Hannibal's senses came alive when the youth approached backstage. While Erik moved away to give the boy room, Hannibal stood his ground, watching. The eyes were not the only strange aspect of what was going on. He could hear the roughness in the chest, the air scraping along as if it were made of glass. There was a distinct odor of smoldering emanating as he breathed out. The tension in the muscles hung around him as a shroud.
A black line etched its way up from the collar of the boy's pristine white shirt. It snaked over the smooth flesh of the neck and seemed to split open. Only when Hannibal saw the glow beneath did he realize that's just what it had done. Split to reveal a rich orange, small at first, but growing.
He knew that the boy was in pain, doing his best to restrain the appearance of it, trying to not worry his friend. Hannibal watched as the younger version of himself moved into the shadows, away from the eyes of those in the audience. He watched as the movement stopped, seeming to be unsure of what he should be doing next. Hannibal saw the glow on the back side of the neck, as well. Brighter now that there were no other lights to obfuscate the presence of an inner light.
The boy turned those purely white eyes back toward the two other men, glancing over his shoulder, and Hannibal spied the tendril snaking up onto his face. He turned his eyes to Erik, trying to gauge if the composer could see it, as well.