His hand stills as Georg touches his wrist - and he stops, he really LISTENS. Not just to the words, but to the way they're said, the feelings behind them. And for an almost painfully long time, he is silent for it, waiting for words to come.
When they do, they tumble out somewhat more frank than he expects.
"I don't like that you talk about yourself that way, Georg." He winces a bit at himself, but...nothing for it but to continue. He sighs a little, moving the free hand out of his hair to rest on his shoulder.
"You say I'm clever. You say I'm attentive, and perceptive, and smart. If that's so - then why would I be telling you these things, if it isn't what I see? I see the ink, I do, but it's not...you're not...." He struggles for a moment, plainly troubled, trying to figure out how to put his thought.
"You are." He's glad Alfred is behind him, because he's not certain he could look at him right now. Not with everything he's feeling not with everything Alfred is bringing out in him. It aches. Like Alfred has carved open his chest to take his heart out and examine it. Not out of malice, but to know him better.
"You are also these things, Alfred, but you are also so, so kind, and so caring. I believe you believe these things of me. Even if they're not true."
There is a moment - just a moment - when Alfred's words tumble out in a sharp shout, and a pulse radiates through the room. The candles and fire flicker, dampen before returning to normal...the picture frames rattle, the air buzzing for a moment. Maybe that's what makes Alfred recoil, gasp, or maybe it's the shout itself...whatever it is, he immediately shrinks down again, tone fluttering.
"I - I'm sorry- I'm sorry, Georg, I-"
Even with his back turned, the sound of Alfred starting to cry is unmistakable, his hands shaking where they are rested on the older vampire. "...I just...there's so much in you, and I can feel it, I can see it, but...but you...."
He wraps his arms around Georg, embracing him, sobbing into the back of his shirt.
The candles flicker as Alfred shouts, as though afraid of the boy. Georg can feel his anger, his frustration vibrating through him, as sure as he can feel him crying against his back. And so he turns, and wraps Alfred in his arms, pulling him down onto the bench and into his lap.
"I wish, so desperately, that I could see myself the way you see me. If only because it would make you happy."
Alfred is not quick to anger. He's been pushing all his rage down for the last twenty-five years, and he's never felt any the worse for it. But now it feels like a dam has broken, and as he is pulled down into Georg's lap, his tears feel hot, hands balling white-knuckled in the fabric of the older vampire's clothes.
"You will never be able to do that," he sobs, voice croaking, "If you continue being so unkind to yourself. That ink...you're pouring that ink all over YOURSELF, and you can't see that you're holding the bottle!"
He looks up at Georg, blue eyes blazing.
"I don't want you to treat yourself better for me...I'm crying because you are hurting, and I love you."
"I don't know how to be what you see in me." He sounds... tired. He sounds his three hundred years, and then some. And now he's made his beautiful boy cry, because he can't love himself the way Alfred loves him.
"The graveyard is filled with headstones to honour those I've killed. Out of bloodlust. Out of the inability to control this insatiable hunger that gnaws at me day and night. I look inside myself and see nothing but blackness. A vast pit of nothingness. I can cover it up well enough with posturing and bravado but in the end I am... nothing."
"That's just IT, Georg - you don't have to BE anything you aren't already."
Young as he is, Alfred does understand. He understands why the Count feels the way he does, why he's ducking into the darkness instead of letting himself step even a little bit into the light. It doesn't mean that the much younger vampire likes it, though...doesn't mean he's not going to try to pull him out, even if it means getting a little darker, himself.
"You're a vampire, yes - but you're also a very sweet man who just picked all the thorns off a bundle of roses so that I wouldn't prick myself on them. Even though you know I will heal fast if I do. I - I'm hungry, too. All the time, now. It's very difficult, and I've only been this way for a little while, not for centuries like you."
Scrubbing at his tears, he gestures with his hand a little as he speaks, as if trying to punctuate what he's saying by painting in the air.
