( OPEN ) ALL HALLOW'S EVE FEAST

[relished]

WHO: Hannibal & you!
WHEN: October 31st
WHERE: his house
WHAT: The All Hallows Eve Feast
NOTES\WARNINGS: MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING: involuntary cannibalism and one (1) artsy nsfw painting*. the link is to the painting leda and the swan. it's labeled with the star (★).




[the preparation for the party was more grueling than he's used to -- he was always able to hire a service to help his parties go as smoothly as possible, but he had to request the help of a few bots as well as Krouse to ensure that he would not be the one doing the serving.

one must knock before entering; greeted by a companion bot to take a coat if they have one. guests are guided through the foyer to the living room, an earthy room with heavy animal imagery. people are encouraged to socialize and relax in front of the roaring fireplace. several small tables have centerpieces of wildflowers that Hannibal has collected and grown as he's spent his time here.

the kitchen is off-limits, but if one might happen to stray into the stark, morgue-like space before Hannibal politely ushers them back out, they'll see Clarke's drawing of the emberbloom and and shadowbloom flowers from months ago as the only picture on the otherwise spotless refrigerator. having the flier there is no accident. he meant for a few curious onlookers to see what is left of her. perhaps it's Hannibal's intention to lead old friends of Clarke's astray to believe he is responsible for her disappearance. he's able to play now, plucking at the strings of minds to enchant and mortify. he knows that suspicions will have risen, but after tonight he's prepared for the onslaught -- so why not have as much fun before the inevitable?

scents of roast meat, cranberries and rosemary embrace guests immediately, delightfully lacing through the halls while classical music beckons them further into unknown horrors. Krouse can be seen making rounds with hors d'oeuvres, an interesting combination of cubed watermelon with what appears to be proscuitto meticulously shaped in the form of a rose, while companion bots carry glasses filled with red wine from his personal collection.

the dining room is lush, one wall stocked with herbs and hanging rosemary and forest imagery. the other wall with a painting above another fire which crackles softly. the mantle, simple yet jarring; large horns on either side with smaller ones laid out between them. the centerpiece is ★Leda and the Swan★, looming as the horns threaten to swallow the painting whole. the table is already set, porcelain charger plates laid in their respective places, with clean empty glasses and three carafes filled with water along the center. small vases of more wildflowers are in along the spread with lit red candles as well, but the table itself manages not to look too busy. snow droplets silently stick to the glass doors and windows, making the home feel warm; gentle, even.

Leda and the Swan is not the only painting to fill his home - art is everywhere, from the foyer to the kitchen, paintings and lithographs can be found in every room. the living room is especially the most wild, with the large oak doors and polished desk and chairs with claws.

Hannibal languidly wanders to greet guests who have made their way inside, dressed in a three-piece suit as usual with a glass of red wine in hand, motioning to wine or snacks. the sophistication that exudes from his home (and himself) can't be missed. those who have never experienced wealth may feel out of place, yet directly eased into the mixed warmth that is passed out with food and wine.]




[after an appropriate amount of time of socializing has passed and he's had help from Krouse to set the table so all of the food is available at once, he alerts everyone by a gentle clink of metal against crystal.]

Dinner is served. Please make your way to the dining room.

[anyone who asks exactly what they are eating is informed that it is veal. "how did you get veal" one may ask, and he'll respond with a sly smile and a twinkle in his eyes. everything they have been consuming and continue to consume has been the body of Samil, every part harvested for use. a petite heart (yes, heart) tartare is served alongside a smaller version of osso buco, which he explains is a traditional Italian dish, with seasonal vegetables.

wine has been replenished, and once settled at the table he raises his glass.]

I hope everyone enjoys eating this meal as much as I did preparing it.

[dig in.]

(ooc: everyone welcome! top level as u desire, tag out to others, get hannibal, etc etc. if you dont want to do an open tl and only want hannibal make sure to add closed to your starter. i won't be adding a starter for him bc this entire party is basically one giant one for him and he can be approached anywhere :) any questions can be left here. ps do not have your character go upstairs that's insane, why would they do that, they'll be redirected ominously. )

Comments

[relished]

[he stands across from Krouse at the island, one hand resting on the edge of the countertop. a relaxed state. Krouse is able to peer through a kaleidoscope made up of obsidian refraction, with Hannibal rising through it. a creature shedding its skin, a king on his throne in the quiet of his kitchen. his compliment isn't ignored, but he keeps himself humble. he's right - he knows he's exceptionally good at what he does.]

