Angel looked at him as a disapproving parent would their misbehaving child. He didn't doubt William's inability to tell someone apart from the general population was spawned from his upbringing. Perhaps dealing with leeches. But Angel wouldn't stoop so low as he'd done. "I earned my way here through my talents in the arts---writing, painting, music, sculpting. Regardless of where I come from or what definition of 'class' you have in mind, You and I are on equal grounds. Besides, what right do you have to be here? Your family and mine have earned our respective money and titles through different talents, and that's all that separates us."

He sighed. How he'd wanted to get along with his roommate. How he wanted to call home and tell them of the close friend he'd made right off the bat. Someone he could talk to and share stories with. Someone he could help when they needed help, as he'd grown accustomed to doing. While most took advantage of that side of his personality, he didn't hold it against them. He wanted to tell his parents, his siblings, maybe even Chris that it wasn't so bad here, and the first friend he made was the one that would share a room with him for two years. He had a whole school to befriend, if he could, but Angel was sure that now there would only be silence when he was here. At least between himself and William. He shook his had, putting his clothes away and opening the last box. His instruments. Violin---he put that under the bedside table, it was small enough even with its case. His guitar, he set that between the wall and bookshelf farthest to the left. His harp, he rested that on his desk. And then his laptop, he placed it against the desk. Notebooks, papers, pencils and pens, highlighters and binders he put into the desk drawers, and sat in his chair to admire the place. Well, that was at least one good thing...