I Owe You Not a Kindness || Hannibal Rising AU || CLOSED

quitethehumanitarian:

And where would one get an easel in this place? Hannibal thought to himself, closing the sketchbook and setting the charcoal down neatly on the cover, perfectly perpendicular to the edge, before climbing slowly down the ladder on the side of the bed to get a better look at his roommate, that same unspoken question showing through in his maroon eyes.

       Graham didn’t look French, but that wasn’t any great surprise; Hannibal himself had come from Lithuania, and he was not the only one who’d been brought to this orphanage from another country, even within his own personal knowledge. By name, “Graham” sounded English, and the boy certainly looked very “United Kingdom”.

       Hannibal’s eyes drifted from Graham to the book set on his roommate’s desk, curiosity driving him to walk over and pick it up. Le Comte de Monte Cristo by Dumas, a second hand copy, likely. Certainly not new, but older than the books that lined the shelves of the orphanage library. Not borrowed, Graham’s own copy. Quite likely one of his only personal possessions.

       He set it down without opening it, despite the temptation, and turned his gaze back to the other boy. Hannibal had questions he wanted to ask, of course, but in all the years he’d been here not once could he force a word past his lips while awake.

       He simply looked at the other boy instead, waiting for Graham to speak himself.

       He jumped slightly when he the other’s legs come into view and he watched uneasily as Hannibal’s attention shifted to his book. He opened his mouth to protest as the other boy picked it up but the objection died in his throat as it was promptly put back down.

       Grimacing slightly, Will recalled the last time one of the older boys had taken an interest in one of his books. It had ended with his copy of The Little Prince lying haphazardly on the floor, pages strewn around the surrounding area. It was now carefully tucked under his pillow where he would meticulously sort through the ripped pages and place them back in order.

       His face reddened under Hannibal’s scrutiny but he took note of the curiosity on his face, hazarding a guess at its cause. “I, uh… I don’t think there are any easels you could use, but um… I went to the library,” he blurted out. “There’s a bunch of books they’re planning to throw out. Too old, falling apart, that kind of thing. I saw an atlas, and it’s a decent size. You could lean on it if it’s propped up against something.”

       "Oh, um, d- do you sp- did you…“ His brow furrowed as he tried to formulate the question properly. "Hold on, I know this one…” It wouldn’t hurt to try, seeing as the conversation was rather one-sided and his mother had taught him enough French to get by. “Est-ce que vous me comprenez? Quand je parle anglais? Or am I just babbling?”