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Albedo has always been able to read people.
Not as if it was a hard thing to do; in his opinion, people were like the texts he often consumed, just less matter-of-fact and often harbouring intentions for which he had to read between the lines — but lines they were all the same.
It was, perhaps, why he had been first declared a ‘prodigy’ — not that he considered himself as such. He had been able to read every thought of his poor mother — who immediately declared him a genius and sought to enrol him in the most prestigious school in all of Mondstadt — a school which he actually did end up attending, three years earlier than the other kids.
His mother had been overjoyed — a child prodigy, who wouldn’t — and perhaps she even dreamed that it would bring her estranged husband back to him, so much so that he feared she saw nought how it reflected on her son. That was not to say he was any sort of damaged — he was rather, at the most of times, put together — but her cooing over his every measly act as if he had won a prize; well, it made him rather immune to praise and achievement.
And there were prizes, of course — prize after prize after prize, gold medal after blue ribbon after gold medal — piled high and looming over the shelf in his room, until even the townsfolk on the street knew who he was, until he had no one to speak to who would not end up showering him in meaningless praises.
It was, perhaps, why his world looked so drab; hues of grey and black mixed into scenery people proclaimed was colourful; and he could not left himself believe that this was it, that this dreary palette was all the world would ever amount to.
There were spots of colour, of course; glimpses of beauty between freckled seams of light — friends he made along the way — Captain Kaeya, with his cheerful nature and brotherly approach, who treated him like he was just another man, like he didn’t have a thousand titles perched upon him. Klee and Alice; alike with their destructive nature, sweet and tender, the picture-perfect loving family that he had unwittingly been ensnared in. Xingqiu; who was all-too similar to him. A prodigy — yes, but still able to maintain that same vivid worldview that Albedo hungered for, bright and lively — perceptive, but without letting his intelligence distance him from the world.
He supposed, sometimes, that he was envious of him.
Sure, he had his friendships — lively sparring bouts with the Cavalry Captain, occasional drinks with Master Diluc, haphazard tea times with Klee and Jean — but they were not the same kind that he knew Xingqiu held with his friends. They were not the carefree and lively jokes they shared, or the affection that they held towards each other — both verbal and physical — without a thought nor consideration. All his friendships — however close and inviting they were, were always buried under piles of pleasantries, of careful words and pre planned actions; tenuous, as if one small misstep might make them crumble beneath his fingertips.
Quite ironically, the only person he had that could be considered a friend of that closeness was Xingqiu — teasing him to the verge of laughter, witty and sweet in the letters they shared, just a fraction of the closeness he longed to feel with someone. It was, perhaps, pathetic of him to compare companionship through writing to how it must feel in real life — but he longed all the same.
Sometimes, though he rarely liked to admit it, he would paint with colours far more vivid than he saw; overly saturated reds and fluorescent greens, clinging onto the hope that one day the brightness would be brought into his life, that these same colours that felt so exceedingly exaggerated might fade into the mundanity of expectation.
He flew through assistants like he did meals; fast and efficiently, ruthlessly eliminating anyone who didn't fall into his bracket of ‘genius.’ Perhaps it was cutthroat, but he had no desire to be slowed by another's incompetence, and none the patience to work with someone who could not keep up with him. He knew his expectations were high — he had gotten to where he was because no one could keep up with him — but if it came down to one or the other he did not mind working in solitude at all.
Xingqiu said he demanded too much; Albedo maintained the fact that he demanded competence.
It is not so much that you should not demand perfection — merely that, at the very least, you should give them adequate time to reach your level of perfection. Sometimes, the truth to finding a partner is learning not to work with their strengths, but their faults.
Albedo had put the letter away — deemed it a misjudgement at best, a joke at worst, for why should he seek out someone whose faults matched his? What point was there in searching for competence in the incompetent? Maybe, he had missed the point of the letter completely — or maybe, against his better judgement, he realised that his insistence on faults being, well, faults, was Xingqiu’s point.
Jean caught him outside his office, a couple days later.
