{ the slow climb to reclaiming his voice has been an endeavor of weeks, spent yards away from the house out in the darkness and untamed grass behind the house; now, Ambrose can exercise in a casual melody within the walls without feeling ashamed of the fractured quality, though he's still slowly resculpting what he has left of this talent.
a talent that, true enough, still needed vetting, and for an impossible price. }
I see the performance arts have not changed at their core. { Ambrose wants to be surprised, two centuries gone and all, but...he cannot find it in himself to express it.
Ambrose shifts to look at Will, tilting his back and neck now to settle a proper gaze on the living man, thoughtful — but also feeling a smidge caught. }
Until tonight. { he settles into this new position, Buster noticing the shifts and compensating with an adamant crawl up onto his shoulder. } Of course, I was perhaps...thirteen at the time, and he had more than twice my lifetime upon him.
But he was a pleasant, mild man whom I found great comfort in when I took more time with his church. I lead the singing during sermons, you see.
{ a man that lead him and his father through the loss of his mother, a man that...also recognized Ambrose's talent. his stare goes a little distant as he sees parallels aligning that he had never seen at before. }
[ Will's the first person Ambrose has told. That truth rings through him like he's been struck; and he has. Each time Will's reminded of Ambrose's loneliness prior to being awoken into this century, he feels an ache renewed. ]
Comfort. [ Will repeats it and finds his voice is a little weaker. He clears his throat and suddenly is aware of the way he looms over Ambrose's more casual form, supine on his floor. Will shifts at the edge of his couch and then, slow more for the moment than for his joints, he lowers himself to join the small crowd of vampire and dogs. ] It sounds like - out of all the things you didn't have a lot of back then - that might be what you had the least.
I can't blame you for it turning into desire. [ A soft scoff. ] Especially at thirteen.
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a talent that, true enough, still needed vetting, and for an impossible price. }
I see the performance arts have not changed at their core. { Ambrose wants to be surprised, two centuries gone and all, but...he cannot find it in himself to express it.
Ambrose shifts to look at Will, tilting his back and neck now to settle a proper gaze on the living man, thoughtful — but also feeling a smidge caught. }
Until tonight. { he settles into this new position, Buster noticing the shifts and compensating with an adamant crawl up onto his shoulder. } Of course, I was perhaps...thirteen at the time, and he had more than twice my lifetime upon him.
But he was a pleasant, mild man whom I found great comfort in when I took more time with his church. I lead the singing during sermons, you see.
{ a man that lead him and his father through the loss of his mother, a man that...also recognized Ambrose's talent. his stare goes a little distant as he sees parallels aligning that he had never seen at before. }
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Comfort. [ Will repeats it and finds his voice is a little weaker. He clears his throat and suddenly is aware of the way he looms over Ambrose's more casual form, supine on his floor. Will shifts at the edge of his couch and then, slow more for the moment than for his joints, he lowers himself to join the small crowd of vampire and dogs. ] It sounds like - out of all the things you didn't have a lot of back then - that might be what you had the least.
I can't blame you for it turning into desire. [ A soft scoff. ] Especially at thirteen.