Chapter Text
"Oh, Maria," The Count sighed, draping himself over a table on his back, the Renaissance painting he was. "I'm in love."
Maria, who had already been subtly hiding nails in a box in anticipation for the Count barging in, dropped them in surprise. "You are? With whom?!"
"Ohhh, a wonderful, dashing fellow, right here on Sesame Street," the Count replied, "he is so beautiful, such an upstanding man... and when he smiles, it's like thunder and lightning in my heart! It goes one strike, two strikes, three! Oh! Oh, Maria, whatever am I going to do?"
Maria had to hold back a laugh. This was why he let him stick around in spite of him being impossible to shut up when he got started counting. The Count, in his earnest, really could be quite entertaining company - sometimes.
"Why don't you tell him how you feel?"
"I don't think he would like that. He hates love," the Count sighed this dreamily, in a way that signalled that this was a part of the list of traits that made him so desirable.
"Oh?" Maria furrowed her brow. Beyond Oscar, she couldn't think of anyone who hated love, and she had a hard time believing Oscar was the "beautiful, upstanding man" in question.
“Maybe he just hates love because he assumes nobody loves him?" Maria ventured. "I think he might actually like hearing you say that you love him."
"Oh, perhaps you are right, yes," The Count considered, slowly. "But! To think nobody loves him! That would be preposterous! Unthinkable! Ludicrous!"
"That's all the more reason to show him just how loved he is," Maria smiled.
"Hm, what could I say...” The Count laid his head in his palm. “When I am with you, I can only think of seven...? Yes, that is good. It is classy."
Maria had to cover her mouth with her hand for a moment to hide her laughter. "I'm not sure about that one. I think he might not know what you mean by "seven"."
"What is there to understand? Seven is the most romantic number there is!"
"Maybe you could tell him seven ways you love him, then. That might make it a bit clearer."
"Only seven!?" At this proposal he seemed genuinely panicked. "He has a kind soul, he is fascinating, he is humorous, his voice is like smooth caramel, he is like the sun on a rainy day, he is like the rain on a sunny day, he has knotty fur, he...! How could I pick just seven!?"
"I just suggested that because you said seven was a romantic number! You could count to infinity, if you want. Just tell him what he means to you. He'll love that. Anyone would."
The Count's face grew more serious, cogs turning in his mind. "Good. Yes, marvellous, that is a good idea. Oh, thank you, Maria. I will now be off to count for the object of my affections how many ways I love him! You are one, one friend I can always count on!" He dashed out the door of the fix-it shop, only half-remembering to cover his nose with his cape as he did so.
Oh, love. The way the monsters and other funny individuals like the Count behaved in such a childlike manner when it came to matters like these proved to be far more entertaining than “drama” between so-called adults. The Count was such a sincere person about it, too, the fairy-tale theatrics being entirely the correct response for him.
Maria made so as to continue her pre-opening routine at the Fix-It Shop because, technically speaking, whoever the Count was in love with was not her business. But, true though that may be, she was undeniably curious as to who on Earth could have made the Count become like this. And so, she maybe looked out the window while she worked, just a little bit.
It sounded like it wasn’t someone who liked counting, but that didn’t necessarily narrow it down. If it was such an upstanding gentleman, like the Count implied, could it be Sherlock…? No, no, Hemlock didn’t seem to hate love. Bert was a little grumpy at times, so maybe…? But somehow he didn’t seem to fit the bill either; when had they last even spoken to each other? The only other guys she could think of that might even slightly match the Count’s description didn’t live on Sesame Street. She was resolutely stumped.
The Count’s voice suddenly rang from across the street. “Oscar! Oscaaaar!”
Maria quirked her head and, deciding this absolutely was her business, seeing as the Count clearly felt like broadcasting the affair to the entirety of New York, stepped over to the door of the fix-it shop and glanced at the Oscar’s abode next to 123.
The Count was tapping enthusiastically on the can with his knuckle, his calls becoming increasingly sing-song in nature to match. “Are you still awake, my dear Oscar? Are you in the-e-ere?”