Standing by her side, a girl a bit short than him, kitted out in puffy sleeves and neat clothing, a pair of wired glasses perched upon her nose and an anemo vision strapped to her body. He had to admit, with slight interest, that she was not who he had suspected Jean's next attempt to be. Vision users were many things — but not many chose to use theirs for science over the lust of battle, at least not in the Knights.
“Albedo.” Jean said in what he idly realised was the voice of his Grand Master, and internally chuckled at her attempt to not sound incredibly exasperated. “This is your new assistant. Sucrose. She has been working in the alchemy department for a short period of time, but she has excelled in her place." Jean quirked her eyebrow meaningfully. "Reminds me of another person I know.”
He bowed his head slightly, then righted himself, holding out a hand and donning what he hoped was a pleasant expression. “It is delightful to meet you, Sucrose." He said formally, and smiled when she slipped a dainty hand into his. He shook it. "I am looking forward to our partnership.”
She seemed to fidget under his gaze, the ears buried in her green hair twitching slightly as his eyes became drawn to them. She pushed the bridge of her glasses up with her free had and gave him a nervous smile. “It is an honour to work with you, Sir.”
Albedo retracted his hand and cleared his throat. “Please, we must not be far apart in age. Call me Albedo."
In another world, her outraged expression would have been cute; either that or comical, but now it merely brought a tick to his brow. "That is generous, but I could never, Mr Albedo.”
Albedo nodded shortly, not being too fussed about what she referred to him as, and dropped a quick bow in Jeans direction. “Thank you, Master Jean. I will get her settled in to the Alchemy department.”
The look Jean sent his way let him know that she knew what he was thinking, and that her returning nod was incredibly pointed. Albedo would, possibly, have shrugged — that was, if it wasn’t incredibly rude. He was not confident she would last more than a few months — she may have a vision and ears, but he was assured that she would not be any different.
—
Time flies.
She does, in fact, turn out to be different.
Quiet afternoons delve between the overriding waves of awkward to comforting, the peace of company becoming more and more welcome as intelligence crinkled the curves on her cheeks, framed the lens that surrounded her glasses, as it became obvious to Albedo that she was more than his perception of her, that beneath rows of mumbled speech and unheard thoughts lay a brain far more wise than he could’ve ever given her credit for.
She stays a week. And then a month. Before he knows it, she has slotted herself so perfectly into Albedos life that he does not notice it.
His life is still monochrome. His life still shifts quietly along between the gaps of companionship that no one seemed to reach to him for. The days drag their feet through deserts of isolation and quiet meals in his office, but somehow, slowly, he was no longer alone.
Sucrose awaited him every morning, Sucrose stayed late every night. The takeout he ordered from Good Hunter was for two, the space at his — at their — desk cleared out for two, the silence of the lab was filled with two sets of breathing, two heartbeats, two people.
Sucrose was drawn, respectful. He dared not consider her a friend — she was nothing like those who had worn the title before — however, he had come to think of her as more than an assistant. Her reservations bit on him in a way he could not understand, and he longed to know more about the woman across the oom, longed to see more of the side she would not show him.
Xingqiu, smugly, writes ‘I told you so’, and Albedo almost sends him a box of carrots in retaliation.
He makes a trip back up to Dragonspine. The icy terrain is familiar and comfortable, his experiments sailing as smoothly as he could hope. He loses himself in the work, loses himself in the alchemy that had been his only solstice all these years.
Xingqiu and Chongyun come to visit him, and it isn’t until he has people around again that he realises how much he misses it. Its not a feeling he’s familiar with — missing people — and he finds himself surprised, in the end, that not even Xingqiu’s company can make up for the long hours spent alone, and that not even their joyful evenings are enough to stop the empty pit in his stomach from growing.
He remembers, once upon a time, that this amount of chatter would have worn him out, that the presence of someone out would’ve drenched him like a flame, and it is perhaps his desire to remain in human company that has Xingqiu crinkling his brow, that has Xingqiu wearing a smile so smug he you’ve been more subtle if he wore a bag over his head with SMUG scribbled across it.
He remembers, once upon a time, that he was used to being alone.
Even though this should’ve been an easy revelation — even though he was content with his life before — he couldn’t help but pity himself. Couldn’t help but press his hands against the silence of his childhood and clear away the smog that had built, the layers that had separated him from warmth, the ice that had guarded his heart.
