He settles in and gets comfortable as Alfred brushes his hair, humming happily at the feeling of the brush and Alfred's fingers carefully picking through the knots in his hair.
He'd been expecting a French braid, perhaps. But Alfred's parting his hair in a new and different way, and Herbert's brow furrows in confusion. "What are you doing back there, cheri?"
"Of course. We...we have lots of time, after all."
Alfred always takes on a different tone of voice when he's Doing Something - a soft, meditative tone, gentle and calm. This really does relax him, doting on Herbert in little ways like this, winding his long, silky hair around his fingers.
He passes strands this way and that - the pattern is new, but his hands seem to know it.
"Just trying something different," he murmurs with a smile. "I wanted to...to focus a little harder on you, Engel, so I'm doing something tricky."
"Well I'd love to see it, when you're done." Alfred's tone goes a long way towards relaxing him, as well. Hearing him sound contented and pleased, not in pain. It gives him hope that Alfred will heal and get better.
"I'm absolutely certain that I will." He reaches back to pat Alfred's knee. He keeps his back straight so that Alfred could properly finish his hair. It's nice, to have a moment like this after such a trying experience. Just a chance to spend some time with Alfred quietly.
Alfred smiles, warm and gentle, enjoying the touch. On impulse, he leans forward a moment, resting a soft little kiss on the nape of Herbert's neck. "I love you, Engel." Said for no reason...now that he's gotten used to vocalizing it, he does it often - out loud, in psychic messages, in notes. It's become second nature.
Pulling back, he ties off the end of the braid, admiring his handiwork.
"There. I'm - I'm not really sure how I did it, but I think it looks good."
Herbert carefully pulls the braid over his shoulder to look at it -- and if his heart were beating it would have stopped in his chest. It's the same braid Solin was constantly making in his hair.
The birthmark, the braid. Alfred calling him my dear. The overwhelming feeling of familiarity and comfort he feels around Alfred. It can't be.
Could it?
"Did you -- Alfred, this looks lovely," he says first, his voice slightly choked. "Did you tell me once, that you had dreams of being in this castle before?"
Oh - that needle of shock is strong enough to make Alfred's eyes widen a little, his brows furrowing at Herbert's reaction. He looks...confused, exhausted.
"I...I'm glad you like it," he stammers, concern plain on his face. "And...yes, I - I think? It's always felt a little familiar."
The strain in his lover's voice makes him worry - his hand moves to cup his cheek.
"It's just -- " His lower lip trembles and he tries to compose himself. "I was with a boy, when I was young. Before I was turned. He called me my dear, and would braid my hair like this. He had a birthmark like a star. And -- "
A few tears leak out of the corner of his eyes and roll slowly down his cheek and he rests his hand on top of Alfred's. His hands are shaking. His whole body feels like it's shaking, in fact. "You're gentle, like he was. And so, so sweet. You remind me so much of him."
Alfred isn't sure he's ever seen Herbert like this before - he looks just shy of shattering like glass, like some delicate thing under his touch. "Engel," he breathes, his tone sounding a little strained. He can feel his energy running out, but - he needs to be strong right now. Herbert needs him.
So he listens, pursing his lips and knitting his brow tighter at the explanation. There is...something - something in him stirring, pushing, echoing through his heart.
And with what Herbert is saying....
"...W-wait, are you...trying to say that...I'm...?"
"I don't know. I don't know what I'm trying to say." He takes Alfred's hand and kisses the back of it, then his palm, with a nervous energy he can't quite shake.
"Simply that there are so many things you do that remind me of him. To many things to ignore any longer. I've been trying my hardest not to compare the two of you, but this -- We'd sit together at the tree where we met, at dusk. And he'd braid my hair just like this for me.
It took my by surprise, that's all. A silly notion, nothing more," he says, trying to smile. Trying to dismiss this nagging feeling that somehow Alfred is Solin.
Something about that- in particular, makes Alfred pause - his eyes flick away as he seems to be trying to recall something. Wasn't there a tree he had paused at on the way into the town? He could swear he asked to stop a moment there, to sit, to catch his breath before he had been ushered away by the Professor.
But...he lets it go. Herbert is clearly upset, and all he really wants is to comfort him. Reaching up, he wipes at his tears with his thumbs, putting a sad little smile on himself.
