Snow, just beyond the windows, matched the orange glow of the fire flickering within. Silver trays topped with glittering domes overcame the table, plates set, and chairs sat just ajar like open doors. Permeating the room, savory scents drifted as beaconing tendrils. Silent except from the flickering pop released from the jaws of the fireplace, the table sat with its food and fine porcelain dishes - complete with ornament settings, atop gossamer gold; settings for a meal that would entail a din that seemed nonexistent. The space was empty. First, the striking of a clock; nine baleful calls. Shadows on the snow below the glass. Bells from on the front door alike to the tittering of fairies from the dining room. Far; lost through the chocolate - caramel woods and ornate marble. Footsteps, soon joined by a second pair, accompany the crackling of the fire; twin sets of footfalls growing nearer, laden with extra weight. “Why are we waiting?” Hannibal set the tray at the center of the table. A crisp skinned fowl, uncarved and marinating. Rosemary sprigs, coniferous pines, and winter berries adorned the platter. “Traditions call for many things. I can assure you this celebration calls for nothing less.” “It's just Christmas.” Will comments back. Beside an awaiting glass dish he sets the gravy boat and a tray of scallop roe. “Sit, please.” With the request Hannibal sets out of the room. Sighing, Will rounded the table, tracing the pattern of the plate before him as he passes. White on white beveled design.The seat he took was warmed, some of the tension slipped from his shoulders. Hannibal had become insistent about tradition at nearly the start of the month. Enamored with the particulars of the event. By all means, Will welcomed it. He had felt off kilter, like they were constantly at sea. The holiday season had brought some of the solid ground back to their lives. Hannibal’s gate had regained much of its crisp certainty. Will knew he’d remained more morose. Guilt would be how he describe the lingering cause of his soured spirit. Guilty for remaining melancholic, for taking away some of Hannibal’s renewed enthusiasm; undoubtedly despite him not revealing it. Guilty when he felt the infectious atmosphere. Maybe, guilty for living? He supposed, mainly guilty for having delayed this inevitability and having had to lose so much first. “Champagne.” Announced Hannibal. Chilled, the rosey tinted liquid bubbled up the glasses with a flourish. Hannibal exposed the dishes. The meal was decidedly to Hannibal’s taste in aesthetic, butt despite the scallops and roe, foie gras, and an elaborate display of antlers, evergreens, and cardinal feathers; the heart of the meal was essentially Home: mashed potatoes, roast veggies, stuffing, and roast bird. Somehow Will found himself smiling, “Mash potatoes and stuffing?” “It’s tradition, Will.” Was Hannibal’s simple response. - this is my holiday gift for @tcbook for the @hannigramholidayexchange @tcbook this is a part 1 of 2 gift, sort of a choose your own adventure! Both outcomes are ready to go! So, will it be: fluffy or sexy? Happy Holidays!! 🎄