Chongyun had fallen asleep on Xingqiu’s lap, his eyelashes fluttering softly as Xingqiu cradled through his hair, his cheeks softly pink under the effect of the cold. He, being a cryo wielder, had no use for warmth, and in Chongyun’s case, any sort of heat was rather detrimental to his mental health.
Albedo sighed, pausing the sketch he was doing of said man, and Xingqiu glanced up curiously. He couldn’t hide the fond smile on his face, nor the adoring look still lingering in his eyes, and Albedos stomach curled with the desire to understand this sort of intimacy.
“Whats wrong?” He questioned idly, still stroking Chongyun as if he was a cat. “Did you commit an error while drawing? Don’t worry, I’m sure Yunyun won’t mind.”
Albedo held it up, and Xingqiu’s brows lifted in happiness. He was always happier seeing sketches of Chongyun then he ever was seeing sketches of himself. “No, it's not that.” He hesitates slightly.
“What then, Albedo? Its not like you to be at a loss for words, why, sometimes I’m most certain you could wax poetry better than even the most skilled writers.”
“You flatter me.” Xingqiu gives him a bright smile, and Albedo laughs slightly. “I’m just wondering as to how it feels to have such a … close … companionship with someone.”
Xingqiu looks almost affronted, and Albedo couldn’t fault him. For all his jeers, for all his jokes, never had he truly considered that Albedo would have this sort of side. Albedo had always been alone — even in letters that was evident — Albedo had always framed physical and emotional contact as something he found displeasing. Though he adored the sibling bond he shared with Klee, it was about as far as he was willing to go.
He looked unsure, and it was so out of place on someone like Xingqiu that Albedo almost burst out laughing. “You … companionship? Pray tell, have you finally felt someone you’re interested in?”
A heat of coil twisted in his stomach, rising from where it had been dormant, and he stayed silent.
Returning to Mondstadt was a breath of fresh air.
For once in his life, he realised he had missed the city of freedom, the heat of the sun, the bustle of the crowd, the familiarity of his old lab. He had enjoyed his time on Dragonspine, of course — his research always came first — but there was something so echoingly comforting about the concept of home that he couldn’t possibly ignore it this time.
Perhaps it was the sight of Xingqiu and Chongyun, who so obviously had a home in each other, that made the bell toll louder, that ranged his spark of fondness into a burning desire for comfort. The whistles of Charles as he swept around the tavern, the quiet knocks Noelle gave as she visited with tea, the shrill cries of pigeons sweeping overhead as he wandered the town.
And Sucrose.
Sucrose, her smile ghosting his heart with warmth, the simplicity of their routine falling back together like clockwork, the gentle murmurings underneath her breath a backing track to the hours of work that they spent together, side by side in quiet companionship.
He watches her place a careful bead of mixture onto a flower petal, and watches silently as the cecilia drips from its signature white into a glimmering royal blue. Sucrose looks ecstatic, and goes to scribble something down, murmuring all the while —
“Reduce the concentration of the elixir—“ She runs across the room, reaching for her observation journal — “The potency of the mixture should not be affected by the—“ A glass knocks over in her haste, and a vial of clear liquid smashes on the floor.
She looks woefully flustered, but Albedo just smothers a laugh, feeling something akin to fondness. She catches him, and after a tentative second, begins to laugh on her own, cheeks stained red and voice clear.
When Albedo looks up, the world seems brighter.
—
Albedo loved painting.
From those who knew him to those who don’t, from friend to foe, pretty much all of Mondtsadt knew that Albedo loved painting.
Often, he would sit on the streets of the town, pen in hand, sketching the scenery from up above. Often, someone would find him curved up in some crevice, eyes fixated on a little crack in the stone, a small odd shaped leaf, a fracture of light. Often, they would see him be tugged through the streets by a girl in a red dress, pointing out people to draw, more often than not holding a couple pages of a crudely drawn cavalry captain in her small hands.
Outside of Mondstadt, he would often lay against an old tree, easel set up under the shade, his book littered with all sorts of different creatures, filled with all sorts of mobs. Irregularly, an adventurer would come stumbling by, and a humanoid figure would finally join his page.
