His expression, now that he's stopped crying, is...tired. It's so tired, for someone of his age, the face of someone worked too hard for far too long.

He rubs at the back of his neck with one hand, drawing a slow breath in and out, before dropping it back to his side in an exasperated sort of motion.

"...The truth is, Sarah, that I am...so, so tired of being called 'nice.' Or 'kind.' Or 'sweet.' I may be these things, but they just...they aren't all there is to me. But that's all I have heard for years. 'Alfred, you are such a nice boy.' Or, or - 'you are very kind, but.' It's never been that I am bright, or strong, o-or even hard working.

Just...nice. Over and over and over again, like that's all people could see in me. Do you know how hard that is?"

For just a moment, as he's dispensing with all this, it's easier to see Alfred for what he actually is - a young man, perhaps just as deeply in need of freedom as Sarah was. He shakes his head a little, considering.

"At least...until Georg. Until...until Herbert. They had other things to say about me when we met. It was - it was good to hear."