Work Text:
It is Friday night and Will Graham can think of about thirty places he would rather be. He tends to not be a fan of Beverly Katz’s crazy ideas for how they should spend their free evenings. Tonight is no exception. They arrive at the club just past midnight, after pre-drinking in a bar-hopping down Main Street.
“If we’re going to a gay bar,” Zeller had said, an air of knowing about his tone. “We have to be smashed.”
Alana shrugged and made him buy the first round of drinks, giving Will a sarcastic smile from across the table. Will forced his lips to quirk upwards before slouching to stare at the table.
Now they stand just inside the rainbow arched doorway. They got past the bouncer thanks to the deep V-neck Bev put Zeller into. She had unsuccessfully tried to make Will do the same, but he’d instead been bullied into letting her cut the sleeves off one of his older t-shirts.
Will isn’t sure he has ever felt so uncomfortable. He loves his friends, he really does, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed when they force him out of the comfort of his room every weekend. Alana always seems like she’ll help Will out, convince Bev that he needs to study if he wants to keep his scholarship, but bends easily to the other woman’s will. Especially when Beverly cites Alana’s own opinion that experiencing a variety of social stimuli is the only way for him to get better at it.
But this particular excursion, to the popular gay bar/club just a few blocks away from their flat, is the worst. None of Will’s friends know that he’s gay. It isn’t that he’s ashamed of it, more that it has never come up. He generally tends more towards asexuality, apart from when he sees the men’s volleyball team jog by his window in the early afternoon. Or when he’s in the shower and needs to get off, imagining a faceless man’s broad hand against him.
He also doesn’t worry his friends would ostracize him, they would never be that shallow. Honestly, he worries that Bev would be too into it, would constantly try to get him laid or go shoe shopping with him.
Will indulges Bev by conceding to dance with them for a long, drawn out, thumping techno number, before retreating to the bar, excuse being that he’s tired. He orders a roman coke and sits far to one side, hoping that will dissuade anyone from talking to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches men flirt with each other, absorbs the signs of someone being too interested or not interested enough, watches arousal rise off some men like steam.
He wonders, vaguely, how long is an acceptable amount of time before he slips out the front door, waving goodnight to his friends so they don’t worry over where he’s gone.
“May I sit?” Someone asks from behind him. He turns, glancing up the bar as he does, seeing that there are plenty of other empty seats, so he doesn’t know why this guy needs to—
Wow. He’s attractive. Really attractive. Will nods vaguely and he lowers himself onto the stool beside Will.
The man is tall, taller than Will but not by too much. He seems more grown into his limbs, however, with a broad chest and shoulders to match. He’s older than Will as well. Will is 22, two years younger than most graduate students, and the man looks more like 35, give or take a few years. His hair is sandy brown, possibly with natural blond highlights, though it is difficult to tell in the flashing, migraine-inducing light of the club. It is pushed back slightly, as if it was combed down, straight with hair gel at the beginning of the day but has long fallen free of it. Will thinks that he prefers this way, though he can only imagine what it was before. He wears a red shirt below a navy blazer with dark dress pants. The first few buttons of the shirt are undone, giving a tempting view of speckled brown chest hairs.
As he appreciates the way the waistband of the pants hangs on his hips, giving a hint of the shape of his ass, Will realizes that he is checking the man out. He instantly looks away, feeling spectacularly gay. Back to slouching over the bar, he downs the rest of his drink. The crunch of the ice beneath his teeth is just distracting enough. He isn’t entirely sure why he feels so embarrassed, he is in a gay club after all.
“Are you here alone?” The man asks. He has a heavy accent, something European, that Will didn’t notice before due to the pounding music. Now, however, it is indistinguishable, making each and every word fall with a muted staccato. Like music—music so much better than the crap house music that is beginning to offend Will’s ears.
“No.” His voice is too quiet against the music so he repeats it, louder, “No, I’m here with some friends.” Inclines his head largely toward the dance floor.
“You do not wish to dance?” Will gives a noncommittal shrug, absently moving his empty glass in wet semi-circles on the bar.