People often remarked on his paintings; some said they were too dulled, some claimed they were too vibrant — truly, he did not know himself where they lay. He loved using the brightest colours he could see, colours that stragglers called muddy, colours that to him, made up the view he wished he could visit.
Either way, they all called him a genius.
(For once, he allowed himself to enjoy those words.)
It had been months after he visited Dragonspine, and he was soaking up the last rays of sun splattered paint before his return when Sucrose arrived, hat pushed back slightly, making her ears stand out more than usual, her wire rimmed glasses tilting dangerously on her face.
She had just come to deliver a message from the Acting Grandmaster — nothing special, just a note about delegations in his absence — and it may have been the heat on his back, it may have been the carefree atmosphere of the afternoon, but he felt himself reaching towards her, grasping her thin wrist within his hands, causing her to drop the note with a small gasp.
He paused for a moment, loosing himself — what was he about to do? — before taking a breath and gesturing to his canvas. “Wait. Stay for a while. Let me paint you.”
Sucrose looked startled, although not unhappy. A careful pink washed over her cheeks and she twisted her fingers together before giving him a bright smile and nodding shallowly. “Thank you then, Mr.Albedo. I’ve never been drawn before.”
Albedo retreated to his easel, determinedly looking at anywhere but Sucrose, taking up a small piece of charcoal before laying out his sketch.
Her cheeks were soft, smooth lines that rounded out to a jutted chin. Her nose was a flat curve, button and small, just beneath her jaw. Her eyes were mostly obscured by the wide frame of her glasses, although they sloped downwards just slightly. Her eyelashes were surprisingly long, the tips of them brushing her cheek when she blinked, little rays of sun peeking through them.
He paused when he got to her ears, hesitating slightly before drawing them on, careful and reverent, focusing on the layers of hair that obscured it, the folds of her hat that lapped over the base, the soft insides velvet and smooth.
Painting her was something else. Her cheeks were a careful porcelain dotted with strawberries, her hair was the colour of spring. Eyes like flickers of gold, carefully obscured by bold strokes of wire and strings of mint that hid their brilliance.
A crystalfly fluttered over, the patterned wings flapping delicately as they neared her face, and sucrose reached out for it carefully, a small smile on her face, her eyes crinkling into crescents, sweet and gentle, filling his heart in a way Albedo had never known.
He felt a word arise in him, a word that he never used to describe his canvases.
Beautiful.
He took a shuddering breath as it washed over him, letting his paintbrush tumble into the grass as he hunched over, hand covering his face as it flamed with heat, unused to thinking such thoughts, unused to the warm feelings creeping inside him.
Sucrose startled up from her perch, trotting over to him, questions on her lips as she went to pick up his paintbrush, halted when she caught sight of the painting.
Albedo dared to look up, red flush undoubtedly still coiling in his cheeks, only to find her mesmerised with the view. Stunned eyes darted back and forth, her lips parted in a silent notion of surprised, she raised a hand, as if wanting to trace the lines of the painting, before jerking back as she realised the paint was still wet.
“Do you like it?” He found himself asking, his voice tinged in something he himself couldn’t identify, insecurity.
“Oh Mr.Albedo…” She breathed, softer than a summers breeze. “I love it. You’ve drawn me…” Her voice broke slightly. “Beautiful.”
You are beautiful. He wanted to say, but all that brought was another flood of red to his cheeks. He coughed into his palm, as if he was convincing himself of his composure. “I only painted what I saw. I’m glad you like it.”
She turned to him, and smiled so brightly that he was sure the sun would have a hard time competing.
The world dipped into the faintest shades of colour, as if strokes from pencil had just been obscured by thin coats of paint, as if priming the canvas for something better, something more.
And perhaps it was him leaving for Dragonspine tomorrow, perhaps it was the echo of the emptiness he had felt there last time, perhaps it was her genius, perhaps it was his desire for the comforting routine they had settled into.
(Perhaps, he didn’t let himself consider, it was the heat glistening at the pit of his stomach.)
“Sucrose.” Her smile waned slightly, as if expecting him to tell her off, and gnawed his teeth together for only a second more. “Will you come to Dragonspine with me?”
