hannigram | gorged, drowned, plucked, and roasted

1.

Having guests for dinner has meant many different things to Hannibal, in time; it has been a punishment, a dare, a prank - he's been cooking for them out of spite, curiosity, mostly boredom. But with Will, he realizes with a soft sting, it has always been about nurture.

'You made me chicken soup,' the man pointed out that first time, the corners of his mouth rising.
Those few words were enough to disarm Hannibal. The refined embroidery behind which he had half-consciously hid his intentions tore, revealing an unexpected solicitude.
He found himself mimicking Will's smirk, lowering his gaze even, as they were sharing some improper inside joke.

That was the first time Hannibal experienced that sudden loss of balance - like a sailor on land after a long time at sea - that has quickly become a constant around his friend. Disconcerting, yet addicting. Not advisable, not at all, for a man that made being in control the pivot of his existence.

Humans cultivate lives of quiet desperation, Hannibal thinks with a forlorn smile, yet can't help craving what makes their blood rush.

Since he met Will (though, in truth, the sight of his boney body laying in the hospital bed somehow contributed) Hannibal has been subjected to the impulse to feed him, give him substance, have him grow stronger through his hunting. To plump him up, he considers with a grin, like a witch in a marzipan house? No, not entirely. But almost.

The fluttering from the twin glass jars sways his thoughts. The birds are not bigger than his thumb and almost too fat to move. These have indeed been his Hansel and Gretel, fattened for weeks with fruit and nuts in the dark of a covered cage to feign never-ending dusk, employing their instinct to only feed at nighttime. Deceived but not coerced: Hannibal had just provided the means, they've done this to themselves.

He sighs and slowly pours the Armagnac over them; the smell of ripe fruit and tobacco warms his nostrils, softens his frown.
The Ortolans squirm briefly before being still. He imagines the tiny holes on their beaks filling with the caramel tinted liquid, the dainty sponges of their lungs soaking.

There are worst deaths, Hannibals whispers to the birds floating midway like sad party balloons.
Time to check on the side dishes.

Foie. These birds, on the other hand, aren't responsible for their own demise; there was a lot of coercion going on here. Yet, the result is the same - be your own ruin or be ruined - and Hannibal can't tell which fate is crueller, after all.
It will be Ortolans for us, not geese, he recognizes; we will tie the rope around each other's neck, there's no doubt to that, but we will kick our own bucket, in the end.

Then, Oysters.
Really Hannibal? Could you be more obvious? He shakes his head, amused and awed as he always is whenever Will manages to make him slip into revealing himself.

Hannibal places the Ortolans to rest inside a steel bowl that vaguely reminds him of an autopsy table. He sets them on fire and studies the controlled Inferno he kindled. The parallels are many, and a bit cheap too, so he resolves to abstain.
However, rolling the flaming tray into the dining room, Hannibal can't help thinking of Freddie Lounds and her blazing glide - how majestic that must've been. That woman always had a penchant for a dramatic exit, hadn't she.

Will's face is lightened by the orange flickering of the flames, his irises ablaze. Mesmerizing.
Thank you, Miss Lounds, Hannibal hisses within himself, for this prized gift your death brought at my table.

Then, he thoroughly explains what they are going to eat and dwells in the covert revulsion and devotion on his guest's face.

'A rite of passage,' Hannibal pushes, and Will doesn't object nor seem surprised.