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Hannibal doesn’t like to eat alone.
This is one of the many things Will realizes as he sits at the head of the rich mahogany table.
No, Hannibal doesn’t like to eat alone, but he often does.
If asked, he would probably say it’s inevitable in the absence of suitable company. And who really can be worthy of someone who believes himself a god? It’s almost funny how many people think themselves his equals, when they actually have nothing in common. Funny, sure, if you think about the audacity they must have to claim to act by the same set of rules. Maybe less funny and more depressing considering how blind they are. After all, it’s difficult to share the same values of a man who doesn’t have any – not really – except personal fulfillment, and whose motto is making his boredom everyone’s problem.
It’s not like Will doesn’t understand.
His mind works in a different way too. But at least he doesn’t try to hide it or blend with normal people anymore. Sometimes it’s better to state right away where the boundaries lie, and apparently the scorched earth he has around works as quite the efficient repellent now.
Leda’s open legs watch him as he waits.
Will straightens his spine and puts the napkin on his lap. This place reeks of Hannibal’s effort to make everyone uncomfortable. He can’t believe he had never seen it, but it’s always been that way.
It used to be a place of comfort. The comfort was not of the guests, but Hannibal’s. He feeds off the tension this space creates. All the opulence, the grandiosity. It must serve some purpose, or he wouldn’t put so much attention to it.
Will’s skin itches. He has to force his hands to stay down on the table.
Today it’s a weird day.
It’s been a long time since he last was there. Before prison – it feels like a different time. He feels like a different person, and he is different, not burning up like a match, wavering and shaking with every breath of air.
But it shouldn’t be this weird to be the guest of honor. Not when he knows what to do. And yet.
The moment Hannibal enters the room, rolling cart in tow, the atmosphere changes.
He recognizes the smell.
“Hello, Will. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I thought of something familiar to you for tonight’s dinner, as I hope we could start again our acquaintance, not from a place of distance but as long-lost friends. I hope you will like it.”
Seafood. Onions and potatoes. For a moment Will is half his height, a fraction of his age, and two times his hunger. All bony long limbs and a bruised face.
Hannibal places a tureen on the table, and then a side dish of potato salad.
Will is – angry. Stunned and overwhelmed just by the smell of it. And also furious. This, this is what you could have had, he wants to say to him and to himself both. All of it is his fault. Hannibal chose to tear open a wound that was still bleeding, a vulnerability Will wasn’t fully aware of. It’s not fair to be this affected. He doesn’t want to care. But he cares, and he swears he will never forget.
“We were never really apart, only space was between us. I thought of you often. It took a little bit of practice to elaborate a recipe I’m satisfied with.”
Will can’t remember when he closed his eyes. He has to remind himself this is not a safe space anymore. Not a good place to show vulnerability. Not even the fresh start he said they were having.
He knows what Hannibal is doing. Hannibal knows he knows, and was probably hoping for it. The nostalgia only a place you hate but miss creates.
Will can work with that.
He got his vengeance on his home. He will get his vengeance on this one too.
If vengeance has the hearty taste of gumbo, so be it.
Will smiles. “I’m sure you have plenty of unused rooms in this house. Take me to one of them next time. Even the kitchen is ok. But I don’t want to eat in this dining room ever again.”
⁂
On Sunday, Hannibal shows himself at his door, unprompted, holding a basket of mushrooms.
“They are not mushrooms,” he says, skirting all the dogs that happily trail after him – traitors. “They are grybukai.”
“It’s not because you brought me breakfast that you can stay here,” Will blurts, and instantly regrets it. Hannibal came all the way to Wolf Trap, and he hasn’t even thanked him yet, but it would be weird to say something now so he just stands here, feeling guilty and self-conscious about his house and his comfy clothes.
“If I’m catching you in a bad moment, I can wait, or I can go home if you want.”
“No, it’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Every day can be an occasion if we choose to celebrate it, moreover a day we can spend without work, dedicating ourselves to what we like and care about. ‘He rested on the seventh day from all His work. God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it’.”