There was simply no way the Count had fallen in love with Oscar. Maria couldn’t think of a more doomed pair; the Count was so relentlessly pleased to be alive, such a persistent person. He was perhaps the antithesis to what a Grouch stood for. And, seriously, an “upstanding”, “dashing” man? There had to be more to it than that.
A muffled, “what’s your problem!?” could be heard from the can.
“It’s me, Oscar! The Count! I have to tell you something!”
“Count?” Oscar flew out of the can so swiftly the sound of the lid clattering open rattled in Maria’s skull. “What’re you doing here!?”
“I wanted to tell you something werrrrry important!”
Oscar was, granted, a little hard to make out from here, but Maria could see him straighten up at these words. There was something… nervous about him.
“Oh oh oh, what is i-“ Oscar practically leapt, before abruptly pausing. “I mean, I assume it can’t wait…? No? Spit it out, then.”
“No, it categorically can not wait!” The Count laughed. “I wanted to tell you that this morning was magnificent!”
Oscar straightened up even further and cupped his face in his hands. “Yeah, it was… not awful. I don’t dislike the way you, well, y’know.”
The Count nodded enthusiastically. “I am so happy to hear that! And you know what? I want you to know something else! I love you!”
Maria nearly choked.
“Slimey, tell me what I should do.”
Slimey didn’t answer because, at this stage, he had sort of lost track of what exactly Oscar was upset about.
“I mean, I thought we were having fun! But then after the garbage men came he just said, “Maria’s store is opening! I must help her take inventory!” and left!”
Slimey curled up and said, “I know”. He quietly wished Oscar would be this insistent on telling the same story over and over when it was Trash Gordon.
“I don’t know what happened! He kissed me a hundred times, Slimey! A hundred!”
“A hundred!” Slimey piped up, just to show he was indeed paying attention. That was good, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t he pleased?
“And he has the most… unhateable… fangs, and his hair is clean!” At this stage Oscar was merely talking at Slimey, rather than with him. He clasped and unclasped his hands together discontentedly. “He smelled of old candles! And he called me his window-shutter! Which is just, weird! But it’s so him!”
Oscar looked out at Grouchland with glazed eyes. “This is all so dumb,” he scowled, “I think love is disgusting anyway. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
Slimey whined quietly, and Oscar perked up. “No, not you, Slimey. I will always love you, heh heh heh.”
Maybe Oscar should just go to sleep. It had been the most eventful morning he could remember, and his chest ached with big feelings. For once he suddenly understood the appeal for Big Bird and so on to constantly be asking the humans for advice about things. Alas, Oscar wasn’t that sort of guy. Being a grouch who actually hated the Count was so much easier than being a grouch who only wished he hated the Count but really couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him.
“It was so nice…” He sighed, picking at the floor. “It’s his fault, really. He should be more forward about what he wants. Maybe he just wants to trick me.”
Slimey clearly had no further commentary.
“Do you like the Count, Slimey?”
Slimey squeaked, “yes! The Count!”
“Would it be nice if we saw him more often? If he became a part of our little family?”
Slimey squeaked again. “Yeah,” Oscar hummed, “and we could bring him here, and he could show us his castle, too.”
He caught himself imagining these things, of the Count being his… ahem… something, walking through Grouchland and meeting other grouches and Oscar going to his castle and meeting his bats he was so fond of, and even holding hands as they did, and as he did, he put his head in his hands. “I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I don’t even like him. He’s so annoying.”
Slimey didn’t reply this time, but lifted his head and stared at Oscar, pointedly.
"Hey!" Oscar scoffed. “When’d you get so rude!? Ahahahahaha!” His heart swelled, and he vaguely resented that it felt so familiar. “I’m so proud of you.”
Clang-clang-claclaclaclang. An indistinct, chipper voice echoed in the sky and Oscar groaned. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“What’s your problem!?” Oscar screeched as he made his way to the lid of his can.
