pécheur [n.] sinner
Hannibal stopped at the tug of Will’s hand on his sleeve, looking to him with a flash of concern before following his roommate’s eyes to where they were fixed. The corner of his mouth twitched in anger when he saw the ragtag group of boys heading down the hall in the same direction they had intended to go.He knew those boys; they were a few years his senior and among those most aggressive in their bullying. He could handle them - and had- when they were on their own, but like many of the cowardly predators of the world, they hunted in packs, and Hannibal knew he stood no chance of taking down six larger boys if they decided to set their sights on him now.
And from the look in Will Graham’s eyes, he was one of their targets as well. Not that Hannibal was particularly surprised by that realization; what better target for a group of testosterone-charged teenagers with inferiority complexes and anger issues than a scrawny boy with glasses and no means of fighting back?
Other than the boy who couldn’t speak to report them, of course.
Hannibal gave a quick nod, moving to make a turn down the nearest hallway to find their way around the other group of boys. He was a second too late, however, and one made eye contact with him at the last second.
”Look at the little freaks! I’ve been wanting to have some fun.“ The leader of the pack said to his lackeys in rough Russian, clearly unaware Hannibal could understand it. He switched to accented French as he approached the two smaller boys, a smile rich with fake cordiality on his face. "Lecter, my friend! You weren’t going to sneak off without saying hello to us, were you?”
Hannibal clenched his fists, not meeting the boy’s eye, maneuvering so that he was between the boys and Graham.
”Ah, that’s right, of course you were.” The older boy smiled still, and Hannibal thought, as he often did, that the boy’s fair hair and pale eyes made him look so much like the soldier who still haunted his dreams. “Can’t say a word to anyone, can you? Not even your little friend? C’mon, now, look at me. Or are you deaf and dumb?”
Hannibal backed up, putting his hand on Graham’s arm to push him back with him. A silent gesture. Get out of here. Don’t be a part of this.
The first flurry of words went over his head but it sounded cruel and harsh, though that may have just been the boy’s voice. Will quickly caught onto the conversation when the language changed, his jaw working in silent anger, even if he had no reason to do so. He wasn’t friends with Lecter, but still…
Gaze flitting between the sneering faces of the group and Lecter’s back, he fidgeted restlessly, itching to find some way out of this.
It took Will all of a second to come to a decision. The fear in his chest was something he was overly familiar with but it wasn’t panic. Panic paralyzed. It would get him beaten. Fear, fear kept him alert, thinking and more or less intact.
In an instant, he was grabbing the other boy’s hand, ignoring the jarring sensation of willingly holding onto someone else, and was using all the strength in his lanky body to haul Lecter back and away. Thankfully, it proved to be enough. As soon as he got him moving, Will took off at a sprint, dragging his roommate with him.
Running, escaping, that he could do. He’d already done it on multiple occasions with this same group, using his agility and smaller frame to his advantage and wedging himself into the first spot he deemed safe enough. The only question now would be if he could find somewhere to hide the both of them long enough for the others to lose interest.
Already having formed a slowly expanding knowledge of the building’s possible hiding places, he flicked through them quickly while they careened through the hallways, spurred on by the resounding slaps of several pairs of shoes on their tail.
A large cabinet, which looked more like a wardrobe, gave him what he was looking for. He’d used it before. Throwing the doors open, he shoved at the bottom of the shelf until it gave way. Whoever had built it, probably a relative of one of the orphanage’s keeper’s since it was so poorly made, had wasted ample room and left a large hollow behind and under the rather short and shallow shelf. It meant there was enough room to hide. Slipping inside, he tugged on the other boy’s hand until he followed him in. Hastily shutting the doors again, he dropped down into a crouch and pulled Hannibal down with him, pressing the shelf back into place above them.
Will pressed a finger to his lips, though really, the gesture was somewhat unnecessary, given who his companion was and how dark the surround space was. His breath came in short, erratic bursts but he quickly muffled them, slowly taking in silent lungfuls of air like he’d taught himself so he could keep his hearing focused on catching onto the sound of footsteps from anywhere nearby
Catch your breath then move. It was the key to staying out of sight.
Dinner. Of course. Hannibal hadn’t realized the time, caught up in his drawing as he was. The food served in the dining hall was never particularly appealing, anyway, nor was the prospect of spending half an hour surrounded by the other children - but he was hungry, and trying to sneak food away to eat elsewhere had gotten him writing lines after classes and a cut lip from the fist of the caretaker who’d found him making contact with his teeth.
To the dining hall it was, then. Hopefully whomever Graham’s friends were were similar in temperament to him; Hannibal had no interest in making friends with them, but it seemed reasonable to spend meals with his roommate and he didn’t want that to involve any forced close proximity to the less considerate of the boys.