“This is no church. My home is far from holy.”
“Each desire is a prayer. If churches are where people pray, we are living temples.”
Will finally remembers who Hannibal is, and the whiplash is so strong it leaves him speechless. He shouldn’t have let him in. Or maybe he should have let him in faster. He has to gain his trust, in order to trap him and finally end this charade. He wants to be free. He wants to forget about everything that happened before he met him.
But then Hannibal takes out of a napkin some bone-shaped cookies. “Buster, this is for you,” he gives the dog the little treat, and then calls each of the dogs by name and praises them for being good boys, or good girls, and for having patience and good manners.
The thing that Will hates the most of it is – Hannibal seems so normal. When Will catches Hannibal’s eyes, a brief contact, just a moment, Hannibal is casual and seems genuine in his intentions. He plays with the dogs. He remembers their names and brings them food.
“Sometimes it’s better if our prayers go unanswered, especially the things we don’t voice,” it’s a warning for them both. He can’t be what Hannibal wants him to be. And Hannibal neither.
“This is an olive branch.”
For the time being, Will closes the door, sets a new tablecloth, and invites Hannibal in his space.
“I will make some tea.”
⁂
There are many things Will is not proud of.
But about this? He feels absolutely nothing.
Hannibal is working on the kitchen counter setting panes and plates, moving around from the fridge to the table. His excitement buzzes through the room, a flooding variety of feelings he drowns in busying himself.
Will wishes he could do the same. Hannibal stays silent, but looks feverish, almost possessed, dancing and twisting with purpose. He makes it look like a ceremony, beautiful in its significance and special in its rarity – but he’s already killed a man, and feels nothing about that too.
Inside his head, a mantra of ‘this is my design’ plays non-stop. He could claim self-defense, he could justify himself. It would be the normal thing to do, natural, but it would be pointless. Especially here, in a predator’s den, deep in the core of the house, the place that holds record of all of Hannibal’s sins.
His wounds have been taken care of, and now, standing there, with his hands clean and bandaged, he’s like in a whole new body.
Yes, he would have preferred a different outcome. He would have preferred not to raise suspicion, and play a safer game. But the devil's children have the devil's luck, and he’s going to make good use of it.
“Stay present.” Hannibal’s voice is both a balm and a curse, freezing him into consciousness.
Hannibal pours two twin glasses of wine, livid under the neon lights of the kitchen. They clink them together in a toast, and hold eye contact for a brief time.
“If you want to rest, you can go upstairs.”
“I want to help.”
“No, Will, I’m the one who’s helping. You did the work.”
Will killed Randall, but he killed him justly. He will elevate him to his true nature. He will make art out of him.
“Stay with me, then,” Hannibal dresses him with an apron and puts him at work chopping vegetables. It’s a mechanical work, hypnotic and dangerous when he feels feral wielding a knife – but Hannibal trusts him with it, and Will tells himself to mirror that blind trust.
When he’s done, he watches Hannibal cook. He’s making Clapassade, he said, a traditional dish from southern France. The original recipe calls for the use of lamb meat, but they will have to do with what they have. He also uses olives, wine, and –
“Honey?”
Will can see a gleam inside Hannibal’s eyes, that comes and passes as fast as a summer storm. He can see the moment Hannibal realizes the mistake and changes expression, placid disappointment washing the sparkle away.
“Yes. Raw wildflower honey. I’m using it with licorice. Combined with the meat, they create a complex taste, sweet, savory and slightly bitter all at once.”
They set a tablecloth over the kitchen counter. It’s frugal and simple, but it feels intimate. They are in a bubble, good intentions left out the door – the bad ones too. He knows Hannibal is making a sacrifice for him – he had to make some sacrifices himself to be here tonight – and it’s fair. Logic. An inevitable progression.
After they settle down at the table, Hannibal stares at him with an intensity that makes his skin crawl. There’s an unfamiliar fear coiling his intestines, but it’s not like he weren’t here last week, and there’s nothing to be afraid of.
It takes Will a moment to realize what’s missing.