No, certainly not.

[affirming as his spoon slides through warm chocolate pastry, relishing as its brought into his mouth. many thoughts are taking their respective trains while they stand together. how long it will take before someone runs their mouth, or notices what he's done, or what Aurora may do should someone bring it to her attention.

or if anything will be done at all. he smiles, thin and with a hint of cunning. yes, Krouse is witnessing a new monster across from him for the first time. an intricately designed man in a person suit, luring him further from humanity. what used to be hidden (and what he used to hide) isn't anymore, and through no falter of his expression he continues tactfully.]

I noticed you were admiring the flier Clarke made. Do you miss her?

[equivo]

[ Krouse picks up his own spoon after Hannibal, breaking into the pastry gingerly, watching it rise over the spoon in a gooey, decadent gush. He makes sure to capture a raspberry and cranberry on the way up, the first bite containing everything Hannibal put into the dish, chocolate cut tartly by fruit.

It's a counterpoint to the way Hannibal cuts the idyll of the moment with a reminder of who's absent from it. Krouse's eyes flit to the flier, the back of his spoon against the back of his teeth. He pulls it free clean, popping the cranberry between his molars, and swallows his mouthful of chocolate. ]

Yes.

[ His admission is even softer spoken than the words that came before, the way a bruise is soft. The scars on his arm under his shirt sleeve where Clarke stitched him closed in the labyrinth don't ache. Amy's sealing job was too clean for that. But he feels them like he's running his fingers over them again, the way he does sometimes when he can't sleep.

It's excellent sleight of hand, how Hannibal keeps Krouse's attention exactly where he wants it. The younger man's dark eyes flick back to Hannibal, his expression one of faltering longing. ]

I kept thinking she'd turn back up eventually. I don't know why. I guess I just - hoped.

[ He lets out a dry, rustling breath, a fistful of dry leaves crumbling, almost like a bitter laugh. ]

If anyone was going to show up covered in dust and hauling some chunk of the machinery under this place, I guess I thought it'd be her. And she'd be annoyed that anyone thought she wasn't just off doing something critically important none of us could know about for our 'own good'.

[ He drops his gaze to the dessert, spooning up another small bite. He doesn't watch Hannibal's face when he says: ] You miss her too.

[ Hannibal must. That's why the drawing is there, displayed in the part of the house where Hannibal performs his own art. It's not because Hannibal wants people to make assumptions, whatever Lisa said. She's not infallible. ]

[relished]

She was truly capable.

[another compliment, only this time it sounds more genuine, personal. spoon pauses pressed into chocolate, then porcelain. Krouse doesn't ask the question, he knows. the two of them had been close, and he knew having the flier would cause emotions that Krouse wanted to bury claw their way to the surface. he can see it in his face, in how he talks about her.

Hannibal had been taking Clarke in, inch by inch, shaping her into someone else, into viewing him as someone else. still as he remembers her, maroon eyes steady on Krouse, but not truly. he's looking past him, to the painting on the wall that Clarke had complimented. she preferred landscapes. he made a shape for her inside of himself, filling a void that he lost in Abigail.

he exhales his discontent, briefly looking to the flier that stands alone on the refrigerator. a glint of emotion -- true emotion -- in his eyes, nostalgia for a time that may as well have not existed. deep inside of him, he does have that longing; the appeal of what could have been a daughter figure dances in his throat.]

Yes.

[the whole truth in one simple word, the rest swallowed down with another spoonful of chocolate.]

[equivo]

[ When was the last time Krouse missed someone with another person?

He must have been in middle school, when one of his uncles died. He'd taken it for granted then. Their family came together about it, grieved, missed him together. Krouse and his mom missed him most of all, because they'd been closest. Uncle Felix, who taught him how to play pool and let Krouse hold his tools while Felix worked on his car. Krouse hadn't realized he was lucky to be able to curl up on the couch with his mom while she cried.

