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Will opened his fridge, not really seeing what was there, not really caring either.
“No no no, this won’t do at all. A block of unused cheddar? Celery gone to rust? Will, have I not trained you better than this?” A familiar voice chided in his ear, leaning over his shoulder and inspecting critically.
Will’s lips twitched, “Clearly not. I can’t even remember the last time I ate.”
“That is a very grave sin. I insist you put something on and go out for groceries this instant,” Hannibal commanded, turning his shoulders, marching him out of the kitchen towards the stairs.
Will let him guide him, walked up the stairs at his behest, entered his tumbled over bedroom, even looked in the mirror for the first time in weeks.
“I look terrible,” Will murmured, rubbing the dark, untrimmed scruff on his face. It was almost thick enough to hide the dark circles of sleepless nights and cracked, dry lips.
“You sound surprised,” Hannibal commented, “You haven’t looked at yourself for weeks, you could hardly expect to be the same after that time. You look thin,” he added quietly, his voice choked with concern.
Will nodded grimly, “Yeah… I do. That’s… unacceptable.” He did not add ‘to you’ but he thought it.
“That’s why we are going out now and getting you dinner,” Hannibal’s lips smiled, “fatten you up again.”
Will grinned into the mirror, “You like me fattened?” he teased, pulling off his undershirt with effort. His arms felt like he hadn’t moved them in so long. Maybe he hadn’t. It was hard to remember.
“I like you in your prime, Will,” Hannibal replied, “I like you to be your best self. Your truest self. This is not who you are.”
Will glanced at him, sitting down to take off his slippers and pants, “I’m going to take a shower now.”
Hannibal nodded, sitting primly on the least wrinkled part of his bed, “I’ll be here.”
Will almost fell asleep in the bath. The hot water felt so good, so comforting, covering him up, letting him forget all that had happened. But Hannibal rattled the door, keeping him awake, reminding him he couldn’t slip under the water and pretend that was the same as a decision.
He scrubbed himself thoroughly, combed his hair neatly, shaved off all the scruff and stubble. It’d been a long time since he’d been completely clean shaven, it was a weird sensation. He rubbed his chin and jaw curiously. Without the beard, you could see how his eyes and cheeks had sunken in. He really did need to get out of the house.
Involuntarily, he took a breath before opening the door, scared… no, anxious. He was simply anxious. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong at all.
Hannibal was still sitting on the bed, an amused look in his eye, as if mocking Will for doubting. Will exhaled quickly in relief and walked to his closet, pulling out a nice, pressed shirt and pants, the sort of thing Hannibal would approve of. He dressed meticulously, not hurriedly as he usually did, and even debated putting on a tie before remembering he was only going to pick up some groceries.
“What we put on our backs affects how we behave and feel as much as it affects others impressions of us. There is no shame in dressing well, Will,” Hannibal said, “Shall we?” He opened the door, invitation enough.
Will nodded and followed him out of the bedroom to the car. He started the engine and began driving out to town, but then went further, into the city.
“We’re not going to Shop’n’Save to pick up frozen chicken nuggets?” Hannibal glanced at him, trying not to laugh.
Will cracked a smile, “No, no. Not today. How can you even think I’d do that when I have company?”
Hannibal laughed in that quiet, unexpected way he had. It made Will feel buttery warmth inside. “I confess it would have been hard not to get up and leave at once. But I would have stomached it for your sake,” Hannibal assured him.
Will was grateful for the reassurance. Will was grateful for so much that Hannibal… he stopped that thought in its tracks and didn’t say anything else until they arrived at a more high-end shop, closer into the city. Hannibal didn’t seem to mind the silence.
Will walked inside and inhaled deeply. Cloves, garlic, nutmeg, cumin all danced before him, the undercurrent of red wine, the spice of minced meats, hung and dried, and faintly, the scents of lavender and thyme in the distance, the edge of sweetness in this heavy and sensual stew. Will stepped forward and headed toward the wine section.
“Choosing an accompaniment before you know your main course?” Hannibal tsked, “Not a very organized way to plan a meal, Will.”
“I’m looking at wines to narrow my options,” Will murmured, “If I choose white I can have chicken, fish, maybe pork. If I choose red, it’s beef, venison, lamb. I think… red, don’t you?” Will glanced at his companion, hoping for his approval.