“You are young. Are you a student, someplace nearby?” The man asks. Will feels blown away by the lack of contractions in his speech.
“Yeah, grad school at the university. Psychology.”
“May I buy you a drink?” The question is a bit out of nowhere.
Will stumbles over his assent, but the man is already leaning over the counter, ordering two glasses of white wine.
“Oh, um, I’ll have a roman—“ He shuts himself up when the man glances back at him. Briefly, his eyes flutter down to Will’s empty glass, seeing the telltale caramel color of the coke with denigrating eyes before looking back up at Will with a smile. He does not change the drink order.
When the drinks come, he hands Will the glass and clinks his own against it. Says, “Hannibal Lecter.”
It takes Will an embarrassingly large amount of time to realize that he has just introduced himself. Weird name. “Uh—William Graham—Will.”
He curses himself for saying his full name first. William Graham, perpetually awkward mental case. This man will no doubt walk away any second.
“William.” Hannibal rolls the word over his tongue with such sensuality that Will almost does not recognize it as his own name. Names aren’t supposed to sound like that, right?
“Hannibal,” Will replies, attempting to flirt with every fiber of his being. He takes a large drink of wine, for courage. He isn’t sure why, but he feels uncontrollably attracted to Hannibal, can’t believe the man would deign to spend even a moment on him. Him, with his awkward fitting sleeveless shirt, baggy second hand jeans, curly mop of brown hair and thick rimmed glasses.
“So, psychology?” Hannibal prompts with an amused look in his eye. “Generally or have you chosen to specify?”
“Uh, criminology. Rape and serial killers, mostly.” Will is very aware that this is not the way to flirt with someone, but Hannibal seems interested so he goes on, talking about his dissertation, half research and half a case study on an uncaught serial killer working his way across the area—the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal lights up with interest.
“That is quite the project. It is not too much work?”
Will rolls his shoulders. “It’s worth the effort. What about you—what do you do?”
“As it happens, I work as a therapist. I have a practice just outside of the city.” That explains why he listened to me going on about my dissertation for so long.
“Oh, so you’re a doctor?” Hannibal lowers his head in acquiesce. Will grins, though he does not make eye contact completely. “Doctor Lecter.”
Hannibal laughs and Will feels inexplicably comfortable, with this man that he met minutes ago, in a gay bar. Could just be the alcohol. He swallows the final gulp of wine quickly because for once it is actually benefiting him. He’s still laughing a bit when he glances up at Hannibal over the rim of his glasses. The flashing colors, mixed with the dim lighting at the bar, make his eyes demure, maroon and entrancing.
“Dance with me.”
His voice is hypnotic and it isn’t a question, so what can Will do but obey? He stands immediately, stepping away from the bar in a way that is possibly too forward, too keen. When he turns back around, he sees Hannibal still seated, that incessant smile on his face. His eyes snap up Will’s body and Will realizes he was checking me out. The information emboldens him, invigorates him to hold his hand out to Hannibal. In a way entirely unlike him, he aches for the man’s touch.
Hannibal stands, finally, leaving his half-full glass of wine in his wake. Weaves his fingers with Will’s, very warm, and wraps his other arm around Will’s waist, so his chest presses lightly against the curve of Will’s back.
Earlier, when Will tried to escape the throng of sweaty bodies, he had been forced to push people aside, weave between groups, almost gotten trampled in the process. But now the crowd magically parts for them, as if Hannibal is Moses, parting the sea. Except the sea is a crowd of gays. Will laughs to himself.
When they reach a slight gap in the crowd, Hannibal stops them. With his hand still in his grasp, he spins Will away from his back, like a professional dancer would spin his partner. The action is completely out of place, in this club, but somehow it works for Hannibal Lecter, in his blazer and luxurious trousers. Almost as soon as Will leaves Hannibal’s side, he is tugged back, this time to face him. The man steadies him with a hand on his collarbone, thumb strays freely to brush against his throat, which Will exposes eagerly by raising his chin. The movement makes him lock eyes with Hannibal, one of only a few times he has done so and now they are closer, so much closer.