—
Dragonspine, he finds, is different with Sucrose around.
She pauses at ever nook and cranny, searching for something he didn’t know, picking up idle twigs or dead plants to examine, her collection being rapidly filled with faded greenery and new vegetation. She even showed up once at the camp with a bag of bones he couldn’t identify, and if he was anyone else, perhaps he would’ve been concerned.
They have a new routine this time — it was different, but not unwelcome. Albedo rose early in the mornings to cook them breakfast and wake her with mugs of tea, Sucrose cooked dinner and joined him when he was deepest in his work, both of them finishing up the days research until their lids fell heavy and their limbs grew tired.
Occasionally, Albedo would join Sucrose making dinner, and instead they would spend that night sat around the fire, quietly talking during their meal, cleaning off their plates and simply enjoying what he had come to identify as friendship.
He would never admit it, but those were the nights he enjoyed the most.
Xingqiu didn’t join him this time, far too busy with his new book — what it was about, he had withheld from Albedo — and although he wasn’t there, Albedo was no was no longer alone, not in the same way that he was before.
Sucrose was different — she wasn’t easygoing nor expressed affection easily. She didn’t have crowds of friends, and sometimes she retreated into silence and shyness — but she was a friend all the same.
It was peculiar, being friends with sucrose.
It was a myriad of things he couldn’t depict — strange smiles that linger, touches that he chased, wanted more of — conversations that had his heart jumping within the confines of his chest, that had his pulse ringing loud and clear in his ears.
It was watching her work, mesmerised by her everything, never so content to watch something so mundane as her going about her day. He enjoyed every shift of her expression, every twist of her smile, every wrinkle of nose — it was fascination he hadn’t known before, it was raw, it was slow and it burned.
Obsession over every single thing, an obsession he was used to only being present in his research, and more than ever, now, the desire to be perfect. The desire to only let her see his best face, the need to have her think highly of him — things he had never had to think before, words he had never thought would relate to him, words that now sent even his mind into disarray.
And more than ever, the thought that she was perfect.
Of course, he knew she had imperfections — her fears, her shyness, her insecurity — she made mistakes in her work just as everyone did, she was sometimes unbearably clumsy — but these did nothing to repel the growing need inside him to hold her, the chorus of voices in his head that sung her praises he had not known he thought.
For once, she didn’t have to be his standard of perfect.
(He wonders, idly, if the turnings in his chest, the tugs on strings he couldn't have fathomed, could expressed through a canvas, understood finally the longing that he read about in those novels he had so-simply dismissed as dramatised.)
He picks up a pen and writes to the one person who would understand.
You may call me an utter fool, Xingqiu. And for once you would probably be correct. It is not a common occurrence that I write to you like this, not disillusioned with the world but unsure of myself and these things that I hold in my chest. Before you decide to, no you can not frame this letter. It would very much ruin your wall of beautiful calligraphy.
I am unsure as to how to begin letters like these. I usually write factual recountings of my work or on occasion critiques on your writing, but never like this. I do suppose I ought to just get on with it, but putting words to ink has been more difficult than I intended.
He pauses, and for a moment finds it all too ridiculous.
What was he doing?
Writing a letter to Xingqiu, pouring out his heart in some attempt to understand his own emotions? It was so painfully out of character for him that he wondered if celestia was watching over him, jeering at ever cynical Albedo being so strung up over something as simple as emotions.
He leaves his desk, makes his way over to the part that has been sculpted into an office, two desks set up beside each other, their research pinned up on the curved slope of the cave walls, and finds Sucrose asleep, head tucked between her arms that wrapped securely around her.
He smiles unconsciously, shrugging off his coat and tucking it over her shoulders, his fingers moving to brush her bangs away from her forehead, stroking the velvety strands almost idly before focusing on her lips, slightly parted, exhaling small, white puffs of air.
He wonders what they would feel like, pressed to his.
…
Barbatos.
Albedo dropped to the floor, hands clutching over his flaming face, eyes wide and heart thudding in his ears, blood pounding in every crevice of his skin as the singular thought lodged itself in his brain: He liked Sucrose.