Not that he had ever seen Graham with a particularly large group of friends in the first place, the times he’d seen him around the school. All the better, then. He gave a quick nod, brushing charcoal dust off on his uniform trousers - they were black anyway, and he didn’t particularly care for them - as he followed Graham to the door, close by his side.
The answering nod was surprising as he had fully expected the other boy to turn him down. Hannibal had always seemed to prefer to keep to himself whenever given the chance. Surprising or not, the acceptance of his offer made his lips twitch upward as led the way to the dining hall.
Walking side by side with someone without having to shy away was a pleasant change, though he kept his arms as close to his body as possible, flinching slightly whenever their arms happened to brush against each other.
Will came to an abrupt stop, his hand coming out to clutch the other boy’s sleeve tightly to halt him when he spotted a group of boys. Unfortunately, said boys seemed to have made it their mission to terrorize him at every chance they saw. One of their group had been the one to rip his book apart.
"Let’s go another way,“ he urged, tugging at Hannibal’s sleeve. It was always a matter of hoping that the gang of boys didn’t notice him before he could slip away. And the last thing he wanted to do was to drag his roommate into a confrontation with them.
He wasn’t bothered at all - if anything, he was, for once, self-conscious of how troubling his silence must be. One might consider it rude, not being able to force out a word to the one person who’d shown him anything resembling kindness in his time at the school.
But Hannibal couldn’t do anything about that.
He kept to his nods instead, affirming that his sketchbook was running low on pages. It was his main form of entertainment, after classes were done for the day, and now that he had a place to go away from the other boys he could draw more freely without fear of being harassed while he worked. He could have peace and privacy as he drew pencil or charcoal over his pages, vague shapes forming into trees, buildings, mountains, curved lines becoming faces and figures.
Mischa held place of honor most often, her round, cherubic face and blond curls on seemingly every other page. Hannibal never wanted to forget what she looked like - not that he thought he could. But he had to make sure, as the years went by. He wouldn’t disrespect her by forgetting the dimples at the corners of her mouth when she laughed, or the way her brow wrinkled when she was upset. He needed to keep every detail, even the ones the didn’t haunt his dreams. Especially those.
He snapped out of that train of thought quite abruptly, something occurring to him. He approached his own desk, kneeling down to fetch one of the books from where he’d kept them underneath. It had been a gift from one of the youngest boys, a little one named Abel, as something of a Christmas present - or perhaps repayment for having given him his serving of stale Christmas pudding the night prior.
A dog-eared copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, in English. Something for Graham to read in his own tongue, since Hannibal had already read it several times over. He handed it to the other boy, that same half-smile on his face.
Borrow it for as long as you like.
Will watched the other boy’s eyes slide out of focus for a moment before he seemingly snapped back to reality. Deciding to keep quiet, he followed Hannibal’s movements, quirking an eyebrow when he went to his desk.
He balked at the proffered book, glancing up at Hannibal’s face and meeting his eyes for a split second. “I… um, thank you,” he murmured, taking the book and studying it. He had never gotten around to reading this one before… before.
A sincere smile broke out on his face when he noticed the book was in English and he ducked his head out of embarrassment. “Thank you,” he repeated, clutching the book tightly. Who would have known that having a book in his own tongue would become so valuable when all the books at his disposal were mainly in other languages.
Getting up to store the book in one of his desk’s drawers, he picked his glasses back up and settled them on his face. “A- are you going down to dinner? I heard the other boys saying that the cooks had managed to get some not stale food for once,” he said, heading back to the door. “We can sit together. O- or not. Whatever you want.” Alright, apparently he was desperate for company.
Hannibal nodded in response to Graham’s question - so he was English, then. He’d thought as much. Muteness aside, he had been gifted with languages when he was very little, before he’d been struck voiceless by… what had happened. English happened to be among those he could understand, both spoken and read.
The comment about the atlas piqued his interest and even prompted him to smile slightly in gratitude, the idea of having means to draw on some approximation of an easel as he used to being pleasing. And upon reflection, Graham was right; a large atlas would be a suitable replacement for more appropriate equipment, at least for now.
Perhaps there’d be a book or two in English among the ones being scrapped that he could bring back for Graham in return for the tip. It seemed only fair - and he did try to be good to the boys his age and younger when he had the chance. It was the older ones, the bullies who used their size and strength to intimidate, that he had no taste for. They’d kept him from playing with the others for quite some time during his first few years, fearing first for Hannibal’s safety and later for the safety of the bullies when it turned out Hannibal could defend himself, but eventually the staff ceased to expend the effort. They always found him anyway, be it in the garden when he went to feed the one solitary goose in the pond, or in the hallways between classes, armed with stones or wads of paper.
Bullies couldn’t resist a target who couldn’t speak to tell anyone of their actions, whether it was the rude older boys who flung stones or the headmaster with his wandering hands.