Hannibal is waiting for him. The veil of trepidation that is suspended between them – it’s Hannibal’s. Will is only sensing it, as an animal smells its prey.
Slowly, Will takes the first bite, and searches his gaze.
“It’s exquisite,” he finally concedes. “Everything you do is exquisite. I guess you already know it. You must be bored by how many times people told you that.”
Hannibal smiles, and holds Will’s hand under the table.
“Not at all, Will.” His eyes are a warm pool of attentiveness. “Not at all.”
⁂
“I redecorated,” Hannibal says, holding open the door of his studio.
A wooden table lies in the center of the room. Its edges are uneven, and a spiral of knots races on it. It’s solid, stable, maybe a little too rustic for someone like him. It looks like something Will would put in his own home, much more practical and sober.
“It’s walnut, handmade. I personally chose the tree.”
“A unique piece of art. No other table will have the same design,” Will smiles, and caresses its surface gently. “It must have been a majestic tree. How old was it?”
“Older than your house and its architect.”
“Is it some sort of...” Will crouches and looks under it, searching for hidden drawers. When he finds one, it appears to be locked. He frowns, then stands and paces the room.
“Sort of?”
Will looks over the fireplace, between the butcher’s broom leaves and the lit candles. There is a pile of Christmas cards, still open and unsigned. “Yeah, some sort of magical thing.”
“What would a table do?”
Will dismisses it with a shrug and goes for the vase behind the door. The soil is compact, and there’s nothing under it. He looks at the library, and sighs. He needs a ladder to reach the highest shelf.
“Why don’t you find out? Ask it what you want.”
“I don’t know. It just reminded me of something.”
“Of course. ‘Tischlein deck dich, Goldesel und Knüppel aus dem Sack’. You probably know it as ‘The Table, the Donkey, and the Stick’, by the Brothers Grimm,” Hannibal says, but it’s clear that Will isn’t giving much attention to it, focused on his newfound mission, “it’s a very popular tale, I first heard of it as a young boy. The table is magical, and if you tell it to set itself, it will soon be covered with the most beautiful dishes.”
Will has taken a chair to the bookshelf. He has to stretch a bit, but at least he can now search there too. “What about the other gifts?”
“The donkey spews gold, and the stick beats those who wrong you. In its simplicity, it serves the intrinsic desire for our basic needs to be met, social status, and justice.”
“Something both children and adults can agree with.”
“Are those your needs too?”
“I think,” Will says, climbing down the chair, “right now I would very much need a magical item that is able to locate a lost key. Does something like that exist?”
“It most certainly does but, unfortunately, I don’t own it. You just need to ask.”
Will looks at him unimpressed. He braces himself, closes his eyes, and lets the pendulum swing. He dwells in the image of himself – Hannibal, now – closing the doors of the studio. He moves backwards, and stands before the table, still holding a broom. He has to prepare for Will’s arrival. He’s dressed to the nines, and the table is polished, but it still lacks something. He looks at the clock – it’s two hours early, ‘too late’ for his standards – and makes a decision.
Will comes into himself. He walks towards him and, holding his gaze, puts a hand in Hannibal’s breast pocket. Still nothing.
“Huh. Bold.”
Hannibal smiles, as Will goes for the left trouser pocket, and finally retrieves a small golden key.
“I found it, and without hints.”
“This house has no secrets for you.”
It sounds a lot like ‘I have no secrets for you’, and it’s such a blatant lie Will can’t help but make a face. To be fair, Will hasn’t been in all the rooms either.
“Well, no more secrets than necessary. Besides, you could have just asked.”
“You didn’t want me to ask,” Will says. He was sure of it before, and he’s even more certain now that he has reconstructed the scene.
“You always surprise me. Don’t you want to know what’s inside?”
Will thinks about it. After this whole treasure hunt, it must be either something really meaningful or something really insignificant. But if – god forbid – there’s actually nothing inside that drawer, hell, he will throw a tantrum.
“There’s a basket of fruit.” Of all the things he had imagined, this isn’t one of them. Grapes, oranges, tangerines and some persimmons, all ripe and perfectly shaped.
