“You know you don't have to do this, right?

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, clutching the empty roll of gift wrap, Will realises as he says it that this is the third time now he’s come upstairs to ask Hannibal the exact same question. And when Hannibal looks back at him from his shaving mirror with a expression of mild irritation, he sees that he realises it too.

        “Is there really so little to do Will? Did you already turn the potatoes?”

Will frowns, annoyed at himself although not fully understanding why.

        “I thought you were going to do that?”

Hannibal lifts his chin, returning the razor to his face with studied concentration,

        “I can do. But if you remember, you were the one who insisted that you wanted to help this year,” he rinses the blade in the sink, taps it, returns to the job, “So which is it?”

        “Which is what?”

Hannibal draws the razor swiftly along his jawline, with the ease of a man whose given himself a professional wet-shave every day for four decades.

        “Which are you? A helper or hinderer?”

Descending the stairs yet again, Will realises he’s muttering to himself softly under his breath. The house looks amazing, smells amazing – of hot cinnamon cookies, mulled wine and cider, and the maple-bacon-wrapped handmade sausages he knows took the whole of yesterday evening to prepare - and yet he can’t help but feel supremely anxious. Entertaining is Hannibal’s thing after all, and not something Will has ever developed a taste for, even as he has for some of Hannibal’s other passions. These days, he finds he genuinely enjoys nights at the opera, the classical concerts, even the theatre occasionally, but the one thing he knows he will never develop is Hannibal’s ease with other people.

Stopping to retrieve a Christmas ornament from underneath the tree in the hall, Will hangs it awkwardly back on a low hanging branch, and sighs. It would be fine with him if he never had to see anyone socially but Hannibal ever again, but sadly such was not the nature of his chosen partner in life. Hannibal was less a social butterfly than he was a peacock; forever in search of occasions where he might be permitted to spread wide his beautiful exotic plumage, and show it the hell off.

The doorbell rings and Will's heartrate increases fifteen BPM in less than a second. This can’t be them? Already? He checks his watch and reassures himself that no, there is absolutely no-one who ever received a personal invitation from Hannibal who would arrive at their house forty-five minutes early. Stalking to the door, he pulls it open to reveal a pair of legs and a truly enormous yet tasteful arrangement of hyacinths and deep red roses.

        “Flowers for Doctor Solomon. Can you sign please?”

And gritting his teeth a little, Will does, although he really has no fucking idea now where his beautiful peacock thinks these things are supposed to be going.

The living room looks perfect, of course it always does, but standing in the doorway he has to admit that Hannibal has really surpassed himself this time. Fresh boughs of holly and evergreen, tied in place with red silk and berries, adorn every picture and surface. Mistletoe is arranged into perfect kissing bunches in every doorway, and the main tree – because lord knows you can’t have just one – is a triumph in every way you can imagine. Having spent so many childhood holidays in motels, eating TV dinners with his dad, or on the road as he looked for seasonal work, Will can’t help but crack a rueful smile looking at it all. It still amazes him every year that Hannibal manages to make each Christmas together better than the last, but so far he’s always managed it. Whether they’re stretched out on the deck of a yacht in the Seychelles, languishing in hot springs in Hokkaido or now, tucked up in their home in Nova Scotia in the snow, it seems to Will that Christmas is the time Hannibal always digs deepest in terms of imagination and enthusiasm. If he didn't know better, he might even call him jolly.

        “Can monsters be jolly?” he asks.

It’s been twenty minutes now, and he thinks maybe it’s safe to come back upstairs. Hannibal is stood in their bedroom, a towel hitched around his hips as he combs his damp hair into place. Looking back at him in the mirror, his mouth stretches in a smile,

        “Certainly. What truer joy is there Will, if not that inspired by the complete acceptance of who we are?” he lifts his chin, checking his profile. “And embracing our true nature.”

Will tilts his head, “I say jolly, not joyful.”

        “Pedantic Will.”

The curve of Hannibal’s ass looks exceptionally touchable under the towel, and looking at it he wonders idly if there is any chance that their guests might be delayed by the snow. Laying his suit jacket and trousers carefully out on the bed, the object of his affections seems entirely oblivious of the time, but he knows it’s most unlikely he’d run the risk of being ‘otherwise engaged’ when people arrive.

        “Without meaning to suggest you might be better employed Will, staring at my backside is a pastime you’re welcome to enjoy anytime. Right now though, I really need to get dressed.”