Hannibal nodded once, “An unorthodox approach, but you know I’m always a fan of the unorthodox.” He smiled, the skin around his eyes creasing with merriment. It was a good smile.
The look gave Will a surge of confidence as he selected a bottle. Cabernet Sauvignon, 2009, Napa Valley.
“Sebastiani,” Hannibal murmured, reading over his shoulder.
“What do you think?” Will looked up.
“A very good vintner, by all accounts, excellent year. I would say it’s a prudent investment,” Hannibal backed away to let Will settle the bottle into his basket.
Will now turned to the deli in the back.
“Now, the question remains,” Hannibal continued, hovering just in his periphery, “what will your main course be? It is the wrong time of year for venison, I think, you’ll be lucky to find any. And lamb is…” Hannibal hesitated uncharacteristically and Will suddenly remembered the lamb, the dinner, the edge of promise; the night it all went wrong.
He stuffed the memories back into the black of his unconscious thoughts and turned back to Hannibal who continued, “Lamb is a difficult dish. Very sensitive. It takes patience to cook well. Are you feeling up to it?”
Will swallowed hard, “I don’t think I have the appetite for lamb right now.” Will pawed instead over the pre-packaged cuts, regulating his breathing, glad Hannibal wasn’t going to reopen that scar, for now.
“These look very respectable,” Hannibal muttered, nodding to a pair of dry-aged filet mignons, sitting at the counter. Will walked over and glanced at him curiously, “Yeah?”
“Not my preferred cut,” Hannibal smiled a terrible and knowing smile. Will found he didn’t mind. “But they will be very tender and I have faith you can cook them to perfection.”
Will rang the bell for service and indicated the two beautiful cuts, thick and protected in a ring of fat.
“Where to now?” Will sighed, looking around the store aimlessly.
“A protein and a bottle of wine does not a dinner make,” Hannibal reminded him, “Where are your vegetables? Your grains? How will you dress your feast? Your meal must be treated like a portrait, the empty spaces filled in and well-balanced. You have the makings of a great vision, but they are only elements right now waiting for the right combination.”
“Right, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Will sighed, shaking his head, “I knew that, I just…”
Hannibal laid a hand on his shoulder. “Cooking should not be torture, Will. It is an expression of life. And you use this expression to continue living. It should be an extension of necessity.” Hannibal’s hand withdrew, but somehow, Will felt calmer.
Will snorted softly. “All your meals are elevated to art. You dress your tables with succulent minutiae and edible grace. And it doesn’t matter if you’re serving two or sixteen, you give it such care and dedication because you want… the feast to stay with us long after the food is gone.”
Will could feel Hannibal looking at him more than see it, feel the way his eyes moved over his features with exacting attention. Will stayed still, letting him look. Hannibal was always looking at him and he was never giving Hannibal enough time to see.
“My meals are an expression of me, an extension of my needs, which go beyond mere sustenance,” Hannibal’s voice was soft, but earnest, “And I have a great deal of practice transforming my raw materials. You will too, in time.”
Will gulped, but did not respond. “Right now I’m just worried about making something edible,” he smiled weakly, “so what pairs with red meat?”
Hannibal licked his lips thoughtfully, “Dark greens, salads particularly, but broccoli, Brussels sprouts, all forms of legume. Do you want your vegetables to make your dish heartier or lighter?”
“Well, since I no longer have the dogs sleep on the bed because of the cold, I think lighter,” Will replied, walking over to the lettuces and spinaches, searching for inspiration.
“Arugula,” Hannibal supplied helpfully, “with cherry tomatoes, pine nuts, parmesan, and a light vinaigrette. Simple, easy to prepare.”
Will plucked the ingredients from the shelves and displays as Hannibal named them, “Something I can’t screw up?” Will commented, slightly self-deprecating.
Hannibal pouted, “You are too hard, Will. When you have a main course that is difficult to prepare and time-consuming you can make things easier on yourself to invent sides that require very little effort but still bring out fresh and complex flavors. This salad is bold and will not let you down when serving.”
Will let himself be comforted by his words and turned his thoughts toward a grain. His nose drew him toward the bakery, but he resisted. Crostini seemed like a meager offering compared to the effort he was putting in.
