Samandriel considers it deeply, watching Hannibal watch him. It's easier to focus when he looks at someone else. If he looks away, he'll lose his train of thought and may forget he ought to be speaking at all.
"I mean that I'm ceasing to be human entirely," he confesses. He wants to look away, but forces himself not to.
Sighing, he takes advantage of the light in the room. It's enough to cast shadows in case Hannibal can't actually see the oranges and pinks and golds (and occasional bits of lavender,) that make up his wings. There is a sound as he spreads them, and he can feel the muscles in his back shifting with it even though it's in a way that few others can see.
"The dreams," he says, knowing that Hannibal would know, "began a few weeks ago for me, and after a while things started changing physically for me. I don't know how to handle life or school when all of this trivial crap seems so damn pointless when I can close my eyes and tell you exactly how Creation played out or what it was to watch Lucifer fall or the earth flood." He looks earnestly at Hannibal, but realizes quickly what he's said. "Excuse my language." The apology is timid, definitely from a young man with parts of himself still tied into being Good and respecting people. Those parts are remarkably close to exactly what he is as an angel in his dreams.