“It’s me, Oscar! The Count! I have to tell you something!”
It couldn’t be. Was he here to tell Oscar he had gone for some self-reflection and decided he had made a horrible mistake? Was he here to kiss him again? He was truly starting to understand how his less grouchy friends viewed the world when they said they were “excited” for things, though he didn’t expect it to make him feel so nauseous. He immediately punched the lid open. “Count? What’re you doing here!?”
“I wanted to tell you something werrrrry important!”
He seemed so cheerful. Like always. It drove Oscar mad.
“Oh oh oh, what is i-“ Could you be any less desperate? “I mean, I assume it can’t wait…? No? Spit it out, then.”
“No, it categorically can not wait!” Thank God. “I wanted to tell you that this morning was magnificent!”
Oscar was certain he was going to either faint or die. “Yeah, it was… not awful. I don’t dislike the way you, well, y’know.”
“I am so happy to hear that! And you know what? I want you to know something else! I love you!”
The street fell silent.
Everything, except for Oscar himself - whose heart thundered - moved very slowly.
“In fact,” the Count continued, clearly not realising that Oscar’s chest was doing backflips, “I wanted to count, yes, count the ways I love thee!”
Oscar’s brain blanked. “Are you bats?”
“Oh, I am just batty about you, it is true. That’s one reason. You drive me batty when you say hello! And two, you never fail to make me laugh, and three, your eyes are like precious jewels, and-“
“Okay, that last one was ridiculous.” Oscar laughed, though it ended up being more like a nervous bark. He couldn’t decide whether to be more enamoured with what he was being told or the way the Count was telling him. “I think you’re… you’re an interesting person. Thanks.”
In any case, if the way the Count had confessed to him had made Oscar feel even more smitten, he certainly had not returned the favour with anything equally smooth.
“Four! The way you talk is so charming! Oh, I do love you so!”
Well then.
“I… you’re… I don’t dislike you either, Count.”
The Count cackled. “Let it never be said that you are short-handed on affection!”
“Shut up!”
The Count sighed contently, and quickly kissed Oscar. Oscar wasn’t even granted the time to realise what he was doing before it was over, and it was like a wave of dizziness with a two-second delay. He was half-stunned and hardly listening when the Count, holding Oscar’s hands at the fingertips, asked, "Would you mind if I were come over more often? And you were to visit me?”
Oscar squeezed the Count’s hand back, despite himself. “Fine. That doesn’t sound awful.”
Like a trashy movie, just as the words left’s Oscar’s lips, a faint clap of thunder meekly announced itself, and the spitting that had been reluctantly accompanying the new day regained an aura of confidence, doubling down in a sheet of rain that washed the Street. What a rotten day. It couldn’t be more perfect.
“I could come see your bats, maybe,” Oscar tentatively offered, before adding with greater enthusiasm, “and your cobwebs.”
“Oh, you know, the other day one of the notes on my organ went out of tune, and I’ve been looking forward to showing you! It makes my playing sound awful!”
At this, Oscar lit up, and the Count brushed his cheek playfully. “Don’t you even think about getting that fixed.”
“Mariiii-a!” The Count bounded back into the fix-it shop. “Thank you, from the bottom of my cold, still heart, thank you! It worked better than I could have imagined!”
Maria turned around theatrically, resisting a smirk. “Oh, that’s great, Count! But y’know, I never would have pinned Oscar as the lucky man.”
The Count seemed startled for a brief moment, before beaming once more. “Ah ha ha! But, my dear Maria, who else?”
“Someone who, I don’t know, isn’t grouchy with the world?”
The Count merely waved a hand, leaning in like he was letting her in on a joke. “He is, shall we say, far more passionate about counting than he would have you believe, eh-he-heh.”
Maria clicked her tongue, “I think he’s just passionate about you.”
The Count, for the first time, let out a little note of surprise at this, blushing ever so slightly. “That may be, that may be. I hope so.”
Maria knew so.