“These are very fine potatoes,” Hannibal drew his attention to the bin of large russet spuds.
Will walked over and peered at them, suddenly inspired, “Gratin?”
Hannibal smiled, “And you can use up that old block of cheddar that’s turning an alarming shade of green.”
Will snickered despite himself, picking three large tubers out and adding them to his now very heavy basket. He tried to remember the ingredients for gratin: cream, seasoning, breadcrumbs… did he have breadcrumbs? Better buy some anyway. He hesitated, glancing at Hannibal, knowing he’d prefer even this tiny detail homemade to store bought.
Before he could speak, Hannibal smiled, “I will pretend not to notice.”
Will exhaled gratefully and picked up a bag of plain, unseasoned bread crumbs. He looked at his basket and frowned, “Seems to be missing something…” he muttered. He needed something to bring it all together. Looking up, Will noticed the selection of mushrooms, standing to one side of the greens and root vegetables. Perfect! Sautéed mushrooms would accent the meatiness of the steak, complement the tubers with their earthiness, and provide resistance to the harsh, bitter bite of arugula. Will picked up a box of crimini, pleased that he’d come up with the idea on his own.
“Alright, I think that’s everything. Are you satisfied this will fatten me up?” Will jibed, walking towards the checkout counter.
“It will do for present, but you mustn’t let yourself waste away, Will, in spite of… all that’s happened,” Hannibal said, following him at a distance.
Will looked back at him out of the corner of his eye and swallowed. For a moment, his silhouette was indistinct, a vague notion of color and shape, nothing more. Will quickly looked back to the teller, forgetting all about it.
The drive home was quiet, eager, companionable, but quiet. Will turned on the radio and tuned to the only classical station on Sirius. “Goldberg Variations…” he smiled wryly, half-closing his eyes in memory.
He could see Hannibal, in his own kitchen, preparing liver as tenderly as one might handle a newborn. His body focused, squared to his task, his face relaxed and content. Will only rarely saw him like this, at his favorite craft, in harmony with everything around him. Now that he had seen all that Hannibal was, it was these moments when he was cooking that fixated Will the most. There were no lies here, no need for a veil. Hannibal was simply Hannibal.
He let himself into the memory, watching almost voyeuristically, certainly secretly, from a shadowed corner, unwilling to interact with the moment, change it in any way. He appreciated it more untouched by his clumsy, naïve fingerprints. Will could almost smell the fat sizzling on the pan, feel the sudden, sharp sting of hot oil on skin, but the pain never lasted. He attentively watched Hannibal prepare the portions, dress his plates with couscous and gazpacho. Hannibal picked up the two plates and moved toward him, “Are you ready, Will?”
Will opened his eyes and found he was back at home, his dogs barking excitedly. He shut off the engine; the radio had moved on to Vivaldi, how rude. He carried his bags silently out of the car and set them on the kitchen table with difficulty. His hungry herd ran between his legs, headed for the food bowls.
“Okay, okay… is it that time already?” Will sighed, glancing at the clock. Evidently it was. He walked into his pantry and ripped open a new food bag, grabbing his measuring cup, and dumping the appropriate amount of kibble into each dog’s bowl.
“You feed them before you feed yourself?” Hannibal’s voice returned as Will entered the kitchen again. He turned to find him leaning casually against the stove.
Will smirked, “It’s an old pet owner’s trick. If you feed them before you eat, they’re less likely to want to go after your food. I thought you would have known that though,” he teased, eyeing Hannibal slyly.
Hannibal’s mouth broadened in that way he smiled when he was truly pleased with something. Will smiled back faintly, pleased that Hannibal liked his joke. He turned back to the bags of groceries slowly and began pulling out the ingredients, arranging them haphazardly on the table.
When everything was out in plain sight, he gulped, realizing he had quite an effort ahead of him. He leaned against the table and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, worried he was going to fuck it all up after all. “So… where do we start?”
Hannibal walked over to console him, “Start with the gratin, it takes the most preparation and will be the longest to cook. Then the salad, which can sit out at room temperature to no ill effect while you finally cook the steak and mushrooms. The steak must be done last of all because it cooks very quickly and should always be served hot.”
Will took a deep breath, closing his eyes and relaxing, “Okay… here we go then.”
