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Summary
Will has always loved Mike’s hands.
Like the rest of him, they’re long - his fingers especially. Too many times, Will has found himself distracted by the sight of an entire soda can seeming to disappear in one of those hands. Will knows those hands, he knows the shape and angles of them - the rectangle of the palm, the web of tissue between the base of the fingers, the half-ovals of his nails, the knobs of the knuckles, the delicate pull of a tendon standing out in his wrist when he flexes a certain way. The barely-there dusting of hairs across the backs. The pink blush of fingertips, distinct from the freckled cream tones of palm and wrist, touched by a tan in the summer months. That one specific freckle just at the base of his thumb. Will’s sketchbooks are frequented by likenesses of Mike’s hands, his fingers.
It doesn’t help that he knows what those fingers can do.
But Will doesn’t just love Mike’s hands because they happen to be very skilled at getting him off. No, he loved them far before that. Before any of that. And he still does, simply by merit of their being part of Mike.
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Mike doesn't like his appearance. Will wants to help out with that.