"But - I can feel you. I can feel everyone here. And when I do, there's...there's color. Herbert is like a field of flowers, Sarah is like fire - even Koukol, he's like granite, like something made to last and steady." He reaches up to rest his hand along Georg's jaw.
"And sometimes - sometimes, when you are still - you are like a rich tapestry, like something a king would own. But the moment I try to tell you about it, the moment you think someone else is looking, it's like you try to paint over it. It's there, Georg. You aren't nothing. You're just - hidden."
He draws a very long, steadying breath, more to get control of his voice than anything.
"I'm not asking you to change. I'm...I'm just asking you to let me find you. Like you found me."
He tries to take in everything Alfred has to say -- the young vampire is, after all, a telepath. A little different from the way Georg is, but he is able to read people so well. Even without his powers, perhaps.
And it hurts to hear, though he knows it's true. That he does this to himself. Hides himself away, paints over himself, as Alfred put it, to try and hide what he is from the world. Because he hates how lonely he is. Hates that he's convinced himself that he deserves this loneliness. That he must earn companionship somehow.
Hates that he doesn't know how to change.
"I'm... afraid, Alfred," he admits, his voice cracking at the edges. "Afraid I've been lost so long I don't know how to be found."
The honesty is almost enough to make Alfred cry again on its own...but the pain behind it, the sorrow, the loneliness? It's unbearable, and tears course down his cheeks, making him sniffle as he tries to wipe them again with his free hand.
His tears are still clear. Still so human, yet, even for all he cries.
"If anyone knows what it is to be afraid," he murmurs, trying to get his voice back again, "it's me. But...you aren't alone. You don't have to be. I... I'm here, now, whenever you want to talk. I'll listen."
He seems to resolve something in his head, hand slipping up to run through Georg's hair.
"... I'll help you. I'll help you strip away some of that paint. And we'll start small...just like this. I...I already know Count Von Krolock. Don't you think it's time for me to get to know Georg?"
"I would say that Georg isn't someone worth knowing, but I have a sneaking suspicion you'd fight me on that, too." It's said quietly, embarrassed, almost. Scolded. Though he does lean into Alfred's touch, letting the boy stroke his hair in a way no one has in so, so many years.
"I won't know what to do with such kindness, at the start," he warns. "I'll run from it. I'll frustrate you to no end, I'm sure."
"You would be right about that." Firmly...but gently. Lovingly.
Drawing himself up, he places a little kiss on Georg's forehead as he stands, repositioning himself and taking up the brush with a graceful motion. No hesitation.
He has made up his mind.
"Well, it's a good thing that I'm a patient man, then. And I've already proven that I'm willing to run into the dark to chase after someone."
There's a smile in his own voice at that - and he sets to brushing, following each stroke with a pet from his off-hand.
"I'd ask what I've done to deserve you, but I imagine you have a clever answer for that, as well." Still, he finds himself sitting up a little straighter as Alfred stands behind him again, reaching up with his handkerchief to dab at his eyes. Not quite realizing that he, too, had been crying.
"Lord knows you must have endless patience. I can't imagine how long that glorious cloak you made me must have taken you."
He can see why Herbert likes this. Being cared for like this. It's... comforting in a way Georg didn't know he'd been craving.
He calls no attention to the tears, happily setting to the task of brushing every tangle out of Georg's long, dark hair. Occasionally he pauses to add a little more oil, trying to bring some moisture back in.
But there is never any shame in it. No accusation. He won't tell the older vampire what he should and should not do...instead, he wants to set an example.
Let him learn what it is to live again.
Heh.
"It took...a while, to work it by hand. But I have so much time now. Even without the immortality, just...day to day. You can't imagine how much time I spent on the Professor, before."
"The professor did seem as though he required a lot of... time." He barely manages not to sneer as he says so; he hated the way the professor had treated Alfred. The way he'd order him about, making him him do everything, and how he never seemed to have any respect for the poor boy.
But the professor is off to write his Nobel Prize winning book, and Alfred is here, safe, with them. Finally appreciated for the fine young man he is.
