Work Text:
Arms full of the week’s groceries, Hannibal walked through the door to the kitchen of their small home on the French Riviera. When he didn’t see Will in his usual seat in the living room, he assumed he must be out in the backyard with Encephalitis and Bubbles, their two dachshund and corgi mixes. He took his time putting the groceries away and preparing a pitcher of lemonade before heading outside with a glass in hand for Will.
When Hannibal opened the door, he smiled to himself and stood for a moment to take in the sight before him.
Will was standing in the backyard in a sweat-soaked white tank top, cut off jean shorts, and flip-flops. He stood over a massive metal pot, which was placed in the grass, and which was certainly digging holes into Hannibal’s perfectly manicured lawn. Hannibal couldn’t quite find it in himself to mind however, as he watched Will lift his tank-top to wipe the sweat from his dripping forehead, exposing the most delicious looking sliver of scarred belly. Encephalitis and Bubbles were sitting calmly under the porch awning, watching Will obediently from afar, but obviously hopeful that either of their dads would throw them a snack.
Steam was pouring out of the pot, fogging up Will’s glasses. He seemed minorly irritated by it, but looked over their rims in lieu of properly removing them. Hannibal walked over to him and casually picked them from his face, tucking them into his pocket as he gave Will’s cheek a light kiss.
“Whew, thank you, those have been driving me nuts!”
“Removing them seemed like a simple enough solution,” Hannibal said fondly, tucking a strand of Will’s sweaty hair behind his ear and handing him the lemonade.
“Not with all this cayenne on my hands, it wasn’t. I’d be regretting touching my face for days! Thank you for the drink by the way, this is delicious.”
“You’re very welcome, Will. And may I ask what this set-up is all about? And why exactly your hands are covered in hot peppers?”
“Hannibal, do you remember when we were having brunch at that bistro in town by the ocean front last weekend?”
Hannibal did remember – that small restaurant had become one of their favorites since they moved here after the fall. It was near enough to their secluded home to be convenient, and anonymous enough to be comfortable for both of them. And the food was exquisite – fresh local cured meats and fish stews, hot crusty bread, and an adequate wine selection.
“Yes, of course I do, Will. The fish was particularly good that day.”
“Well, I noticed that you enjoyed all of your bouillabaisse... except for the crawfish.”
“What do you mean, Will? The crayfish in the local style of bouillabaisse is included as garnish, one wouldn’t actually eat one outside of a sauce nantua. It would be considered crude, and there’s hardly any meat besides.”
“Hannibal. The noble crawfish has been a staple food item of my people for generations. It is not a garnish, for the love of God!”
Hannibal bristled at the suggestion that there was a food item he didn’t know how to properly partake in, narrowing his eyes at Will like a cat.
“I’m well aware of the culinary traditions of southern Louisiana, Will. I’ve enjoyed many a gumbo and turtle stew in my day, but the effort of opening an entire crayfish at the dinner table is not worth the poor quality of the meat. There didn’t seem to be a point to it.”
“That’s only if you don’t know how to go about it properly.” Will was enjoying this far too much, smiling up at Hannibal like the cat with the cream, hair still in disarray from his earlier attempts to mop up his sweat.
“’If I don’t know how to...’ how to what, exactly?”
“Well, how to suck out the heads, of course!”
At this, Hannibal looked appropriately ruffled, but increasingly intrigued. Though unhappy about being shown up in the culinary arena, he did love it when his boy had tricks up his sleeve.
“It’s ok, Hannibal, no one needs to know that you’re a crawfish boil virgin. I’m here to teach you so you won’t be embarrassed at your next Cajun gathering.”
“So tell me, Will, what is it that I’ve been missing?”
“Let me show you!”
Will lifted the lid of the pot, and a great burst of steam came out, frizzing his curly hair even more. Inside, Hannibal saw a mound of bright red crustaceans, each one about as long as his hand, piled together with small potatoes, ears of corn, chunks of smoked sausage, and a cheesecloth bag full of ground spices and lemon. The whole mess smelled divine, and the pepper was making his eyes water even from this distance.
“When I was a boy in Louisiana, this is what we did for all our parties – football games, graduations, block parties, you name it. Once the bugs are steamed, you dump the whole pot out on a big picnic table and everyone gathers round and picks at it for hours. The potatoes are the best, they turn super soft and soak up all the spices.”
“I remember going to something comparable in Maryland at a colleague’s home, though the pot was full of crab.”
“Yes! It’s very similar, but down south the spices will make your eyes water something fierce. It’s a good thing you made us that lemonade, we’ll need it!”
Hannibal hmm’d at that, a little nervous, but mostly excited to experience this piece of Will’s culture with him. It was rare that they discussed their childhoods, and sharing food was such an intimate way to relive memories.
“I suppose we will, from the smell of it. Where did you manage to find all of this?”
“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. I had to shop around for a while to find a boiling pot this big – ended up going to a restaurant supply store that even you hadn’t found before. The spices were another matter, and easily enough found at the farmer’s market, though the lady did raise her eyes a little at the quantity I needed. The sausage isn’t quite andouille, but a homemade link of yours that I think will substitute just fine. I bought the bugs off a local fisherman who needed a boat repair. I fixed him up, and he gave me these from the dregs of his net. It won’t be perfect, but it will be a small taste of home.”
Hannibal was speechless at this, again moving his hand up to take Will’s cheek in it.
“You... you did all of this for me, Will?”
Will laughed at that and rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, Hannibal. And for me, if we’re being honest. I was feeling homesick, and I wanted to share it with you. It’s not often I get to show you something new about food.”
Hannibal just pulled him in for a long, slow kiss, moaning softly when Will reciprocated.
“You will never stop surprising me, Will. My filthy, uncivilized boy.”
Later, after Will had shown Hannibal how to delicately take a crawfish in hand and pull off its tail to eat the succulent bit of meat inside, after Hannibal had had his first proper crawfish-head-sucking experience (which he somehow managed to make civilized and obscene at the same time), and after Will had had to refill their pitcher of lemonade twice because their mouths were burning so badly, they sat on the patio in the evening breeze, each scratching the nearest dog’s head with their freshly washed hands.
“I will admit, Will, that was quite an experience. You’re welcome to host a crawfish boil for us any time you like, especially now that you’ve gone through the effort to get the equipment.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t too uncouth for your liking, Hannibal?”
“With you, nothing is uncouth, Will. And the entire dish did have an appropriate element of theatricality to it. I’m extraordinarily glad to have seen you in your culinary element like that.”
Will just laughed and twined his fingers with Hannibal’s.
“Just wait until I make you Bananas Foster!”