towards strong arms. The slight asymmetry of his eyelids, slowly blinking while maintaining visual contact with him; the curvature of his nose, and the rosy tint of his lips...
And for an eternal second, they just hold each other's gaze, in such silence that they felt out of time, like there's nothing outside of the psychiatrist's office, just blank void outside the door. Nothing and nobody is real beside the two of them.
But the second is over and Hannibal lowers his eyes back at the drawing.
Charcoal shadows fall under his nose and on the column of his neck, under a strong jawline, where his jugular vein subtly pulses.
The contrast of shadows and light gradually shapes his musculature, Hannibal's hand sketching lower and lower untill he realizes the slight movement of Will's hand on the inside of his thigh.
Hannibal steps slowly from behind the art and reaches slowly towards his muse.
"- Please, allow me to slightly rearrange your pose, Will."
William is silent, but his eyes fix his as Hannibal gently brushes his fingers across his thighs, gently pushing his knees apart. Will's blue eyes never leave his.
Hannibal's hands slide and his thumbs trace the course of Will's femoral arteries. Not rushing, taking his time before, hesitantly and with an unnoticeable tremble in his breath, reaches for Will's -
"- Dinner time, prisoner!"
And Will disappears like a mirage, and Hannibal is brought back to the unsatisfactory reality of his imprisonment. He stands up from behind his desk and towards the door, guessing how tasteless will today's meal be.
On the desk, he left his drawing utensils next to an unfinished sketch. Hannibal will continue the fantasy he was interrupted from later, and finish the drawing of his beautiful muse.