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Albedo's eyes tell Mona two things.
First, that Mona will probably never truly know him in the way she always knows people and that she'll have to grow to be satisfied with that. Somehow. (No use forcing it, she supposes. She doesn't think she can even do that. Considering it's him.) The second thing is that she practically already does know him in that sense.
What else is there to discover about the unknowable after all? There are no stars in inky, bottomless darkness. There is nothing to see in barren patches of… well, nothing. It's a fruitless search and in some unorthodox way this knowledge is enough to solidify an image for her. A shaky, muddled image that is.
She finds this ironic because Albedo's eyes are anything but. They shine an enticing crystal, a shade of blue that is both vibrant and calm. Like the water of a misty lake or the sky after a drizzle.
They're beautiful is what Mona’s trying to say. Which is why the darkness beneath them is so easy to spot. Because if there's anything she's learned from the old hag it's that beautiful things always hide the ugliest truths.
She keeps this in mind as she grips his hand for the first time. A distinct cold seeping from thick gloves only serves to alarm her further. Klee says something between them. What that is, Mona doesn't know. She's too preoccupied trying to gauge what he thinks of her. He’s a man of science, isn’t he? To him, she is just another variable in a needlessly complicated equation.
When he meets her eyes for the first time, she has to keep from making a face.
(It’s frustrating, she thinks, not being able to read someone who can read you.)
Cold eyes. Cold hands. “I see. So your master was Alice’s friend. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Albedo. Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius. Thank you for looking after Klee.” The warmth in his voice nearly throws her off.
“Mona Megistus,” she supplies primly, “master astrologist, but you may call me Mona. And it was no problem.” She looks at Klee. “She was delightful.”
“I think you’re delightful too, Mona!” Klee interjects, grinning. “When you’re not yelling anyway.” Mona freezes as the girl beckons for Albedo to kneel before she very loudly whispers, “She yelled about a box I was keeping for mom for a while. Klee was really confused.”
Amusement dances in blue crystals. “Did she now?”
“H-Hey!” She places her hands on her hips. “You’re not telling him the full story here. I’m sure Albedo will understand my side if he knew all the details!”
(A gamble. All she knows is his name and she makes a gamble.)
She doesn’t get the chance to see how he reacts before Klee is pulling her in the direction of the Good Hunter, insisting Mona tell him the story there then, if she’s so adamant about it. The rest of the night is filled with amiable conversation and a good meal Albedo pays for before Mona even has a chance to look at the bill. When she voices her displeasure, Albedo waves her off.
Generous or not, Mona doesn’t let this affect her assessment of him just yet.
(Beautiful things hide the ugliest truths.)
In reality, Mona’s always known about him to some extent.
The stars had told her as much, told her of the possibility of the successor being accompanied by someone else, someone like him, who is virtually impossible to read.
Much like they'd been with her assessment of Venti, the stars tell her nothing about Albedo. They simply... refuse to. Mona is appalled. Everytime she tries, she's met with a blank slate, no constellations, a void where there should be substance.
It’s all very aggravating. Whenever she drops by his lab, she knows he can sense it.
“Do you mind telling me what always has you so sour when you visit?”
She goes rigid from where she is examining vials on the table next to him. She has to commend him for choosing to broach the topic when Klee and his apprentices are out. Visits to his lab are far from rare. Sometimes, Klee drags her there. Sometimes, Mona comes on her own free will. She may not know Albedo the way she wants to, but the only way to remedy that is for her to get the ball rolling, isn’t it? Besides, he’s a fellow scientific mind. Even if they don’t abide by the same branches of science, she can appreciate that.
“You puzzle me.” She surprises herself with her honesty.
Albedo doesn’t even look at her, still focused on whatever he’s sketching. He must’ve anticipated this then. Mona is irked that that’s the case.
“I gathered as much. Do you mind telling me why that is?”
“You’re hiding something,” she accuses levelly.
The sound of pencil on paper disappears. “Oh?”
She crosses her arms. “It’s the only reason the stars can’t tell me anything about you.”
“I thought the stars were all-knowing?”
It is with a great reluctance that Mona quietly admits, “Not all the time.”
The silence that follows is a mess of things. Charged. Companionable. Albedo seems to need a moment of time to formulate an answer and Mona is fine waiting. If only to shed some light on the shaky, muddled image that is her impression of him.
She doesn’t know when her eyes glue themselves to his hands. She guesses it can’t be helped once she’s noticed how he'd actually taken his gloves off. Rare and fleeting are the occasions she’d seen those hands free from fabric. They are calloused, yet, without even touching them, Mona can tell they’re soft. Albedo has smooth skin is all. They’ve brushed against each other more than a few times for her to know that. She can make out a few scars littering his fingers, the product of-
Are… are those cracks in his hands?
She startles when Albedo finally turns to look at her, expression carefully blank. He puts on his gloves swiftly and holds Mona’s gaze. (Blue pools more than capable of deceiving.)
“There are things I prefer to keep private.”
“It’s different when even the stars abide by that,” she presses.
Albedo does not waver. “Then it seems I’m a special case.” A note of finality rings in his tone.
Mona is wise enough to drop the conversation after that. She leaves after Klee comes barreling in the lab with a new bomb, thinking about the way lightning splinters the sky when it flashes against dark clouds.
(Perfect things, pure things, they fall apart eventually.)
He fights with a certain type of grace.
She’s surprised how much brawling the Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius actually does. Sure, Mona expected all the occasional physically straining experiments and perhaps some light exercises in the mix, welcomed them even, (In the name of research!) but she does not expect all the treasure hoarders and Fatui that seem to exist solely to get in the way.
