Work Text:
The meat is thinly sliced, in delicate layers so thin that if Will lifted them to the light, he would be able to see straight through them. Next to it, a platter of artfully arranged vegetables lies fanned out, mushrooms like stamen among the cabbage leaves, a veritable bouquet of bounty. The platters flank a centerpiece of bubbling broth in a clay pot sitting on an induction cooker, steam curling towards the ceiling in tendrils of umami.
Will says, “What’s this?”
“The Japanese call it nabemono,” Hannibal replies. “The Chinese call it huoguo; the Korean call it jjigae. Common translations would call it a hot pot. A traditional dish served in the winter.”
“The presentation seems sloppy, for you.”
“You cook the meat and vegetables directly,” he says, gesturing. Will sits, and Hannibal sits directly across, the platter of meat and the platter of vegetables both within easy reach. Each place setting holds a bowl of fragrant white rice, a small dipping bowl with soy sauce, diced garlic, and scallions, and an empty plate. “Afterwards, the broth is used to cook noodles—wheat noodles, in our case.” There are no forks or knifes, just lacquered chopsticks and a porcelain spoon.
Will drops the napkin in his lap. Hannibal stirs the broth, once, even as bubbles rise up before popping. The steam obscures his face for a moment, and then he’s demonstrating, lifting a thin slice of meat and folding it into the broth, and then another, and another. They cook almost instantly in the boiling soup, pink flesh curling into the soft opaque gray of cooked pork.
“Pork?” Will asks.
“A particularly unpleasant pig,” Hannibal agrees. He serves Will the first piece, his gaze steady. “Dip the meat and vegetables into the sauce to your taste,” he instructs.
Will dips, chews, and swallows.
The pork is lean, thinly sliced enough to be tender. The sauce—not only soy sauce, but with a hint of tanginess underneath the salty umami—cuts through the earthy flavor of the pork. He dips, takes another bite, and swallows—twice more, until the piece has been consumed.
Hannibal serves himself, and then they sit before the boiling broth, studying each other through the wisps of steam.
Will’s fingers clench around the chopsticks. Enough years of Chinese takeout have given him the mastery to lift food from plate to mouth, but he doubts his skill to ease raw food into boiling soup. He’d be more liable to drop it, scattering droplets across Hannibal’s table.
Hannibal says, “If you’re hungry, serve yourself.” He makes no move to cook any more food, scooping a delicate bite of rice into his mouth, his gaze fathomless and steady.
Will lifts a slice of pork, fumbles it into the pot, and watches it cook.
Hannibal leans forward as Will scoops it out, cooked, onto his plate. “There are hundreds of variations of hot pot,” he says, steadily. “But all of them share a common thread. Do you know what that is, my dear Will?”
He says, “No,” and chews the meat he cooked.
“They are all meals of communion.” Hannibal uses the chopsticks with ease, adding another thinly sliced cut of pork, and this time he adds mushrooms—long enoki, sliced button mushrooms, and dark wood ear mushrooms—into the soup as well. “Of connection.”
The steam curls, fragrant and sweet. Hannibal lets the mushrooms cook in the bubbling broth, and Will, meeting his gaze, takes another slice of meat from the platter and drops it into the soup, before adding mushrooms of his own.
He lets it cook before scooping the meat and mushrooms onto his plate and Hannibal’s. He doesn’t look away, and neither does Hannibal, as they lift the meat to their mouths, the mushrooms, chew, and swallow it all down.