Maybe Alfred would wince at the edge in Georg's voice...if he didn't agree. He's come to terms, at least somewhat, with how badly he had been treated.
Oh, well. The brush is starting to meet with less resistance now. He has better things to think about. "Yes, I have. I was taught out of necessity, but...I grew to love it."
"You do such delicate work. You can't see a single stitch on anything you've tailored. You've quite the deft hand at it." He holds still for Alfred, finding he likes the sensation of the brush running through his hair.
It's meticulous, the way Alfred brushes out long hair. He's always so careful when he does it with Herbert, who takes such careful care...this is different. Georg has cleaned his hair, but that's...about it, it seems. It's pretty and strong, but...dry, tangled, almost dusty.
He applies a bit more oil, focused, voice settling into the calm that comes out of him when he's working.
"Thank you. It...comes with a lot of practice. The tailoring I've done for years now, and...I brush Herbert's hair almost every night."
For a moment, Alfred is quiet again. Thinking. Trying to figure out what to say.
"...Well, then...I'll have to do this from time to time. To keep up with it. You have - you have such beautiful hair, Georg. You mentioned ravens...your hair has the same sort of cast as their feathers. Almost blue, in some lights."
"I don't think ravens have quite as much grey in their feathers as I do in my hair, but you're kind to say so. I..." He does his best to think of a way to simply accept the compliment, but he can't quite make it.
Instead, he lands on, "I don't mind the comparison."
In spite of himself, Alfred sort of laughs a little at the reply - it's not a cruel sound, though. It's progress. It's something.
"Once I have it brushed...would you like for me to braid it for you? Or would you like to keep it down?" Leaving the option to Georg. Baby steps, all of this, because he...knows it's hard. He can feel the uncertainty.
"I don't think I've had it braided since before I was turned. I... I wouldn't mind. It might... look nice."
He hasn't touched his hair other than to occasionally wash it or briefly run a brush through it in quite some time. "I've seen some of the braids you put in Herbert's hair. It's very impressive, what you do with his hair."
Softly, gently. He can tell the older vampire is trying, because he's...well, he's a little awkward. Maybe the most awkward Alfred has seen him. Less flash, less airs. Something real.
"Thank you. We - it's become a habit of ours." He pauses a little...but then decides to let Georg in too, just a little more. "You may have noticed, but I...I like doing things for people. I've never been so good with words, and so I...I like to show how I care, with my own two hands."
Spoken as he works so hard on Georg's long, wild hair. Letting him follow the logic himself.
To Alfred, doing laundry, bringing you a new book, braiding your hair...they all mean the same thing. 'I love you.'
"I had noticed that," he comments, his mouth ticking up slightly at the corner. Not quite a smile. It's hard not to notice Alfred doing things for people. Mending something of Herbert's, or helping with the castle upkeep.
"I... often struggle to find the right words to express what I'm thinking. How I'm feeling. So I show how I care by showering those I care about with gifts. Spoiling them, I suppose.
Though it was trickier to come up with something to give you. Anything I could think of to buy seemed... needless. Thus the roses."
Finally, the Count's long locks are softening up - his work is paying off in the form of smooth dark hair running against Alfred's long fingers, the dust and cobwebs swept neatly out by the brush, by the careful attentions of gentle hands.
He smiles, fondly, nodding a little.
"...I love the roses," he affirms, voice soft. "I'm - well, I'm used to not having much. Traveling with the Professor, I had...well, I had two sets of clothing and little else. I never want you to think I'm ungrateful for...well, for anything here. You have given me a home. That's - that's more than I could have ever asked for."
A beat, and then, deciding to meet Georg in the middle -
"I will never turn down a book recommendation, though."
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When they do, they tumble out somewhat more frank than he expects.
"I don't like that you talk about yourself that way, Georg." He winces a bit at himself, but...nothing for it but to continue. He sighs a little, moving the free hand out of his hair to rest on his shoulder.