“Do you want any?”
“No, thank you.”
“Will, please, come sit by the fire.”
Will closes the drawer, and sits in one of the two armchairs. They don’t match, not in style nor in color, and Will chooses the one that is nearer to him.
“A bergére, from France. I won it from a charity auction,” he says, and sits on the other chair with the fruit basket. He makes himself comfortable, then takes a tangerine and scores its surface with a penknife.
Will looks at it. “Impressive.”
“I must admit, I’m thinking of replacing it with a similar one.”
“Maybe something that matches with the table, too.”
“What color would you suggest?”
Hannibal sinks his fingers under the zest and, piece by piece, opens it like a flower. The fresh smell of fruit fills the air. Doesn’t it bother him to do it with his bare hands?
“I guess something darker. With some green on it. Something that makes you feel enveloped, protected. Something soft to the touch, but solid, made of wood.”
“Take,” Hannibal says, and Will takes the slice of tangerine as a reflex. As soon as he eats it, Hannibal gives him another.
“There is a forest, not far away from where I live.”
“I know.”
“Yeah,” he says, eating another slice, “I mean that you can choose something from there, if you want.”
“Sounds splendid.”
Hannibal takes two pears, and starts peeling them as well. Will finds himself staring at his hands working, and missing another slice of fruit. He didn’t even want it, and he could just stand up and go take one for himself – but then Hannibal finishes, and offers yet another slice, and Will takes it without complaining.
“Appetite comes with eating,” Hannibal says, smug. Will ignores it, in favor of the thought that it actually has a different taste if it’s someone else peeling it for you.
“I guess you could help me with some directions. I wouldn’t want to step on some bear traps, or cross thresholds that are better not crossed.”
“Sure.”
“I could bring you food.”
“Something from your home?”
“You’ll only have to say: ‘Table, set yourself’, and it will be served.”
⁂
They survived.
For all they tried, no teacups came back together – but a greater miracle happened: they survived the fall.
They held their breath, closed their eyes, and it was akin to being born again. No broken pieces left on the floor, no sharp edges to cut yourself with. A clean cut, a new life.
The realization that nothing really could come before, nor after, not when they finally are the best versions of themselves, together.
It wasn’t painless and it wasn’t easy. As God commands, something was sacrificed, and something was gained. But disobeying the gods is what humans do best, and lying has always come naturally to them both. There’s no point in being afraid of lying to the world, if they are willing to lie to God himself.
It took some time to be truly living again, but it was worth the wait.
Now, they are on the run, wanted in more States than the bones they broke by falling.
Will flops down onto the front passenger seat and closes the door.
When Hannibal smells what Will has taken with him, he winces but says nothing.
Will laughs. “It was necessary.”
“It really, really wasn’t.”
Will takes off his wig and beard. Hannibal starts the car.
“What? What about all the ‘it’s important to eat, Will; food it’s vital, Will; you have to listen to your body, Will’?” He jokes, mimicking his accent, “I want it. My body is very much asking for it.”
“I stand by what I said. It is important to eat. Food is indeed vital, and since you should listen to your body, you should stop eating trash.”
“’s not trash,” he says, eating a potato chip.
“It’s called junk food for a reason.”
“Ok, I see your point.”
They drive for a while, lulled by the hum of the car’s engine and the crickets chirping. The sun is blinding, and paints the Italian countryside with a warm shade. This time they managed to take their time visiting and exploring, Tuscany has been quite pleasant in the summer, and they are planning their next destination for the autumn. Maybe Spain or Portugal. Or both.
“Here,” Will says, and brings a chip near Hannibal’s face. Hannibal shuts his mouth tightly. “Oh, come on! I bought a second package just for you.”
“How thoughtful–” starts Hannibal, but as soon as his mouth opens, Will lunges forward and puts the chip inside.
Hannibal makes a show of chewing it for a long, long time, and then swallows loudly.
Will laughs so hard he has tears rolling down his face.
Hannibal pulls over and kisses him.