He’s not going to check the oven again. He refuses. The thing is on timer anyway, and there’s no real need to even turn the damned potatoes, they’re self-basting. Everything is either done and cooling, or prepared and covered by Hannibal last night. He’s not even sure why they’re bothering with the pretence that he’s even involved in any of it, except that he knows it’s the best way to distract himself from the fact that he has nothing to do but wait. Wait for the inevitable invasion of their home and personal space by creatures neither of them feel any real connection to.

He’d called them ‘creatures’ the night before and Hannibal had slightly winced at the word, giving him a look that bordered on reproachful.

        “These are not creatures Will. These are our neighbours, and your guests.”

Your guests. And he’d been careful to remind him of that. Because it had been Will who had invited them. Will who had allowed himself to be manipulated into opening their home when no-one else in the neighbourhood had offered.

        “It used to Hank and Barbara Mansell, but they moved to Florida last year. Hank was wonderful though, Christmas at their house was always so…magical!”

        “Oh yes, magical! And Barbara put on the most incredible spread. It was really something. I’m not sure we’ll ever find neighbours like them again. Really, such special special people. So generous!”

Mary Bexhill and Glynis Howe. When he closes his eyes, he can still hear their voices, and those of his other neighbours, as they’d crowded round him at the store that day two weeks ago. What he can’t remember or exactly explain is why he’d felt the need to tell them that of course his partner trained at the Sorbonne, and that if they thought they’d seen Christmas done well at the Mansells, they should maybe all come and visit him on Christmas Eve.

The doorbell goes again, and this time Will knows time has run out. Standing at the foot of the stairs he calls up to Hannibal, and knows that his voice sounds just the wrong side of panicky.

        “They’re here. Are you almost ready?”

        “If you wouldn’t mind welcoming our guests Will, I’d prefer to make my entrance once they’re seated.”

Opening the front door is like opening the gates of Hades, and once he’s taken every coat, answered every seasons greeting, smiled at every ‘happy holiday’ and given thanks for every bottle of dubious vintage, Will does feel as if he’s endured some kind of Dantean trial. Their guests are everywhere, examining the artwork and furniture, commenting on the decorations, wandering to the powder-rooms, and Will can feel the edges of his delicate composure starting to fray. The chair reserved for the host is still standing empty, and he can feel the questioning looks being directed his way and the air of tension starting to build to an unbearable level.

        “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” he says to the whole room, his smile bordering on manic, “Any second now I can guarantee…”

And then the door opens, and thankfully the cacophonous noise the twenty or so kids in the room make at that moment completely covers his own. Because it’s not a good noise. It’s some kind of cross between a yelp and a squeal, and Will is pretty sure it sounds insane.

        “Hello children!”

The sturdy figure in the doorway is clad from head to foot in beautiful antique wine-coloured velvet, edged with ermine, a vast spiralling foam of white beard falling from his chin and over his chest. Above it, a pair of bright hazel brown eyes sparkle with the kind of darkness that only truly magical beings possess, and yet Will can’t help but notice how much light has gotten in there too. Swinging his large sack down from his shoulders, Hannibal Claus’s mouth stretches in a smile as wide as any Will has ever seen him bestow on a dinner guest, and he seats himself in the chair appointed for him, loudly slapping two hands on his thighs.

        “Now, can any of you children tell Santa which of their friends have been very good this year? And which of them have been truly, truly wicked.” 

It’s dark by the time they all leave, and as Will closes the door behind the last parent he breathes a deep, contented sigh of relief. Relief that it is over, yes, relief that it was a success, also yes, but most of all relief that they - he and Hannibal - are alone again. Leaning his head against the front door for a moment, he enjoys the stillness of the empty house. Nothing but the sound of clocks, and the faint strains of The Nutcracker which, he supposes, is the closest thing that will ever be allowed to Christmas music in this house.

Pouring himself a large glass of eggnog from the living room table, Will saunters across the room to where his Santa Claus sits. Stretched back now, relaxing with a glass of brandy he seems to have helped himself to, his eyes when they meet Will’s are warm and languid, and full of dark sparkles.

        “See. You can be jolly.”

Folding himself down into Hannibal’s lap, he reaches a hand and gently pulls the beard down over his chin. Rests warm fingers on the back of his neck. Hannibal purses his lips.

        “You don’t like the beard?”

Will wrinkles his nose, “I prefer my Santas clean shaven.”

And when he reaches to capture his mouth, Hannibal’s lips are brandy and cinnamon cookies, red wine and red meat, light and darkness, the old year and the new one. “Merry Christmas Will,” he says, and kissing him back, Will has to admit that Hannibal always tastes like one.

THE END

Merry Christmas Fannibal Family :)