He liked Sucrose.
He wanted to hold her, he wanted to kiss her, he wanted to hold her hand, he wanted to do everything and anything with her, he wanted her.
And somehow, though he was sure he should’ve seen this coming a long time ago, he had chosen this one area to be completely obtuse in. And with the creeping tingle of warmth that came flooding through him also came an emotion he could not name, fear.
He stumbled back to his desk, a flurry of words running from his pen without any hesitation, help and Sucrose and like spilling onto the page, writing as fast as he could think, a mess of illegible feelings and thoughts that he didn’t think to detangle.
I like her, I like her, I like her.
Before he can have any regrets, he sends the letter.
—
Dear Mr.Kreideprinz,
Are you sure I can’t frame the letter, My Liege?
Allow me to recount most spectacular instances of your eloquence. I think my favourite must be ‘How does it feel to kiss one you love? It must feel spectacular, I can’t imagine it being much else, oh Lord Barbatos I want to kiss her.’
I know that I am mocking your most sincere letter to me, but forgive this humble writer for being overjoyed at seeing the ever calm and reserved man that you are crumble into a lovestruck fool. It is most enchanting, and I am sure your little lady will find it most charming.
Might this swordsman request a picture of your loved one, My Liege? I have discerned nothing but your rambles of her beauty — ‘Her hair is like the finest wisps of spring. How does your Chongyun’s hair feel? I want to feel her hair. It looks soft. She looks soft. I love how she looks.'
… Alright, alright, I am finished with my teasing.
My Liege, you are one of the bravest, kindest men I know. Your elegance knows no bounds, your generosity and genius spoken about even in the lands of Liyue. You are not tempted by money nor fame. To be frank and to save me from singing your endless praises, you have no reason to be worried about rejection.
Love is a finicky, difficult endeavour that often disappoints. Especially for you, having finally found such paradise in this woman, the thought of being turned away must be terrifying beyond my understanding, but I can tell you what I do know.
I have not a doubt in my mind that she returns your feelings, for she sounds far from a fool. She has become the exception, and you have become the one who made her feel special. A alchemist and his assistant, quite a spectacular pairing, do you think not?
Ahem, forgive me for once again joking around.
To be plagued by thoughts like these are not uncommon. To want to do something about it is an act of courage. No matter what, I am by your side. When in doubt, I am only a letter away, never forget that.
I will be rooting for you, now and always.
I have the honour to be,
Your friend,
Xingqiu
Second son of the Feiyun Commerce Guild.
P.S: “Why must my heart palpitate every time I see her? I thought I had heart problems.” — Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t resist.
—
Albedo was no stranger to uncertainty.
His master was not the kindest in the world, the monsters he has faced upon the snowcapped mountain fiercer and fiercer. There are times he was not sure he would make it out. There are times he didn’t know if he cared whether he could make it out alive.
Insecurity, however, was new.
The heartbreaking reality of possible rejection — something he has never had to entertain — reaches through him, claims his heart with a hand of ice, squeezes it until he can’t possibly breathe, grips him tight and leaves him stranded, entangled in a web of corruption he can’t detangle himself from.
He can’t hep but run through a million scenarios in his head, each one more impossible than the one before, ones where Sucrose not only quietly lets him down but becomes cruel, realities where Sucrose taunts him with his feelings, scenarios that surely, the kind Sucrose would never commit to, but still feel so unbearably real that it leaves him trembling with fear.
Worse than that are dreams of silence.
Of the warmth retreating, of her quietly and neatly leaving his life, pulling away what she had willingly given him, leaving him bare and alone in the face of self hate, of ice and snow, taking the flowers of colour that had slowly bloomed through his heart with her as she disappears with a sweep of her cloak.
Those are always worse, not only because they are so much more possible, but because he is faced with the reality he would rather have her, spiteful and angry, in his life than without her, no matter how much he would hurt from it.
It's the first time he’s ever offered anyone this piece of himself, it’s the first time anyone has had close to this sort of control over him. It's terrifying, it's exhilarating, and he finds himself stranded in the free fall of his affection, the bottomless pit of emotions he had suppressed.
He hesitates; he’s never done that before.
