~ CHAPTER II ~

Will stepped into the kitchen and stood in the doorway, a little dazed. Hannibal placed a gentle hand on his waist to move him out of the way so that he could close the back door. Then he led Will to the leather armchair in the liminal space between his spacious kitchen and the dining room and had him sit down.

"How long were you out there?" Hannibal repeated.

Will blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Uh…I-I don't know. Half an hour? Maybe? I lost track of time."

Hannibal scrutinized him. Then he pulled out a mug from an upper cabinet, set it on the kitchen counter, and said, "How many glasses of champagne have you had?"

"Two?" Will held out the half-full glass he was still clutching like a lifeline. "This might be my third, actually."

Hannibal approached and stretched out his hand. When Will didn't move away, he gently pried the champagne glass out of his fingers and set it on the countertop.

"Contrary to popular belief, alcohol doesn't warm the body," Hannibal said as he sorted through various pots and pans in the cabinets. "It dilates the blood vessels and gives the outward appearance of warmth, while inhibiting the body's ability to regulate its core temperature. People can get hypothermia without even knowing it. You're not shivering, which concerns me." He moved over to the kitchen island, placed two pots on the burners, and turned on the flame. Then he leaned against the island and said, "Why did you stand out there without a coat? If you wanted solitude, I could have opened a quiet room for you, or at the very least fetched you your coat."

Will avoided eye contact with him, watching the flames lick at the bases of the stainless steel pots. What was he supposed to say? 'I saw you and Alana together and got jealous'? It sounded ridiculous, even to himself, so he said nothing.

When it became clear that Will was not going to respond, Hannibal left the room. He was hardly gone long before he reappeared with a blanket and draped it over Will's shoulders. Will pulled it around himself gratefully. There was a warmth brewing in his chest that he didn't think was related to the blanket or the alcohol, as well as guilt — Hannibal was so nice to him, and he was being nothing but difficult in return.

Meanwhile, Hannibal had returned to the burners to stir whatever was in the pots. "Your physical health is just as important as your mental health, Will. Neglecting either is to the detriment of both."

He didn't seem to be expecting a response, which was good, because Will didn't have one. The resulting silence that fell over them was comfortable. The kitchen smelled sweet, like cinnamon and vanilla. Hannibal poured the contents of one pot into the other and whisked it together, then poured the mixture into the mug on the counter, sprinkled something in it, and brought it to Will.

Will took the mug and squinted down at the steaming dark brown liquid. The mug was hot against his chilly skin. It took him a few moments to realize what it was.

"You made me hot chocolate?"

Hannibal glanced up from where he was rinsing Will's champagne glass. "Yes."

Will took a sip without waiting, and the liquid scalded his tongue. The cinnamon and vanilla he'd smelled were there, plus rich dark chocolate and something else he couldn't identify. It was some of the best hot chocolate he'd ever tasted.

"It's delicious, thank you."

"My pleasure." Hannibal dried his hands and leaned against the counter nearest to where Will was bundled up. "It's my own recipe, perfected over years of bitter cold winters in Lithuania. What do you taste?"

Will took another sip, ignoring the way his tongue went numb from the burning hot liquid. "Besides the chocolate and milk? Um, cinnamon, vanilla…and something else I'm not quite catching. It's savory. And there's a little bit of heat, too."

The corner of Hannibal's mouth quirked up. "The heat comes from ancho chili powder. I find it gives just enough kick to balance out the sweetness. Your palate is improving."

"That's likely a consequence of being served fancy ten-course meals whenever I come over. It's like you're trying to fatten me up," Will mustered the energy to joke.

The quirk in Hannibal's lips became a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "It's always my pleasure to have friends for dinner." He waved to the mug. "Finish your drink."

Will sipped the hot chocolate slowly to save his poor tongue. Meanwhile, Hannibal bustled around the kitchen, washing dishes and tidying up. Most of the food he'd made had already been served; the last round of desserts was sitting on the rolling stainless steel table, ready for pick-up. The waiters came for them just as Will finished his hot chocolate. Hannibal snagged a dessert plate before they left and traded it to Will for his empty mug. Will murmured his thanks.

The plate had three desserts on it, each looking as delicious as the last: a bite-sized swirled cheesecake, a yellow cake topped with meringue and sliced almonds, and a ruby macaron with cream-colored filling.

"Each of the desserts has something in it considered lucky for the New Year," Hannibal said, taking his place against the counter near Will. "In the Philippines, it is tradition to serve twelve round fruits to attract good fortune and prosperity for the year ahead, hence the blueberry in the cheesecake. The lemon meringue cake is a twist on vasilopita, and the macarons are made with pomegranate, both Greek traditions."

"In Louisiana, we eat black-eyed peas, pork, greens, and cornbread." The words were out of Will's mouth before he could stop them, complete with the faint Louisiana drawl. It was harder to hide his accent when he felt tired or ill, and after drinking and staying out too long in the cold, he was feeling both. But mercifully, Hannibal didn't comment on it; instead, he said,

"In Lithuania, New Year's Eve dishes are similar to those served on Christmas Eve, except with meat. Beet soup with vegetable dumplings, fish, bread, pork, and sausage. I have yet to find a restaurant in Baltimore that serves the kind of Lithuanian food I remember from my childhood."