"You say I'm clever. You say I'm attentive, and perceptive, and smart. If that's so - then why would I be telling you these things, if it isn't what I see? I see the ink, I do, but it's not...you're not...." He struggles for a moment, plainly troubled, trying to figure out how to put his thought.
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"You are also these things, Alfred, but you are also so, so kind, and so caring. I believe you believe these things of me. Even if they're not true."
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There is a moment - just a moment - when Alfred's words tumble out in a sharp shout, and a pulse radiates through the room. The candles and fire flicker, dampen before returning to normal...the picture frames rattle, the air buzzing for a moment. Maybe that's what makes Alfred recoil, gasp, or maybe it's the shout itself...whatever it is, he immediately shrinks down again, tone fluttering.
"I - I'm sorry- I'm sorry, Georg, I-"
Even with his back turned, the sound of Alfred starting to cry is unmistakable, his hands shaking where they are rested on the older vampire. "...I just...there's so much in you, and I can feel it, I can see it, but...but you...."
He wraps his arms around Georg, embracing him, sobbing into the back of his shirt.
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"I wish, so desperately, that I could see myself the way you see me. If only because it would make you happy."
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"You will never be able to do that," he sobs, voice croaking, "If you continue being so unkind to yourself. That ink...you're pouring that ink all over YOURSELF, and you can't see that you're holding the bottle!"
He looks up at Georg, blue eyes blazing.
"I don't want you to treat yourself better for me...I'm crying because you are hurting, and I love you."
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"The graveyard is filled with headstones to honour those I've killed. Out of bloodlust. Out of the inability to control this insatiable hunger that gnaws at me day and night. I look inside myself and see nothing but blackness. A vast pit of nothingness. I can cover it up well enough with posturing and bravado but in the end I am... nothing."
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Young as he is, Alfred does understand. He understands why the Count feels the way he does, why he's ducking into the darkness instead of letting himself step even a little bit into the light. It doesn't mean that the much younger vampire likes it, though...doesn't mean he's not going to try to pull him out, even if it means getting a little darker, himself.
"You're a vampire, yes - but you're also a very sweet man who just picked all the thorns off a bundle of roses so that I wouldn't prick myself on them. Even though you know I will heal fast if I do. I - I'm hungry, too. All the time, now. It's very difficult, and I've only been this way for a little while, not for centuries like you."
Scrubbing at his tears, he gestures with his hand a little as he speaks, as if trying to punctuate what he's saying by painting in the air.
"But - I can feel you. I can feel everyone here. And when I do, there's...there's color. Herbert is like a field of flowers, Sarah is like fire - even Koukol, he's like granite, like something made to last and steady." He reaches up to rest his hand along Georg's jaw.
"And sometimes - sometimes, when you are still - you are like a rich tapestry, like something a king would own. But the moment I try to tell you about it, the moment you think someone else is looking, it's like you try to paint over it. It's there, Georg. You aren't nothing. You're just - hidden."
He draws a very long, steadying breath, more to get control of his voice than anything.
"I'm not asking you to change. I'm...I'm just asking you to let me find you. Like you found me."
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And it hurts to hear, though he knows it's true. That he does this to himself. Hides himself away, paints over himself, as Alfred put it, to try and hide what he is from the world. Because he hates how lonely he is. Hates that he's convinced himself that he deserves this loneliness. That he must earn companionship somehow.
Hates that he doesn't know how to change.
"I'm... afraid, Alfred," he admits, his voice cracking at the edges. "Afraid I've been lost so long I don't know how to be found."
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His tears are still clear. Still so human, yet, even for all he cries.
"If anyone knows what it is to be afraid," he murmurs, trying to get his voice back again, "it's me. But...you aren't alone. You don't have to be. I... I'm here, now, whenever you want to talk. I'll listen."
He seems to resolve something in his head, hand slipping up to run through Georg's hair.
"... I'll help you. I'll help you strip away some of that paint. And we'll start small...just like this. I...I already know Count Von Krolock. Don't you think it's time for me to get to know Georg?"