That is perhaps, how he finds himself, nervous, at the florists, asking for a bouquet of cecillias, ignoring the looks that the people around him were giving him. The ever aloof Albedo, the ever cold alchemist, clutching a bouquet of flowers to his chest as if he was some sort of hopeless romantic — a spectacle.
The little girl at the store beams up at him. “Are those for a missus, Sir? We just got them in today, they’re very bright and lively. Missus Honorary Knight picked them!”
Albedo smiled down at the flowers, then turned a neutral face to her. “They are, in fact.” He divulges, and rolls the pad of his thumb over one of the petals, and couldn’t help but think they resembled how Sucrose’s cheek would feel. “How much?”
“Hundred and four mora, Sir!” She chirped, and he counted out the coins in his palm before pressing them to the table. She counted them as well before nodding. “Thank you for your business, Sir! She’ll love them!”
God, he hoped so.
He returned to the lab, pausing at the door as he steeled himself, hitting his forehead against the wood as he tried to figure out what he was going to say, only to begin pacing — a habit he hadn’t ever had before — in the hallway, clutching the flowers so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“I like you, Sucrose, go out with me.” He muttered as he paced. “I like you, Sucrose, go out with me. I like you, Sucrose, go out with me.”
He was so distracted that he didn’t hear the door opening.
"I like you, Sucrose, go out with me.” He repeated groaning slightly. “I like you, Sucrose. Go out with me?” No, that wasn’t right either. “I like you, Sucrose. Please go out with—“
“— Mr.Albedo?”
He froze in his spot, almost letting the flowers fall to the floor, rooted to the floor, unwilling to turn around.
“I heard you banging on the door — I thought I might’ve locked … locked you out.” She explained, stammering slightly as she went, and Albedo could imagine her fiddling with the tip of her bangs. “So um, about what you said—“
Albedo spun around abruptly, face flaming, putting a hand over her mouth to seal the words as he let out a panicked sound. “Don’t!”
Seeing the alarm on her face, he cleared his throat and retracted his hand, embarrassed as he looked determinedly down at his feet. “Don’t.” He said, though it was soft this time. “I — I didn’t — you weren’t supposed to — not yet —“
A small giggle, and Albedo’s head shot up.
Sucrose was laughing, clutching her pink cheeks with her hands, small sounds escaping from her mouth, shaking silently against the wall as she tried to let him maintain his dignity. He felt the tips of his ears burn, and he didn’t even know that was possible.
“Is that for me?” She asked, and he remembered he was still holding the bouquet. He nodded numbly, and handed them over to her silently. She stroked the petals, sniffing at the flowers delicately before hugging the bouquet to her chest. She smiled, soft and serene. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful.” He said before he could stop himself, and Sucrose’s cheeks darkened as she hid her face behind the flowers.
A deep breath. A shuddering exhale.
“I like you, Sucrose.”
I will be rooting for you, now and always.
“Please go out with me.”
He hoped Xingqiu wouldn’t be the only one.
He felt a hand cup his face, and peered at Sucrose who was looking very determined, not a trace of her staple shyness in sight, daringly smiling at him before leaning in and pressing their lips together.
Heat exploded through him.
Her lips were soft and warm, a comforting presence. She tasted like the flickers of fire on Dragonspine, comforting and secure, chasing away the frostbite that threatened to swallow him whole, chasing away the fears that had consumed him so completely.
When she pulled away, the gold of her eyes were clearer to him than ever.
—
Time with Sucrose moves fast.
One date becomes two, two becomes weekly, weekly becomes routine. They settle into a new pattern, a new routine, just them, just them forever.
She moves in with him, cluttering his bare-bones house with ornaments and flowers, clearing his residence into a home, a shy flutter of her eyelashes as she tells him that she is glad his house is big enough for children.
Xingqiu publishes a book not a year after they get together — “The Cynicism of Alchemic Affection” — speaking the tale of a lone immortal alchemist and his mortal companion, a girl from the village who loves flowers and joins him on his journey.
(Albedo learns, after, that this is the story Xingqiu has been writing all along, that he has known from the start, far before Albedo had figured it out himself.)