Under Hannibal’s ministrations, he preset the oven, skinned and sliced potatoes, creamed butter, milk, and cheese together to pour over it in a deep, Pyrex pan, and breadcrumbs to finish. There had been a small panic attack using the mixer when the whisk splattered more milk out of the bowl than he was expecting, but Hannibal just laughed it off.
“Have you ever used that mixer?” Hannibal teased, grinning at him.
“I have… once,” Will finished lamely, removing the bowl and pouring the mixture generously over the potatoes, “I wanted to make fresh whipped cream for Christmas one year… and promptly decided to go back to ReddiWhip.”
Hannibal made a mock-agonized sound, shaking his head, “You have betrayed me once too many, Will. I cannot forgive you for this.”
Will burst out laughing until tears formed in his eyes. He wiped them, looking over at Hannibal and being struck by just how funny he was, how charming. At least when he wanted to be.
Hannibal seemed pleasantly surprised at Will’s positive reaction and the whole kitchen took on a warmer atmosphere.
Will swallowed his giggles and said, “Well, you can instruct me in the value of hand-whipped whipped cream next time,” as he closed the oven on the gratin.
“I shall,” Hannibal affirmed, eyes delighted at the prospect.
Will cleared his throat and turned to the salad fixings, “Mmm… a big bowl I think, hold on.” Leaving Hannibal in the kitchen, Will walked around to a cabinet in the back of his house where he stored all the nice dishes and other Christmas gifts he never used. There he found a large wooden salad bowl with matching spoons, probably given to him under the misguided idea that he would ever use them.
“Here we go,” Will returned proudly, turning the bowl over to show Hannibal its quality.
His eyebrows raised, “You have a salad bowl?” To his credit, he made an admirable attempt at hiding his incredulity.
“Even I can surprise, Dr. Lecter,” Will hummed, setting the bowl and spoons on the counter and turning to pick up the arugula.
“Yes, you certainly can.”
He said it lightly, but Will swallowed. He picked up the arugula and tomatoes and transferred them to the cutting board where he could begin coarse chopping the thin, dark leaves and then quartering the tomatoes.
Hannibal approached him, Will knew, he could feel his gaze on the back of his neck, peering at him and over him.
“Arugula doesn’t need a great deal of dressing,” he spoke softly, “you could have left them whole.”
Will blinked, hesitating again, as he used to do, “I wanted to make sure they mixed evenly with the other ingredients.”
Fingers shaking slightly, he started on the tomatoes, the first few squirting their insides all over the cutting board before he could slice them.
Hannibal snorted softly and leaned against the counter next to him, in his line of vision again, “Don’t press with the blade, cut. If you’re having difficulty, sharpen it. The skin of a tomato is not tough, it should slice with ease.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” Will pouted, trying again, “they are basically nature’s water balloons.” This one cut much easier and Will was able to puts its quarters into the salad bowl.
Hannibal chortled, “More delicious, than a water balloon. Sharpen it anyway, you will end up with ragged edges from tearing rather than cutting.”
Will rolled his eyes, smirking, “Like it matters,” but he obediently rinsed his knife and fetched his whet stone.
“Presentation is everything!” Hannibal interjected, taking Will’s bait, “Do we wear suits and ties because they are comfortable? Don’t practice lazy cooking simply because you are the only one eating.”
Will returned with his sharpened knife and rolled his eyes again, dramatically.
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, “Very well, then do it to prove to me you can cook… even a little.” He smirked, satisfied with his challenge.
“Oh, big encouragement you are,” Will snickered, “You ask me to cook you filet mignon and potato au gratin and you don’t think I can even make a simple salad correctly!” He grinned widely at him, resuming slicing the tomatoes, the work much faster with a sharp knife.
“Consider it a skills test,” Hannibal grinned back, “here I shall grade you on your knife skills, since I’m not asking you to show me how you carve.” He sighed loudly, “I don’t relish the thought of the poor birds you’ve mutilated at Thanksgiving,” he looked slyly at Will, waiting for his reaction.
Will pouted, “I could cut up a bird if I ever tried.” His Thanksgivings tended to be rather lonely affairs and never required a full bird for the event.
Around this time the dogs were whining and scratching at the door to be let out. Will took a break from his salad chores to tend to them. He smiled, watching them go, yapping and playful. Winston hesitated at the door, looking up at him before he would cross the threshold.