"...If he was important to you, then...I'm...I'm flattered, to hear that I remind you of him. I don't think it's silly at all." My dear, he feels the urge to add, but he tamps it down, wobbling a little where he sits.
"S-sorry, Engel, I'm - I'm very tired...."
And his chest still burns, worse than before - but he dares not mention that now. Herbert is rattled enough.
"Yes, yes of course." There's a tugging at his chest when he sees Alfred wobble like that. He grips Alfred's shoulders, a little too tight. A little too desperately. "Let's get you down into the crypt, and we'll rest. It's getting close to dawn, anyway."
He's smiling through his tears and he dabs at his eyes a little with his sleeve. "I love you, Alfred. I love you for everything you are. I want you to know that."
The tightness doesn't go unnoticed - he feels the anxiety from his lover, the needles of panic. He wishes he could look stronger, be less feeble...knowing that his current state is making Herbert so upset bothers him, but he can't help it.
Pulling the blonde in close, he kisses the tracks of his tears.
"I know, Herbert. I love you, too. And...." Oh, he's - he's really dizzy. He leans in, shutting his eyes to try and stabilize himself. Sleep tugs relentlessly at him, and his voice gets a little faint.
"It's okay...if you think of him sometimes. I...I don't mind...."
Whoops. Maybe he couldn't have shut his eyes. He can feel himself starting to drift.
Even though the statement is made tired, on the verge of falling asleep, it's appreciated very much.
He strokes Alfred's cheek and kisses him softly. "I can carry you, my love."
And he stands, lifting Alfred into his arms and cradling him against his chest. Carefully, he carries him down to the crypt, nestling him in the coffin amongst the blankets and pillows. Then he curls up beside him, arms around his waist, head against his chest. Not clinging, not exactly, but certainly holding him close.
He can't quite open his eyes as he's carried - but he manages to hold off sleep until he's being placed into the coffin, humming a soft little sound of acknowledgment that they made it down. Tilting his head, he places a blind kiss against his lover's forehead, clutching lightly to him.
"...Good morning...dear...."
And then he falls into slumber, swallowed by his dreams. They seem to be troubled, whatever they are, leaving him making tiny, fretting sounds.
Herbert fights off the need to sleep, needing to feel Alfred whole and real in his arms. To watch over him.
The whimpering is concerning, but it's the cough that makes the decision for him and he brushes his fingers against Alfred's temple, quietly entering his dreams to see what's causing his distress.
A small cabin, humble, kept warm by a fire the occupant had struggled to get up to stoke. A spinning wheel in the corner sits collecting dust, a loom half-warped before strength had given out. A shelf full of things that belong to a beloved boyfriend standing out, objects more ornate and less simple than the rest, hairbrushes and oils and ribbons brought back from city markets.
The dreamer himself is on the ground, gasping for air, the cough rattling his body deep and resounding, choking the life out of him. He's staring wide-eyed at the wooden floor, at the pool of blood leaking from his lips.
Oh god, this scene is all too familiar. All those times he'd come into Solin's home to find him in the middle of a coughing fit. This is towards the end, he can tell that. When Solin started getting sicker.
He starts to move towards the young man on the floor when he sees himself coming through the door. His past self had been holding flowers, which promptly get dropped as he runs to Solin's side to help him sit up.
The young man tries in vain to get up, broad shoulders shaking as he tries to get his hands under him - but he can't, he can't stop coughing, and his palms slide in the blood. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, even as he tilts his head towards where he hears someone enter.
"H-herb-ert-" He wheezes, face screwing tight with pain as he is lifted into a sitting position. His lips are off-color, a little blue from lack of oxygen...his skin is burning, flushed deep with fever.
"Is - is that you, my d-dear? I can't...I can't see...."
There was so much blood. Everything was dark. Just as Alfred had said.
Solin struggles through a rattling breath, the coughing pausing as he is reoriented - he leans heavy against young Herbert's chest, blood leaking in a slow trickle from the corner of his mouth. He squints, trying to focus, desperate to see his lover's face. It comes to him, slowly, but his vision is...so gray, so dark. Everything is so dark. "Th-there you are. I'm s-sorry, love, I -"
Another cough, accompanied by a horrible gurgling sound in his throat, in his chest. A slow, painful end creeping up on him over days, weeks. Drowning in his own body.
