'Seriously?' Will slaps his copy of La Repubblica on the wooden counter. 'It reminds me of a Valentine card I sent in fifth grade.'

Hannibal is massaging salt and herbs over a large piece of boned meat with broad, almost sensual movement. He only gives a glance at the grainy pictures on the front page. 'You were quite precocious if you were making human torsos Valentines at ten. Who was the lucky one?'

'Nice try, but it's not my turn to be psychoanalysed. Who is your Valentine for?'

Hannibal shrugs. 'You said you wanted to fish old friends, I delivered.'

'And you warned me to beware what I wished for.' Will rests his forearms on the counter to better inspect Hannibal's work. Too small for a leg. Arm, possibly. Anthony's? He can't be sure. 'I'd love to see Jack's face when he finds out. Though he probably won't find it as romantic as I do.'

'Do you?' Hannibal smirks. 'That is interesting. We tend to interpret reality as we want it to be, you know.'

Will browses the newspaper, a bit too briskly. 'Twin conjoined hearts, what's left to interpretation? You could've maybe added an arrow piercing them together to reinforce the subtlety.'

'You have no idea how hard I've been looking for a big enough one.' Hannibal snickers, though he sounded so genuine Will ends up wondering how far from true that was. 'Tell me, Will, what will Jack see in my design, other than sentimentalism?'

Will envisions his former friend stumbling into some sensationalist article like he did this morning, likely after being notified by those keywords he must've set to be alerted to whenever they appear in the news. He spends some time trying to guess them. Killer+Missing organ+mutilation? Grotesque+murder? It's the solicit touch of Hannibal's hand on his that brings him back to reality, as it often does.

'Your outlandish display will be interpreted mainly as a clue that I'm alive and possibly well enough to appreciate the gesture. A symbol of your- no, our thriving debauchery. And a definitive proof that I'm lost, if Jack still harboured any doubt.'

'Maybe he will assume that you are my prisoner, and he will come to the rescue.'

'I am your prisoner.'

'... Are you? I did not realise.'

'I'm here because I chose it, but I'm not free to leave.'

'There is no way for you to know this until you try.'

'Agreed, I can't be certain you wouldn't let me go. Still, I do know that I can't leave. Some would say that I'm under your spell. Others that I'm handcuffed to you.'

'No need to keep locking your door at night anymore, then.' Hannibal winks. His smug smile is as compelling as unnerving. 'Though, what you so dejectedly stated implies that I am handcuffed to you in return. Something you seem to forget all the time.'

Will frowns, thoughtfully searching Hannibal's face for a bluff. It's weird how he's started trusting him on everything but this kind of admissions.

Hannibal wraps the cured meat in a linen towel and washes his hands at the copper sink. He brings a bouquet of thin wild asparagus to the chopping board, where he trims away their lower, stiffer portion. Then, using a small bowl as a mould, Hannibal starts entwining the vegetables into a delicate nest.
Will watches him work - white apron and rolled-up sleeves - hypnotised by his precise, rapid movements.

'What do we do when our fish bites?' He asks.

'I was thinking dinner party. I might need a sous-chef. And maybe a skilled fisherman too, for the fish we are going after is known to be a particularly stubborn one. I hope your contribution will be more substantial than the last time you offered your help to catch it.'

'As long as the meat your knife will cut won't be my own, this time.' They exchange a long look before Will continues. 'Problem is, we're rapidly running out of people to invite; Professor Sogliato told me he was to join us tonight. All this time, I was convinced you deemed him unworthy of your culinary skills.'

'On the contrary. But I usually avoid harvesting from the same field twice in a row; it parches the soil. Though, now that Jack is due to bring a blazing heatwave to Florence, there is no sense in holding back anymore.'

'Men go missing at an alarming rate from the Capponi Library. They're going to put you under a lens. And me, probably. There will still be time for Jack, then?'

'You sound anxious.'

'I am. Aren't you?'

'My life comes in cycles. I grew used to these periodic cleansings and the ritual sacrifice of whatever can't be brought into the next one.'

'Well, I'm used to have nothing to offer in sacrifice, instead. Or very little. Forgive me if, now that I have something I'd rather keep, I worry of losing it.'

Hannibal puts the green nest aside and dives six speckled quail eggs in simmering water. Then, he wipes his hands on his apron and draws Will closer for a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

'Sacrifices are getting harder and harder for me as well,' he whispers into his hair.

Will pulls the collar of his shirt before he can step back and kisses him. He nips his lower lip until Hannibal gives in. With a sigh, he grabs Will's curls and tilts his head to gain better access to his mouth. Then, he proceeds to make him sore and breathless. Will's hand makes its way under his apron, and Hannibal moans first, then hisses what Will interprets as some Lithuanian curse. He jumps away to move the saucepan from the fire to the sink, scorching his fingertips in the process.
Running water raises a white cloud of vapour. Hannibal swivels his hand in the air, warning that he killed for much less.

'Trust me on this; Sogliato won't mind his eggs a little harder. I certainly don't.'

'You used to eat mac 'n cheese out of a can, Will. Warmed up only on those days you felt particularly fancy.' Hannibal tosses the eggs in a bin, ignoring Will's protests over the waste of perfectly good food, and takes a second carton off the fridge. 'I trust you judgment on most things but coddled quail eggs. Now, get out of my kitchen if you can't keep those wicked hands to yourself.'