No one missed Noelle with him. They all missed her alone for months before she was really gone, and the rest of them gave up on her long before she stopped breathing. Krouse was shuffled off to grieve her alone, in solitary confinement, to never see anyone who knew Noelle the way she really was ever again.

Now he's here, all those choppy years later, missing someone with someone else again. Krouse twirls his spoon in his dessert, watching the way Hannibal looks at the flier, and he feels a real connection with the reserved, restrained doctor. He doesn't understand Hannibal. He might never understand Hannibal. But they both cared about Clarke. They both miss her.

That means more than people realize before they know what it's like to not have that. ]

She'd have made so many faces during the party. [ Krouse says, a faint, bittersweet tug at the corner of his mouth. ] Those ones she made when she thought she was politely biting her tongue about how stupid she thought something was.

But I think she'd have liked the idea, in general. You doing something for people because you wanted to, not because this place made it happen. She wanted people to work together. She wanted... [ His spoon clinks lightly on the side of the ramekin. ] She wanted to be able to trust people.

She'd be glad you were trying to help make that happen.

[relished]

[he can't imagine Clarke openly enjoying a dinner party held with such glamor. he knows she wouldn't arrive dressed the part, but if she asked he would have guided her in the semi-acceptable direction. the clothing provided here will never match his standards, but he'd make due.

Krouse's comments feed into the home he'd carved out for her. Clarke sensed his darkness on the tip of her tongue, just as he sniffed out her reservations. their first meeting had gone somewhat tumultuously, and he'll never forget the look in her eyes.]

You knew her in ways she didn't expect to be known. [an assumption that he wants to draw out of Krouse, needling thread through skin. the pain is there, he can feel that in their nostalgic whispers.] If this experience helps bring people together, [which it will, in its own twisted way] perhaps there is hope.

[equivo]

[ Krouse stops himself from swirling his spoon through the dessert any further. At a certain point, it's just desecration. He needs to eat a bite or stop messing with it, so he eats a bite, and imagines how annoyed Clarke would be at the concept of Krouse failing to enjoy chocolate cake over her. It actually helps. ]

Only because she figured me out first.

[ So many quiet, private moments between them of more intensity and meaning than Krouse necessarily wants to unpack for Hannibal in this kitchen. Things that get messier than molten chocolate. The scent of a particular kind of stifled hormonal longing wafts off Krouse anyway, complicated, as always, by that ever-present pang of lingering grief. ]

We talked about hope, sometimes. Her and me. What the purpose of hope is here. False hope, real hope, the differences between the two. She hoped. But she hoped, and then she tried to make things happen. Hence [ he tips his spoon at Hannibal ] approving of you.

I think you knew things about her I didn't. I'm not asking you to tell me [ doctor-patient confidentiality; Clarke would hate it; Krouse would hate himself for asking ] I'm just - thinking about it. Getting back to hope. When someone is around, you can think - oh, I have time. I can get to know more. I can understand them completely.

But then they're gone, and you realize you're just holding onto a fraction of them. A version that's not even the same version everyone else who knew them has. And you're never really going to be able to hope to know them again, are you? You just have the version you remember. Like a ghost.

I guess I've just been thinking about what we owe to ghosts. [ He finishes, softly, daring to look towards Hannibal to get his impression of this speech that's most revealing if someone knows what clotted, hungry things Krouse's ghosts are. ] People you can't know. People you can't give anything back to anymore. Who's it for, when we do things for a memory? Just us? Or do you think that the memory is its own thing, in a way?

[relished]

[struck by the complexities of Krouse's words, he's left with the swirling thoughts of home, of Will and Abigail. even Bedelia makes an appearance, her voice a line pulled taut and ready to snap. no one had known Hannibal as the three of them did, each in their own peculiar way. his spoon is turned away, balanced on the edge of the ramekin and countertop, reflecting warped surroundings from the smudged silver.

to be understood completely is what Hannibal yearns for, aches for, even. to love and be loved. yet there is nothing for anyone to truly wrap their hands around inside of him, an absence that when found, is cowered from.