Will Graham was not malicious, or even rude in the way the younger boys could sometimes be, asking Hannibal if he was crazy and giggling among themselves when he didn’t answer. That was refreshing.
The answering nod and faint smile on Hannibal’s face surprised him but pleased him nonetheless. Up until now he had believed him incapable of smiling but obviously he was wrong… and that really wasn’t a bad thing in this case.
Will was used to catching glimpses of the other boy in the hall, always wearing a carefully blank expression. Except for the rare times he had seen him caught in a fight with the older boys, then he had felt a trace of fear grow inside him. Hannibal’s face had always been twisted into a snarl on those occasions, an intimidating picture of fury.
Now that he had managed to strike up some semblance of a conversation, Will wasn’t particularly inclined to let it trail off. It had been a long time since he had been able to hold someone’s interest this long.
"You… do you have many blank pages left in your book? I- I can’t draw, but I know some people go through them really quickly. I have one but I don’t use it, so y- you can have it. If you want,“ he offered lamely. It may count as bribery but if they were going to be sharing the room, Will wanted to at least be on Hannibal’s good side, if not his friend. He didn’t want to have to worry about his few possessions going missing in the middle of the night. Not like how he had had to keep careful track of everything throughout the night while living in the large room with the younger boys.
"Am I bothering you? I can stop talking, if I am,” he said quietly, suddenly unsure. Reading faces had never been one of his strengths but there wasn’t much else to rely on with Hannibal.
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?”
The littler boys at the school all slept in a room together, lined up on their cots from one end to the other along the walls. Like coffins in a graveyard but those boys were not nearly as still, little ones as young as six and as old as twelve, all of whom thrashed in their grey blankets and cried for the lost loved ones whose deaths brought them to the orphanage.
Hannibal slept poorly for the four years he spent in his cot against the wall, slipped into his own grave of a bed right beneath the drafty window through which cold air always chilled him in the winters. He tossed and turned and sobbed like the rest of them, silent as a statue as he was during the day, but his nights were full of screams - “Mischa! Mischa!“ as frozen links of chain cut at his neck and his sister was dragged from him - rather then quiet sobs. The other boys were disturbed by him, the staff said. Disturbing little Hannibal who couldn’t speak a word when spoken to but couldn’t keep his mouth shut in the throes of nightmares.
Hannibal who spent the nights when his screams woke the staff too in the headmaster’s office with a belt cutting at the flesh of his back and hot breath in his face as large hands pushed his legs apart.
He didn’t speak even then, but he had his own bedroom now, reaching the age of thirteen being the badge of honor that earned him a place in the dormitories with the older boys. The room was small, walls paneled with wood, and it held two little desks with chairs, a rickety metal bunk bed between them. Another boy would share his space, but only the one. He knew the child’s name, too - Will Graham. Another orphan, of course, there were only orphans here. Hannibal knew not what had happened to Graham’s family, but he did not have it in him to care.
He sat on the top bunk of the bed, sketchpad spread over his legs as he sketched away in charcoal, the form of a fair little girl with blond hair carved out of the whiteness of the page as the door opened.
Hannibal looked to the doorway, and the scrawny boy with dark curls and glasses pushed up on the bridge of his nose, gently inclining his head. A wordless greeting before his attention returned to the charcoal in his hand.
Will hastily pressed his glasses into their usual position, perching them precariously halfway down his nose. They provided him with a flimsy barrier against the stares of the other boys and the staff.
He barely had time to give an answering nod before the other boy had buried himself in his drawing again. It didn’t faze him anymore, though the first few times had been slightly disconcerting. Having a nearly mute roommate would be odd, but it would be a welcome break from the constant chattering and whispering that always seemed to be surrounding him.
Not that he expected the silence to be the equivalent of getting much needed sleep. He may have spent the last year at the opposite end of the room lined with cots but the other boy’s desperate screams had been enough to keep him awake. And to leave him wondering what his voice would sound like when it wasn’t unleashing blood-curdling screams that kept him up for the rest of the night, even once they were long over and Hannibal had been taken from the room.
Will made his way to the small desk he had claimed as his own and set the book he had brought with him on the wooden surface. One book. Not that he was particularly used to having everything he wished for, but his books had always brought a sense of comfort. But one book, and in French at that, was not of much use to him.
He folded his glasses and carefully placed them on top of the book before crawling onto the lower bunk and staring blankly up at bottom of his roommate’s mattress. Hannibal, was his name. It wasn’t that hard to remember seeing as the staff had regularly burst into the room yelling it out, barely distinguishable over the combination of Hannibal’s screams and their barked orders.
The lack of noise in the room, apart from the scratching of charcoal on paper, was beginning to get to him. Maybe the silence wasn’t so welcome. "My dad used to tell me that it was better to work on an easel when using charcoal. Something about a vertical surface.”