#you probably anticipated this being in matthew's mansion but no. we're in hannibal land baby

[hypocratic]

@corsey sent: "015. the wine cellar of a large mansion" for matthew.

Whatever Hannibal's intention was in asking Frederick to choose a wine from the cellar to pair with tonight's short ribs (twenty-four, Frederick counts, not twenty-six: the amount a cow possesses), it will, with great hope and evasion, remain unrealized. Frederick's first and immediate response was to request a chaperone under the guise of post operative care instructions to avoid stretching his abdominal region (where his month-old scar streaks above his navel perfectly along the median plane, puffy and red like a used, felt-tip pen); one of many excuses—real, generously over extended beyond the necessary restriction period, or fabricated entirely—he has recently employed.

Frederick encouraged Matthew to accompany him. He picked Matthew because he hasn't attended any previous dinner nights; Frederick suspects that means Matthew is new or he's a marinating victim—both are not beyond persuasion.

* * *

The room is windowless, of course. Any proper wine cellar is. Hidden beneath the edge of the wine rack, a set of yellow sodium vapor lamps quickly thin out across the grid of wines, the light never reaching the floor. It is an elegant, prideful attempt to display but not spoil his collection.

White wine, Frederick thinks, should be safe. He glares at the wall, eyes slipping down column after column of dark colored glass. Far darker than what it is they hold. Like they're concealing the liquid rather than merely protecting it. Most of the bottles' necks are half-dipped in a thick, prominent red which Frederick briefly, fatuously wonders if it could possibly be blood.

More and more irritated: "Red, red, red." Frederick pivots his weight around his cane to tilt his body, then his head towards Matthew. With zero intent to clarify: "Full-bodied has never been more comprehensively true than here... at his dinner table. I will be drinking water." His look is suggestive and urging, the expression held long enough to ease his own conscience but short enough it's unlikely to elicit any real wariness. Frederick pats his buttoned suit over the section his scar extends, not quite grateful for the incident but grateful for its unexpected resourcefulness. "Doctor's orders."

He glares at the wall once more. Face slack. Stuck conspiring in this secret charade. He spots an un-dipped bottle slotted several feet higher than his reach. It's very old; he knows: he has one in his office—a colleague bought him it. He points to it with his free hand, a casual wave of his finger, hand lower than shoulder-height because further effort isn't needed. It's obvious. "That one. I recognize the label. And it's older than he is."