'what we owe to ghosts'. he knows how much he owes. he made his choices, perhaps impulsively, but he stands by them. if given the chance to turn back time, however... the thought trails into the distance.

Abigail would have liked him. someone looks back at Krouse, more real and true than anything else in this moment. a marble statue brought to life.]

We owe as much to ghosts as they owe us. They can comfort us, or offer quiet in the inner workings of our minds, just as they can open doors and dismantle them. Memories are the same. [a weighted pause follows, forefinger tapping on counter only twice.] They deserve their place, but how much we give them is our choice.

[equivo]

[ Krouse looks down at Hannibal's counter, his face reflecting back to him in the immaculately polished metal. It makes him an afterimage of himself, as strange as his face was in the mirror after their first session.

The image that stays with him is the impenetrable smoothness of Hannibal's face when he spoke, a surface as impervious as the polished counter. The taps of Hannibal's finger, so soft it was barely a sound, didn't echo. He still hears them. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, a low battery alarm goes off. ]

Yeah.

[ His hand finds the counter, his fingers flexing enough to touch his nails to the surface. ]

I wish I was better at making those. [ He admits, in the cloister of the kitchen, as secluded as a confessional booth or an interrogation room. ] I used to think I was good at it. Not necessarily making the right choice, but - making one, whatever it was. I'm great at commitment. Or I used to be.

I promised I'd help her. We were allies. Now I don't know what that's supposed to look like, and I can tell myself she'd want me to look after myself. That's what everyone always says, right? They'd want you to be happy. They'd want you not to break yourself trying to do things you might not be able to do.

I'm sure that's what you tell people. Because it's the better choice for them. [ He lifts his gaze back to Hannibal with a bleak, steady calm. ] Do you think it's true, though? Genuinely? That it's the right choice? Not the better one, or easier, but right.

[relished]

[Krouse sows doubt into himself better than most. the creature he'd so lovingly allowed to tear at his body and mind had been an obvious insight. the explosion that followed also an insight. quick glance down to Krouse's fingertips on the counter - a stress release, he sees.]

They want you to do what you think is best for yourself, whether for your salvation or your undoing is entirely incidental. [he moves from the island to the counter, cabinet opening for a wine glass. eyes shift to Krouse as he grabs a second, places them on the island.] What makes you think you didn't help her already, as she did you? Without her influence, do you think you'd be standing across from me, having this conversation?

[an unopened bottle of wine that sits on the counter - purely for this reason - is opened, cork unscrewed and popped away as he's done many times before. the wine is poured, an after-dinner special for their chocolate and conversation.]

That depends entirely on perspective.

[equivo]

[ Krouse isn't much of a drinker. He's been experimenting with it, in drips and drabs, still not entirely comfortable with willing surrendering that much control voluntarily. It's nerve wracking, both because it makes him start to catastrophize about what could go wrong while he's under the influence and because he can tell, dimly, that he might like the anesthesiac effect a little too much.

With Hannibal, it's fine on both fronts. Krouse trusts Hannibal to neatly and elegantly manage exactly how much a guest under his roof, drinking from his glasses, imbibes, especially when that guest is technically still a teenager. As he told Heather: Hannibal's European.

He can let go, and get caught. Sometimes he still thinks about Hannibal gentling him through the comedown after what happened with Noelle. Another thing he might have liked too much.

He misses his mom. ]

No. I wouldn't be.

[ He admits, picking up the glass and breathing it in. One day, maybe he'll actually have a nose for it. It's still strange when one day slips in, a future that gets more real with every unexpected day of the present. ]

And you're right. [ As usual, says the faintly rueful, appreciative tilt of his mouth. ] I guess it's too broad a question. I do that.

Avoidance strategy, right? When I don't want to ask you what you think about me, I ask something wide spectrum, open-ended. So I can get the answer I want.

She never let me have it easy on those either. Guess that's why I like you both. I've always liked people who were smarter than me. Like - standing next to a light.

Maybe that's part of what I miss. One of those things I can't hold in my memories. I can ask myself what she'd want, but I can only be as smart as I actually am, so it's always going to be wrong. Just talking to a picture with my reflection in it.