“What’s a matter? Go on, go on, all your friends are out there,” Will gestured for him. Winston glanced between him and the outdoors, balking an urge to go and whining. “Hey, hey…” Will softened his voice and bent down to rub Winston behind the ears, stroking him reassuringly, “It’s alright… it’s okay, Winston.” Winston calmed down and bolted out the door when Will stopped, sufficiently placated.
Will half-smiled and, making sure the porch light was on, closed the door again.
“Now, combine that salad with pine nuts and parmesan and a vinaigrette with vinegar, oil…” Will trailed off, returning to his cutting board.
Hannibal cleared his throat loudly as Will reached for his knife.
Will looked up, surprised, then understanding dawned, “Oh come on,” he muttered, moving to the sink to wash his hands.
“Thank you,” Hannibal replied.
Feeling peevish, Will flicked some water at him. Hannibal looked down at the droplets on his clothing with murderous disdain, then back at Will. Will looked back, completely unintimidated.
“That was rude, Will, you owe me an apology,” Hannibal waited expectantly.
Will shook his head, drying his hands, “Absolutely not.”
Hannibal said nothing. Will looked over at him and rolled his eyes, “Oh come on, a few drops of water his hardly going to ruin your clothes…”
Hannibal continued to say nothing, looking away carefully.
“Fine,” Will sighed, “I’m sorry I splashed you with water, happy?” Will moved over to the pine nuts, opening them and sprinkling them into the bowl.
“Far from it, your apology lacks grace and… integrity, I think,” Hannibal looked at him knowingly, “You’re not apologetic.” He didn’t seem mad about it though.
Will smiled slowly, “You’ve got me there, Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal smiled back, just slightly, as if it were a private joke that would lose its charm when made public.
They continued together on the salad. A vinaigrette, Hannibal insisted, was an extremely simple procedure, adding flavorings to little more than oil. Will, nonetheless, thought he’d rather give fresh whipped cream another try.
With the salad made and the gratin just starting to smell of cheese and spuds, making Will’s mouth water, dinner finally seemed to be coming together. Until Will turned to his table and saw what a mess it was.
“Oh no…” he groaned, remembering the gorgeous place settings at Hannibal’s table, the artisan crafted plates and homemade table decorations. He had nothing like that on hand, of course, but he could at least make an effort.
It was a matter of a few minutes to clear the table; all his junk: unfiled papers, letters, magazines, one or two guilty dirty dishes, was simply displaced, whole and entire, to a new location. Will could feel Hannibal’s judgmental stare and knew he would have preferred the mess to be tidied properly rather than just relocated, but he was working on a tight budget of time.
That done, he walked back to his closet of forgotten gifts and withdrew from a dusty shelf some unused placemats. Something clinked as he slid the placemats out and he found a once-opened set of inlaid flatware, probably used once out of courtesy, then immediately repackaged and ignored. You didn’t really need good silverware for a diet of Penn Station subs and microwavable soup.
But today he was having a fine meal and the utensils would not be insulted at the table.
Plates next, plates, plates… he knew he had some decorative plates, somewhere. The kind you were afraid to eat on for fear of chipping the paint, that could only be hand washed, never stand a round in the dishwasher. Here they were: a thin ceramic with gold, hand-painted filigree, a graduation present, as he recalled. One of those stale reminders of lost family that he preferred to keep forgotten. They were amateurish, to be sure, the brush strokes uneven and undefined, but they didn’t bear the marks of thousands of knives and forks before this and that made them appropriate.
Will hesitated, wincing over napkins. He was very doubtful anyone had thought to separately gift him with complete table settings. Hannibal would just have to settle for paper then. Oh well.
He returned to the kitchen and arranged the blue knit placemats first at only two settings across from each other, followed by the plates, and silverware: the knife laid facing in to the right of the plate, the fork on the left. He smiled inwardly proud he still had some grasp of etiquette outside of Hannibal’s tutelage.
Hannibal nodded proudly when he was finished, “Very well done, Will. You bury your traces of good breeding deep, but they’re still there, after all these years. I’m glad you can call on them.”