The tightness in Will's chest loosened a little. He felt less anxious baring a part of himself when Hannibal was willing to reciprocate, and with that, he turned to the desserts. He tried each one in turn and was delighted by how good they were, a perfect balance of salty and sweet; usually Hannibal made savory dishes, but it turned out his desserts were sublime, too. And then the tightness was back in full force, a persistent reminder that this was Dr. Lecter he was talking about, of course he'd be talented at anything he tried. He was Hannibal, and Will was Will, and it wasn't as if Hannibal would be interested in—oh dear god, he was interested in Hannibal. He was interested in Hannibal like that. He didn't know why he had to have the epiphany now, of all moments, sitting in Hannibal's kitchen on New Year's Eve, but so it was. It hit him like a semi going seventy-five on a slick winter highway. First Alana, and now Hannibal fucking Lecter. Was life ever going to give him a fucking break?

Will stood up abruptly, left the blanket in the armchair, and put the plate in the sink.

"Don't you need to go back out?" he said roughly, without looking at Hannibal. "The party has been without its host for more than half an hour, and you're spending it taking care of me. Alana's probably wondering where you are." He clenched his teeth together, surprised that he'd vocalized the last part, but it was too late. It was already out in the open.

There was a beat of silence. He still wasn't looking at Hannibal when the older man said, a little slower than usual as if considering something for the first time, "Alana will be fine without me. She is fully capable of handling herself without need of my supervision."

Anger surged through Will's veins. "Oh, and I'm not?"

"Will, I found you standing outside in the snow without a coat on."

He whirled to face Hannibal. "So what, you thought you'd come and babysit me, make sure I'm not left alone? I'm a grown-ass adult, Hannibal, I don't need your supervision!"

"Would you rather I leave?"

The words were a slap to the face, yet there was no malice in Hannibal's voice, countenance, or body language, nor was his tone mocking. Will ground his teeth together. Then he took a deep breath, swallowed his bitterness, and shook his head no.

"I don't doubt your ability to handle yourself," Hannibal said after a long pause. "I came looking for you because I couldn't find you in the crowd. I was going to introduce you to some old friends of mine. Miss Komedo in particular was very insistent."

Will frowned.

"But it became apparent you weren't there, and I had thought maybe it had gotten too much and you'd gone home, and then I saw you outside." Hannibal spread his hands, palms up, in front of him. "And here we are."

Will nodded stiffly and repeated, "Here we are." Then he sighed and ran a hand across his beard. "I'm sorry, Hannibal, I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

Hannibal pursued his lips in his equivalent of a shrug. "You are tired, overworked, and overstimulated. Any reasonable person put under such pressures would react similarly."

"Still. It was rude of me."

Hannibal cocked his head but didn't comment. Will leaned against the counter next to him.

"The party was too much for me," he found himself admitting. "Too many people, too much noise, too…too many falsities and lies. Everyone's pretending to have a good time and enjoy one another's company, but they need alcohol to actually enjoy it. Otherwise they're bored, unamused, or uninterested. It's draining."

Hannibal hummed. "Your empathy makes it near impossible not to see the lies people tell themselves and each other. It's hard to turn that off."

Will snorted. "You could say that."

"You don't have to drain yourself, Will. You could've turned down the invitation."

Will sighed heavily. "Yeah, well. Felt bad about turning down all your previous ones."

Hannibal turned himself toward Will, hip resting against the counter. Will was suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were, how their legs were less than an inch from brushing, and how close Hannibal's hand was on the counter next to his.

Hannibal's eyes sought Will's, and this time, Will made eye contact without hesitation or regret. Their dark amber-brown depths, alive and intriguing without being an open book, were worth breaking his rule. "There is nothing to feel bad about. You are not obligated to follow anybody else's whims."

Part of Will wondered if they were still talking about dinner invitations, but being in such close proximity to Hannibal wasn't conducive to following any deep train of thought. Maybe that's why his next words were so frank and truthful, as if they had a will separate from his own:

"It's not somebody else's whims I'm worried about. It's my own."

"There's no need to feel ashamed of your desires, Will."

They were definitely not talking about dinner invitations anymore.

In the other room, the volume rose. People laughed and cheered. Multiple voices swelled in a chorus of, "...15!...14!...13!..."

"It sounds like the ball's about to drop," Will said, unable to tear his eyes away from Hannibal's.

...10!...

"Yes."

...9!...

"Do you…" Will swallowed. "Are you not going to join them?"

...6!...5!...

Hannibal reached up and brushed one of Will's curls behind his ear, thumb lingering on his cheekbone. ...3!... "I'd rather be here," he said simply.

Then Hannibal's lips touched his, and Will was adrift in a raging ocean again, this time with Hannibal as his anchor.