Sucrose and Xingqiu get along, just like he knew they would. Xingqiu brings her flowers when he visits, bright pinks and pale blues, flowers they couldn’t find in Mondstadt, flowers that light up Sucrose like a flame in the night sky.
Surrounded by them, he finally knows what it feels like to love.
Life is no longer lonely. He can’t imagine being alone anymore, not even for a second.
Of course, no relationship is easy. They have their ups and downs, they have their arguments and disagreements, they had a split that lasted for all of a month before crashing back into each other, reactive alike in their unreactives, desire and love pulling at them like strings.
They had their sorrows. When Alice passed and Albedo was riddled with grief he had never experienced before, when the worst of human emotion crashed over them like a tidal wave, where he lost the things that had made him the genius that he was — Sucrose was the light at the end of the tunnel, always willing to lend a ear, always willing to listen, hand held out in a silent invitation.
They had their joys, when Sucrose was offered an Alchemy internship in Fontaine, and though the months without her were long and laborious, her joy was enough to keep them together, their hands pressed together as they went from Chief and Assistant to Partners, in more ways than one.
Sometimes, when he sits on the balcony of his home, Sucrose’s head resting on his lap, he can’t help but think that sunsets could not possibly be more beautiful than this. Sometimes, when he paints, he can’t help but dim the colours slightly, just so that people don’t complain about its brightness.
When Albedo is wrapped up in Sucrose, Xingqiu wearing the title of Best Man beside him, the rings on their fingers tying them together forever, Albedo knows that there is no one in the world he would rather have by his side.
A box of paintings sits, forgotten in their cellar, and it is not until years later that Albedo finds it.
Paintings of landscapes, of cracks and leaves and light, stacked neatly against each other, unframed and ignored, their colours dull, lifeless.
It’s where he finds it again, the singular painting of Sucrose in which he had first fallen in love.
He hears gentle footfall behind him, and tilts his head up so that Sucrose can press their lips together, sweet and familiar, letting him gather her up in his arms as they join together on the floor. His hand cupping her cheek as he deepens the kiss, and Sucrose nips at his lip before pulling away.
“What are you looking at?” He voice is still soft, still carrying the silk that accompanies her gentle demeanour, but she has lost the stutter that had once been her trademark, shed with the hat that had once obscured her rarity.
Albedo presses the painting into her hand, and she laughs slightly before tracing the line of her face with her finger, paint long dry.
He has drawn her many times since then, from the portrait hanging in their bedroom to the sketchbooks filled with her everyday life, each one done so perfectly as the curves of her face became nothing more than muscle memory, as he began to know her face better than he knew his own.
“Its beautiful.” She said fondly, holding it to her chest. “We should hang it somewhere.”
Albedo went a bit pink. “Its an early drawing.” Despite everything, he was still not immune to the human feeling of hating ones old work, especially with a skill that he had developed like art. “It’s drawn really badly, nothing like the paintings I do of you now.”
Sucrose smiled, and leaned up to peck his cheek. “I know, but its the first painting you’ve ever done of me. I still very much treasure it, just as I do with all the others.”
Albedo turns it over again, and frowns slightly.
It is, in its own right, a fine piece of work — the brushwork is careful, rough in the right places, intentionally painterly, and he can definitely say it was one of the better ones from back then — it was definitely Sucrose, but even without close scrutiny, it seemed… lacking.
“Don’t you think it’s missing something?” He asked, tilting his head so he could kiss Sucroses forehead. She pushed forward to stare harder at the painting.
“No, I think it’s quite lovely, actually.” She stroked her own painted face again. “Perhaps a little monochrome, the colouring.”
Albedo had remembered how incredibly bright he had thought her in that moment.
Her cheeks were a careful porcelain dotted with strawberries, her hair was the colour of spring. Eyes like flickers of gold, carefully obscured by bold strokes of wire and strings of mint that hid their brilliance.
He can’t help but pity his past self, for if only he could see the beauty that she was now.
“My life is so much brighter now.” He said, mystified. “You’ve really made it more colourful than I could’ve ever imagined.”
Sucrose went pink. “I love you, Albedo.”
He linked their fingers together, rubbing his thumb over the ring of gold on her finger. “I love you too.”