Will shrugged, “Not good breeding so much as survival training. You don’t learn how to set silverware as a mechanic’s son, but you do when you’re asked to family dinners by your heir-apparent friends in university.” His voice betrayed bitterness, but his face did not. He had learned over many years not to show resentment, even when he felt it, and now he felt too tired to truly be angry.
“You evolved, then,” Hannibal’s approving tone could soothe any pain, “and your transformation is serving you to this day.”
Will glanced at him and remembered the bottle of wine. “I think it’s time for a pre-dinner drink, don’t you?” he asked nonchalantly, moving to get the corkscrew.
“I appreciate a good apéritif, but you still have your main course to cook,” Hannibal reminded him, clucking his tongue.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with letting it breathe, is there? We’re nearly done,” he nodded, unwrapping the foil from the bottle, then sticking the cork firmly and wiggling it out with ease. He sniffed briefly, then set it down to get out the wine glasses. He poured just to the widest part of the bowl, then set Hannibal’s glass at his place and took a testing sip of his own.
“Mmm,” he closed his eyes, savoring it.
“What do you taste?” Hannibal murmured.
“The deep grapey-ness of a mature red wine, smooth on the pallet,” Will swallowed slowly, “but with the strong bite of most cabs.” He paused and inhaled from the bowl, “I smell… thyme, like in the store, and garlic. But I taste walnuts and…” he took another sip, smaller this time, “cherries.”
He opened his eyes and faced Hannibal, curious to hear his assessment.
Hannibal stroked his lips, “A wine that is fully itself, not trying to be something it’s not.”
Will nodded, “You could look at it that way.”
“It is a good wine then, honest, all the best ones are. A good choice, Will,” he smiled at last, relaxing the tension. But this smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Will set down his glass and walked back to the cutting board, opening the box of mushrooms, “Thank you,” he replied, still with the unsettling feeling that Hannibal was implying something. He often was.
Will set to cleaning them thoroughly, then picked up his slicing knife again.
“Do not cut them too thin,” Hannibal reminded him pleasantly, “they will fry and crisp in the oil. Let them remain thick and spongy, to better soak up the flavor.”
Will obeyed, cutting the fat, stubby mushrooms in thirds only, depositing them into a skillet with…
“Olive oil, garlic, dill,” Hannibal listed, an amused smile curling about his lips.
“I know,” Will huffed at his annoying, know-it-all egotism, getting a little jar of minced garlic from the fridge.
Before he could start on the sauté though, the oven beeped at him that the gratin was ready.
Will removed the bubbling pan with oven mitts and set it on the stove top for examination. The cheese was starting to brown on top, it looked fairly close. To be sure, Will carefully poked a knife in it to check if that potatoes were tender and fully-cooked. Feeling no resistance, he smiled, pleased, “Seems I could make gratin after all.”
“I had every faith in you,” Hannibal replied, leaning over and inhaling the delicious smells of the cheese and potatoes.
Will looked around briefly for a hot pad to set the pan on at the table and, finding one, arranged the gratin with a serving spoon, and then the salad, with its matching spoons, as the centerpiece between their glasses of wine.
He breathed deeply, surprised and humbled that he had come so far without major incident, “It’s all coming together,” he sighed.
“And now the steaks will be right on time,” Hannibal inclined his head, “very good timing, Will. Timing is perhaps the most difficult thing in cooking, harder than any of the other skills because it so often relies on instinct.”
Will quirked an eyebrow as he lit the pan under the mushrooms to begin their cooking, “So I should have taken up music or I have beginner’s luck, is that what you’re saying?” He grinned over at Hannibal.
Hannibal hummed thoughtfully, “Mmm more or less.”
Will laughed again at the light teasing, tossing the mushrooms in the crackling oil and losing a few over the side, “Damn it,” he grumbled, using his spatula to carefully flip them back into the pan.
Hannibal snorted inelegantly, “One can be too over-confident though.”
“Shut up,” Will returned, “I’m trying to focus here, you’re distracting me.”
Will didn’t need to see him to know he was making some kind of mocking, condescending facial expression. “You can focus in a crime scene fresh with blood, but put you in a kitchen…” Hannibal muttered.
“Traditionally, crime scenes are silent,” Will said pointedly, raising his voice, eyes on the mushrooms.
Rather than needle him with words then, Hannibal continued to pester him with impatient foot tapping.