"...It's getting...so hard...to breathe," he rasps, sweat sticking his unruly chestnut hair to his forehead. His whole body is shaking, shivering, clammy and cold despite the fire in the hearth. "I don't...I don't think I can - hhhhhh - my dear, I can't...get up. Can you...can you...help me...off...the floor...?"
"Yes of course, of course my dear. I'll help you back to bed." He's trying desperately to stay strong, not to cry, to be brave for his wonderful boy, his Solin.
Herbert wraps an arm around Solin, under his arms, and lifts him to at least be half standing. Enough to turn him and get him sitting on the bed. "Lean back against the pillows, darling. I'll get your legs up on the bed."
At full health, Solin had been so strong, capable. He could lift a sheep, bales of feed....and he would regularly pick up Herbert for fun.
So it's in stark contrast in this moment that he can't even stand up unassisted, his breath coming in thin, wet rattles. He's wasted a bit, feels thin, frail.
He leans heavy back on the bed, green eyes fluttering, long callused fingers - so very like Alfred's, aren't they? - clutching at the shawl he has wound around his shoulders for warmth.
"Thank you, my dear. I...I had to stoke - hhhh - the fire, and everything went...everything went black."
"I'll stoke the fire for you, of course. Can't have you catching a chill, can we?" he fusses, helping Solin get his legs onto the bed as well, sitting propped up against pillows. He tucks the blankets in around him and goes to tend to the fire to make sure it's nice and hot.
"Do you think if I got you some water, you could drink that?"
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He settles in and gets comfortable as Alfred brushes his hair, humming happily at the feeling of the brush and Alfred's fingers carefully picking through the knots in his hair.
He'd been expecting a French braid, perhaps. But Alfred's parting his hair in a new and different way, and Herbert's brow furrows in confusion. "What are you doing back there, cheri?"
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Alfred always takes on a different tone of voice when he's Doing Something - a soft, meditative tone, gentle and calm. This really does relax him, doting on Herbert in little ways like this, winding his long, silky hair around his fingers.
He passes strands this way and that - the pattern is new, but his hands seem to know it.
"Just trying something different," he murmurs with a smile. "I wanted to...to focus a little harder on you, Engel, so I'm doing something tricky."
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There is serenity in this moment - something sorely needed - but there is... something else, too. A sense of deja vu, of nostalgia.
Strange.
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Pulling back, he ties off the end of the braid, admiring his handiwork.
"There. I'm - I'm not really sure how I did it, but I think it looks good."
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The birthmark, the braid. Alfred calling him my dear. The overwhelming feeling of familiarity and comfort he feels around Alfred. It can't be.
Could it?
"Did you -- Alfred, this looks lovely," he says first, his voice slightly choked. "Did you tell me once, that you had dreams of being in this castle before?"
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"I...I'm glad you like it," he stammers, concern plain on his face. "And...yes, I - I think? It's always felt a little familiar."
The strain in his lover's voice makes him worry - his hand moves to cup his cheek.
"Is something wrong, Herbert?"
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A few tears leak out of the corner of his eyes and roll slowly down his cheek and he rests his hand on top of Alfred's. His hands are shaking. His whole body feels like it's shaking, in fact. "You're gentle, like he was. And so, so sweet. You remind me so much of him."
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So he listens, pursing his lips and knitting his brow tighter at the explanation. There is...something - something in him stirring, pushing, echoing through his heart.
And with what Herbert is saying....
"...W-wait, are you...trying to say that...I'm...?"
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"Simply that there are so many things you do that remind me of him. To many things to ignore any longer. I've been trying my hardest not to compare the two of you, but this -- We'd sit together at the tree where we met, at dusk. And he'd braid my hair just like this for me.
It took my by surprise, that's all. A silly notion, nothing more," he says, trying to smile. Trying to dismiss this nagging feeling that somehow Alfred is Solin.
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Something about that- in particular, makes Alfred pause - his eyes flick away as he seems to be trying to recall something. Wasn't there a tree he had paused at on the way into the town? He could swear he asked to stop a moment there, to sit, to catch his breath before he had been ushered away by the Professor.
But...he lets it go. Herbert is clearly upset, and all he really wants is to comfort him. Reaching up, he wipes at his tears with his thumbs, putting a sad little smile on himself.