She’s a regular companion to expeditions outside of Mondstadt nowadays, so much so that Albedo actually trusts her to be his only companion when Sucrose and Timaeus are otherwise occupied. It’s an honor Mona doesn’t abuse. She helps out as much as she can, tries not to be a hindrance. She fights back, protects their research.
Now here’s the thing: Mona’s a good fighter. She’s absolutely certain of it. She’d been blessed with a Vision and a hag insistent on teaching her how to fight after all. She knows how to be quick on her feet, to dodge, and match blow for blow. She takes every fight seriously. Because arrogance gets you killed in combat.
Yet, despite all this, she thinks Albedo may be even more skilled than her.
Each swipe of his sword is precise, calculated. Gaze focused, footwork practiced and effortless. She could learn from him, she thinks. He looks… carefree somehow, beauty and delicateness wrapped in a deadly dance. The flowers are a nice touch. They are as sophisticated as he is.
Mona thinks about shooting stars when she watches him fight. Thinks of what everyone knows of them. Balls of light streaking across the sky beautifully. They are hopeful, seemingly powerful things. Falling, falling, gone, but in such an elegant manner. They look like explosions sometimes, when they disappear into nothingness.
Mona doesn’t actually see the disappearing part in Albedo until he suddenly keels over one day, mid-battle, and starts to glow.
“Albedo?!”
(Mona is watching a shooting star burst at this very moment.)
Before she can even move towards him, the dam breaks.
The area is overcome by a bright, blinding light. When the dust settles and the ominous magenta Albedo emanates dissipates, she’s left gaping at the unconscious Fatui at his feet. Albedo doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t think he can. He’s still hunched over, breathing ragged breaths, falling apart at the seams-
(More cracks. He’s going to break-)
“Are you-”
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”
Mona feels something in her chest tighten. “But-”
“Please.”
The sheer emotion in that single word pushes her into a decision.
She tells Albedo’s apprentices that the Fatui had gotten the best of him this time around, when she carries him back to Mondstadt. Tells Klee an experiment went wrong the next time. Tells herself he’s more than capable of handling this the next next time. And the time after that. And the time after that.
(Falling, falling, gone.)
Her eyes wander to his mouth more often than not.
She has no malicious intentions. She’s a respectable astrologist, thank you very much. And she’s his friend now. Albedo has told her as much. It’s a title Mona wears with pride.
It’s just that it can’t be helped sometimes.
The eyes are the gateways to the soul after all, but, when it comes to Albedo, Mona’s only met failure in that avenue. It only makes perfect, logical sense for them to gravitate to his mouth. And it’s a normal mouth. Nothing odd about it. Albedo has perfect teeth. Mona didn’t expect anything less. He’s a neat freak, what with how organized his lab and belongings always are.
It’s what he says and how he says them that Mona is paying attention to.
She thinks she knows him well enough now to know when he’s lying. Granted, the only lies he ever really commits are lies of omission, so it’s not that difficult. To her at least. It becomes increasingly obvious to Mona though, the moment he actually starts lying through his teeth and the ease in which he does so.
“You sure you’re alright, Albedo?” Klee looks up at him worriedly. Her grip on Mona’s hand tightens in worry. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” Albedo reassures her, barely keeping the fatigue out of his voice. The lighting in the lab covers the dark circles under his eyes. He looks at Mona meaningfully before directing his gaze back to Klee. “Your friend Qiqi is here visiting, correct? You should play with her for the time being. Mona and I have something to discuss.”
Klee looks as unsure as Mona feels, but she ultimately complies. She gives them both a quick hug before running off, a smile on her face like nothing is wrong. Six times.
“Pardon?”
Mona holds his gaze. “This is the sixth time you’ve lied to her about being fine. With Sucrose and Timaeus, it’s been more than ten instances combined.”
“You keep count.” More of a statement than a question. He may be deteriorating, but his penchant for remaining wholly unsurprised remains. “I was hoping I’d done a better job at concealing it. Sucrose no longer believes me. I believe she may have even written to Lumine about the matter.”
Mona tuts. “As she should. We’re not blind, you know, Mr. Kreideprinz.”
How can they be when instances of weakness become increasingly frequent? She’s lost count of how many times she’s caught Albedo passed out on the floor, hunched over, cracks in his skin, miasma escaping him. Perfection broken down. Purity corrupted. No amount of research she does sheds light on the situation.
Something is happening. Something bad is happening and he is keeping them all in the dark.
“I’m fine,” Albedo repeats. Even if he knows she doesn’t believe him.
It is with a wave of sadness and hurt that Mona realizes this is the first time he lies to her.
(And the last.)
(She should’ve known. She should’ve known-)
Albedo's eyes tell Mona nothing now. They are now a vacant magenta.
Lumine is cradling his body in her lap, tears falling onto a crack-filled face. The harsh winds of Dragonspine do not drown out Klee’s sobs or the buzz of the Knights behind them all, both mourning and already trying to figure out how to break this to the rest of Mondstadt. Mona is doing neither.
She’s still trying to read him, still trying to find signs of life. There has to be. She tries her best, even when residual smog clogs up her nose. She grasps an unnaturally cold hand. She wills it to move.
One thing the stars never needed to tell her is that he is strong. Something like this, this ridiculous miasma, should be nothing to him. One thing she doesn’t learn from the stars is that Albedo is an embodiment of enduring beauty. He is an old soul, mature, insightful, inspiring. Albedo’s hands told her he was a hard worker, determined, he deserves better- he deserved better-
It takes Lumine’s hug to realize Mona is sobbing.
It takes one look at the eyes she’d been so desperate to read for her to fall apart.
(Maybe the stars were ahead of her this time. Maybe she’d seen nothing because there was nothing to see.)