Will’s back tensed in annoyance and he sighed loudly, but didn’t say anything. The mushrooms smelled amazing, by now browned and tender in the pan. Will set them off the heat and turned off the burner. He swallowed and clapped his hands, rubbing them together as he prepared for the final step.
Will sighed, unwrapping the steaks carefully, admiring their vivid pink color and praying he wouldn’t ruin this.
“You won’t,” Hannibal whispered in his ear, just as nerves threatened to stop him, “You’ll do fine. Just remember, filet mignon should never be cooked more than medium rare.”
He took Will’s hand, turning it palm up, “Press the fold between your thumb and forefinger,” he instructed. Will did, feeling a surprising, almost squishy give.
“That is the consistency of rare meat. Move your finger in slightly,” he murmured, eyes on Will’s hands.
Will pressed inside the fold, feeling less give, a pleasing sense of resistance.
“That is medium rare. It takes no more than a minute or two per side on high heat. Any longer and the meat becomes… well, hockey puck I believe is the popular euphemism,” there was a dry chuckle in Hannibal’s voice.
Will swallowed and nodded, “Any…?”
“Coarse ground salt, black pepper, another spice if you prefer, but this meat is well-fattened and has much flavor on its own. It should be presented as close to bare as possible,” Hannibal supplied quietly.
Will reached for his salt and pepper shakers, quite sure he didn’t have the coarse ground Hannibal would have preferred, but this would have to do. His left hand could still feel the ghost of Hannibal’s cupping it, supporting it, could feel the pressure on his palm as if Hannibal had touched him himself.
He tried to ignore it, sprinkling the seasoning over the two steaks, then lit his burner once more, setting the steaks tenderly onto a clean skillet. There was a soft hiss as the meat kissed the metal and the smell of iron and beef fat floated into the air. Will watched as the color of the meat quickly turned from near life-like pink, to grey running up the sides, to brown, deepening towards the center.
The pink narrowed like an archery target, but before it could start to disappear, Will flipped the steaks, the brown coating on the turned-down side now visible. Will licked his lips hungrily and pressed the medallions for a sense of their texture. The meat gave readily, wobbling on the pan. Perfect consistency then. Will smiled, a proud sense of achievement washing over him. He waited just a few seconds more, then turned off the heat, delivering the filets directly onto their plates, then returning with the pan of mushrooms, sprinkling them over the top.
Will swallowed, a unknown tightness rising in his chest. He turned to Hannibal’s chair and slid it out for him to sit. He fetched two clean, white bowls for the salad, serving them each a portion, the fresh vinaigrette poured into a gravy boat since he had no proper decanters.
Will sat down, at last, on his side of the table and in that breath of silence before he raised his head to start the meal, he realized. It was instant, like a lead brick falling down to the bottom of his stomach, pinning him there, trapping him in the knowledge. Tears swam into his eyes even as his fingers curled around his utensils. A sob welled up inside him, pressing at his throat, crawling into his mouth. He closed his eyes and the tears poured over effortlessly. His body shifted away from the table, back ever so slightly, trying to escape the pain.
“I hate you,” he hissed as tears rolled down his face, “I hate you.”
Hannibal wouldn't say anything. Will wouldn't open his eyes, wouldn't see what wasn't there. His fingers still desperately gripped knife and fork, unwilling to give up this farce, but unable to continue it.
The silence was an oppressive void, suffocating. Will didn’t want to hear that voice again, in his mind, and yet he strained so hard to hear it, just a syllable would be a comfort. The tears wouldn’t stop coming; they landed on his tablecloth, his plate, his steak, where they hissed, reminding him the food was still hot. His table was perfect in every aspect. Almost every aspect.
His clenched fingers released the cutlery and the next second he was crumpled in his chair, sobbing, sobbing, hiding his face from no one, but hiding all the same, ashamed. Ashamed of his need, of his wanting, and yet, still longing, still yearning, unable to stop. Unable to stand the vacancy.
“I hate you…” he repeated, tears bitter on his tongue. It was possible to both hate someone and need them wasn’t it? Or maybe what he really hated was knowing that Hannibal was twenty miles away in a locked basement that he could go and see any time and yet he wouldn’t. And he hated wanting to.
But ‘I hate you.’ That was easier to say. ‘I hate you’ saying it over and over again… maybe one day it’d be true.