"...If he was important to you, then...I'm...I'm flattered, to hear that I remind you of him. I don't think it's silly at all." My dear, he feels the urge to add, but he tamps it down, wobbling a little where he sits.
"S-sorry, Engel, I'm - I'm very tired...."
And his chest still burns, worse than before - but he dares not mention that now. Herbert is rattled enough.
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He's smiling through his tears and he dabs at his eyes a little with his sleeve. "I love you, Alfred. I love you for everything you are. I want you to know that."
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Pulling the blonde in close, he kisses the tracks of his tears.
"I know, Herbert. I love you, too. And...." Oh, he's - he's really dizzy. He leans in, shutting his eyes to try and stabilize himself. Sleep tugs relentlessly at him, and his voice gets a little faint.
"It's okay...if you think of him sometimes. I...I don't mind...."
Whoops. Maybe he couldn't have shut his eyes. He can feel himself starting to drift.
"Mm...might need...you to carry me...t-tired...."
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He strokes Alfred's cheek and kisses him softly. "I can carry you, my love."
And he stands, lifting Alfred into his arms and cradling him against his chest. Carefully, he carries him down to the crypt, nestling him in the coffin amongst the blankets and pillows. Then he curls up beside him, arms around his waist, head against his chest. Not clinging, not exactly, but certainly holding him close.
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He can't quite open his eyes as he's carried - but he manages to hold off sleep until he's being placed into the coffin, humming a soft little sound of acknowledgment that they made it down. Tilting his head, he places a blind kiss against his lover's forehead, clutching lightly to him.
"...Good morning...dear...."
And then he falls into slumber, swallowed by his dreams. They seem to be troubled, whatever they are, leaving him making tiny, fretting sounds.
Not long later...in his sleep...
He coughs.
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The whimpering is concerning, but it's the cough that makes the decision for him and he brushes his fingers against Alfred's temple, quietly entering his dreams to see what's causing his distress.
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A small cabin, humble, kept warm by a fire the occupant had struggled to get up to stoke. A spinning wheel in the corner sits collecting dust, a loom half-warped before strength had given out. A shelf full of things that belong to a beloved boyfriend standing out, objects more ornate and less simple than the rest, hairbrushes and oils and ribbons brought back from city markets.
The dreamer himself is on the ground, gasping for air, the cough rattling his body deep and resounding, choking the life out of him. He's staring wide-eyed at the wooden floor, at the pool of blood leaking from his lips.
But it's not Alfred, there in the dream.
It's Solin.
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He starts to move towards the young man on the floor when he sees himself coming through the door. His past self had been holding flowers, which promptly get dropped as he runs to Solin's side to help him sit up.
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"H-herb-ert-" He wheezes, face screwing tight with pain as he is lifted into a sitting position. His lips are off-color, a little blue from lack of oxygen...his skin is burning, flushed deep with fever.
"Is - is that you, my d-dear? I can't...I can't see...."
There was so much blood. Everything was dark. Just as Alfred had said.
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"Yes, yes, it's me, my love. I'm here now. Just rest. Rest with me."
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Another cough, accompanied by a horrible gurgling sound in his throat, in his chest. A slow, painful end creeping up on him over days, weeks. Drowning in his own body.
"...It's getting...so hard...to breathe," he rasps, sweat sticking his unruly chestnut hair to his forehead. His whole body is shaking, shivering, clammy and cold despite the fire in the hearth. "I don't...I don't think I can - hhhhhh - my dear, I can't...get up. Can you...can you...help me...off...the floor...?"
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Herbert wraps an arm around Solin, under his arms, and lifts him to at least be half standing. Enough to turn him and get him sitting on the bed. "Lean back against the pillows, darling. I'll get your legs up on the bed."
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So it's in stark contrast in this moment that he can't even stand up unassisted, his breath coming in thin, wet rattles. He's wasted a bit, feels thin, frail.
He leans heavy back on the bed, green eyes fluttering, long callused fingers - so very like Alfred's, aren't they? - clutching at the shawl he has wound around his shoulders for warmth.
"Thank you, my dear. I...I had to stoke - hhhh - the fire, and everything went...everything went black."
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"Do you think if I got you some water, you could drink that?"
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