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"I won't know what to do with such kindness, at the start," he warns. "I'll run from it. I'll frustrate you to no end, I'm sure."
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Drawing himself up, he places a little kiss on Georg's forehead as he stands, repositioning himself and taking up the brush with a graceful motion. No hesitation.
He has made up his mind.
"Well, it's a good thing that I'm a patient man, then. And I've already proven that I'm willing to run into the dark to chase after someone."
There's a smile in his own voice at that - and he sets to brushing, following each stroke with a pet from his off-hand.
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"Lord knows you must have endless patience. I can't imagine how long that glorious cloak you made me must have taken you."
He can see why Herbert likes this. Being cared for like this. It's... comforting in a way Georg didn't know he'd been craving.
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He calls no attention to the tears, happily setting to the task of brushing every tangle out of Georg's long, dark hair. Occasionally he pauses to add a little more oil, trying to bring some moisture back in.
But there is never any shame in it. No accusation. He won't tell the older vampire what he should and should not do...instead, he wants to set an example.
Let him learn what it is to live again.
Heh.
"It took...a while, to work it by hand. But I have so much time now. Even without the immortality, just...day to day. You can't imagine how much time I spent on the Professor, before."
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But the professor is off to write his Nobel Prize winning book, and Alfred is here, safe, with them. Finally appreciated for the fine young man he is.
"Have you always enjoyed sewing?"
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Maybe Alfred would wince at the edge in Georg's voice...if he didn't agree. He's come to terms, at least somewhat, with how badly he had been treated.
Oh, well. The brush is starting to meet with less resistance now. He has better things to think about. "Yes, I have. I was taught out of necessity, but...I grew to love it."
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"And at this, as well."
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He applies a bit more oil, focused, voice settling into the calm that comes out of him when he's working.
"Thank you. It...comes with a lot of practice. The tailoring I've done for years now, and...I brush Herbert's hair almost every night."
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"...Well, then...I'll have to do this from time to time. To keep up with it. You have - you have such beautiful hair, Georg. You mentioned ravens...your hair has the same sort of cast as their feathers. Almost blue, in some lights."
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Instead, he lands on, "I don't mind the comparison."
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In spite of himself, Alfred sort of laughs a little at the reply - it's not a cruel sound, though. It's progress. It's something.
"Once I have it brushed...would you like for me to braid it for you? Or would you like to keep it down?" Leaving the option to Georg. Baby steps, all of this, because he...knows it's hard. He can feel the uncertainty.
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He hasn't touched his hair other than to occasionally wash it or briefly run a brush through it in quite some time. "I've seen some of the braids you put in Herbert's hair. It's very impressive, what you do with his hair."
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Softly, gently. He can tell the older vampire is trying, because he's...well, he's a little awkward. Maybe the most awkward Alfred has seen him. Less flash, less airs. Something real.
"Thank you. We - it's become a habit of ours." He pauses a little...but then decides to let Georg in too, just a little more. "You may have noticed, but I...I like doing things for people. I've never been so good with words, and so I...I like to show how I care, with my own two hands."
Spoken as he works so hard on Georg's long, wild hair. Letting him follow the logic himself.
To Alfred, doing laundry, bringing you a new book, braiding your hair...they all mean the same thing. 'I love you.'
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"I... often struggle to find the right words to express what I'm thinking. How I'm feeling. So I show how I care by showering those I care about with gifts. Spoiling them, I suppose.
Though it was trickier to come up with something to give you. Anything I could think of to buy seemed... needless. Thus the roses."
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He smiles, fondly, nodding a little.
"...I love the roses," he affirms, voice soft. "I'm - well, I'm used to not having much. Traveling with the Professor, I had...well, I had two sets of clothing and little else. I never want you to think I'm ungrateful for...well, for anything here. You have given me a home. That's - that's more than I could have ever asked for."
A beat, and then, deciding to meet Georg in the middle -
"I will never turn down a book recommendation, though."
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