Hands coming out of nowhere, Hannibal uses his index fingers to slide Will’s glasses from his face, folds them up carefully and places them into the pocket of his blazer, all without breaking eye contact.
Then, the tension breaks, Hannibal moves his hand from Will’s neck, to skim down his naked arm and he starts dancing. And Will dances with him, shoulders shifting and hips swaying and he has never felt this confident before and he’s pretty sure it’s something about the way the man is looking at him. As if he’s the only one in the room, despite the fact that there are plenty of far more attractive, more self-assured, experienced people that Hannibal would have an easier time with. But he isn’t dancing with them. With each thumping beat of techno (which Will is quickly beginning to appreciate) their bodies move closer, chests only inches apart. Their arms and hands brush lightly from time to time but overall the two touch very little—until Hannibal loops his arm around Will’s waist again. The grip makes them impossibly close, makes their chests press together and their noses graze. Hannibal has a faint smile on his face, he continues to dance, but Will has stopped moving entirely, is aware of the blank expression plastered on his face as he watches the other man. Captivating—Hannibal is like the sea, deep and perplexing in movement and complicated and Will cannot look away, even for an instant.
When Hannibal’s lips touch his, he is almost surprised. Almost. He has never kissed a man before and it had been years since he kissed a girl, experimentally, out in his high school’s courtyard during a dance. That kiss, so long ago, was nothing like this. Where there were chapped lips, there are soft ones, the lightest hint of wet tongue. Where there was mostly silence and the deafening, distracting sound of the wind in the trees, there is blasting music that Will can’t even hear over the blood rushing in his ears. Where there was a girl, Suzie, that Will was disconcertingly un-attracted to, there is Hannibal. Alarmingly, disarmingly sexy.
Hannibal’s fingers weave into his hair and pulls slightly; it is only barely not painful. Will opens his mouth, feels Hannibal’s tongue delve into his mouth and soon their tongues are dancing, reflecting their bodies flirtatious movements from seconds earlier. Their noses press together, Will breathes in, smells Hannibal’s expensive cologne and hopes absently that he smells ok. He presses his arms against Hannibal’s chest, grasping handfuls of the linen shirt, the hem of the jacket.
He knows this isn’t like him, that he’ll have to deal with the opinions of his dancing friends the next day. But he can’t help it, Hannibal’s lips just feel too good against his. They knead at him, teeth nipping lightly, playfully every so often.
Hannibal moves to the side, just half a centimeter and the world comes rushing back in around Will. He hears the music, feels the hand against the small of his back, moving downwards to grope at him. Lips kiss and lick up his jaw, and the hand remaining in his hair molds his posture to provide better access.
Hannibal presses his lips against Will’s ear. “I think another drink would be beneficial, don’t you?”
Will nods, allowing the man to lead him through the crowd. He’s having a sort of cliché, out-of-body experience. As if he’s floating, drunk off a kiss that could have lasted forever without any complaints from him.
He walks by Bev and Zeller, both staring at him. Beverly looks excited, an ear-splitting grin across her face. Zeller watches with an open mouth. Alana and the others are nowhere to be seen.
When they arrive at the bar, Hannibal gently places Will in the same seat as earlier, magically still vacant though their glasses are gone, before taking up his own seat. This time, they are much closer, and Hannibal forwardly rests his hand atop Will’s knee. Will finds that he does not mind.
This time, Hannibal orders whiskey for each of them. Will has never had it before, it is a bit too expensive for a dirt-poor grad student, but he likes the taste, thinks he could get used to it.
Without his glasses, Will can’t see much, but he doesn’t want to ask for them back if it means forfeiting his chance at another kiss. Besides, he can see Hannibal just fine.
The drinks arrive and Will consumes half of it in one frantic gulp while Hannibal takes only a small sip. The palm on his knee moves upwards slightly, thumb digging small circles into his jeans in a way that is both soothing and sensual. It births a fire in his stomach that is most certainly not due to the alcohol.
“Do you… do you…” Do you want to get out of here? Will wants to say, can’t get the words out because he feels too ridiculous. He glances down as Hannibal peers unabashedly at him from over the rim of his drink.
“Would you like to come home with me, William?”