Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone always talks about being lonely like it’s a bad thing, as if it is impossible to enjoy one’s own company for any period of time without rattling the windows and begging for contact. Even those who claim to be introverts get touch-starved, people-starved. It is in the nature of humanity to crave contact because humans are, by and large, social creatures out of necessity.

There are so many reasons for this, but Albedo is no anthropologist, nor is he overly-familiar with biology, psychology, sociology—the -ologies of the world can be curated by those with a mind for it.

Albedo deals in forces, in movement, in vectors and velocity. Physics is tangible cause and effect, and everything is explainable. Emotions, interpersonal relationships, and all that which often defies explanation or reason are best left to the experts.

And yet.

Albedo knows that he’s too old for this sort of nonsense, and that gives him what he considers to be a healthy sense of shame. At ten o’clock, his phone chirps; he silences the alarm before he stands up from his desk and glances outside the window. He’s on the third story, sure, but it doesn’t stop him being cautious. The blinds snap shut and he turns off his desk lamp before grabbing his laptop and getting into bed.

“Good evening, everyone.” Familiar tones ring through his bedroom and he lets all the tension run out of his shoulders. In the bottom right corner of the screen, the viewer count ticks up. Fast. Albedo isn’t sure how he found this stream at first, but once he had, he’d watched it every night it came on, and he wasn’t the only one. “Thanks for joining me. Tonight, I’m going to be reading chapters four through six, continuing from last night. If you missed it, I put the video up earlier, so you might want to watch it first. I’ll give you a minute—let me get ready.”

But the boy on the screen is already prepared. He has a glass of water, his book, and his candle burning brightly. Albedo watches the play of light over his face, in the golden sunset of his eyes, and he wonders what getting ready means for Aether. He always closes his eyes for a few moments like he’s meditating; maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

Albedo closes his eyes, too. Here, there is no time, and he has no sense of how long his eyes have been closed when Aether begins to read. 

Over the course of two years, Albedo has listened to Aether read to his audience—to him—three nights a week without fail. Sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it’s a novel. Tonight, it is a layman’s book on string theory, and that is entirely Albedo’s fault. Aether will read anything (really, anything) on air that his viewers decide for him. The choices are picked by poll, though sometimes a donor will pay him to read a specific title. This series is one such.

Albedo’s purchase, Albedo’s favorite subject—and Albedo’s one and only published book. Hearing it spoken in Aether’s voice is enough to get anyone’s heart racing. Over the course of the next hour and a half, Aether carefully shapes each sentence with care, words sounding sweet on his tongue. Unlike some other works, Aether seems genuinely interested in this one, and that just makes it all the better.

Once he finishes his reading for the evening, Aether wishes his viewers a wonderful evening then signs off. Albedo watches his every move as he waves his fingers to the camera and tucks a lock of hair back before ending the stream; just as Albedo starts to close the app, it...rings.

He is paralyzed for several seconds, staring at the name of the caller before double checking that his camera is covered. There is a moment of hesitation, then he clicks ‘Accept’. His voice is rough from disuse; studying all day didn’t leave a lot of time for socialization. Not trusting himself to speak, he types into the chat:

hello?

After a short delay, the camera feed turns on and Aether appears on his screen. “Hi, Princeps—sorry, I should have asked. I hope I’m not out of line, calling you like this? And it’s late...I wasn’t thinking. I can go.” Cheeks faintly pink, he seems shy, embarrassed even.

no it’s okay! 

sorry my microphone...

Albedo has never typed so fast in his life. Aether’s eyes flick to the chat, and his smile is relieved. “It’s—that’s alright. I, uh. You know, I just…” 

Oh, this was interesting. Aether was always so well-spoken on stream that seeing him flustered is an experience Albedo had never considered. The sight of it—the embarrassed dip of the chin, the flush, the awkward neck-rubbing—makes him uncomfortably warm. The public streams often make him uncomfortably warm to the point of embarrassment, but this…

“I just like the book. I wanted to say thanks for having me read it, I guess? Everyone always wants me to read novels or bedtime stories or, you know.” Albedo certainly does know; there were several weeks over the summer spent listening to Aether read erotica on loop. “...Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You’ve been around for a long time, so I’m just, you know. Glad?”

happy to oblige 

I thought you could use a change of pace 

you like it?

“Yeah! I like physics.” The camera shifts as Aether grabs his laptop and, for the first time, shows off more than just the wall behind the chair he reads from. He swings around and sits on a twin bed, the hallmark of every dormitory in existence. “I just finished up my associate’s last semester and transferred to university for it, actually. I’ve read this one already on my own, but I’m happy to again. Do you know of Kreideprinz’s work, or did you just—”

Albedo cannot type fast enough.

this is his only book, isn’t it? 

I mean I’m familiar with it and know it well 

but I haven’t seen anything else by him

“Oh, no—this is his only one, yeah. But he’s got other published stuff, they’re just not books. His white papers are really interesting, too. I discovered his work…”

To say that Albedo is stunned is an understatement. He stares at the screen, hardly blinking, as Aether runs him through his own master’s and PhD theses and current post-doctorate project. Unlike his readings, his voice isn’t slow and even, but loaded with excitement. Passion for the subject.

Passion for his research.

tell me everything

It is one in the morning when Aether yawns and thanks him again before signing off. Albedo stares at the blank screen for some time, unsure what just happened. 

Albedo has never been in love. He doesn’t feel he’s missing anything.

There is no shame in being infatuated, even if one has never met the person on the other end. Albedo tells himself this a hundred times in the following weeks as Aether reads through the book, three chapters a night dropping to two as he takes time at the end of his stream to talk about what he thinks of the posited theories. Albedo never says a word in the chat, only listens with undivided attention.

Well, maybe not undivided entirely. With the blinds drawn and the microphone muted, one can do all sorts of things while Aether reads. There is nothing wrong with that, either—the way his smooth voice winds silkily down the spine, the pooling heat, the ruined clothes—as long as he doesn’t make it creepy.

He doesn’t. Aether never needs to know how Albedo busies his hands during streams. Even when they speak afterward in increasingly-frequent private calls about the topic at hand for the evening, Albedo is nothing short of professional, if friendly. The last thing he wants is to do something to make Aether uncomfortable, something that would end his favorite habit.

Still, he finds his thoughts lingering overlong on their calls as he goes about the rest of his life; it’s downright distracting. He calls it infatuation because it’s the best approximation of what he’s feeling, though he’s never felt anything like it before and can’t really be sure. No one has ever accused him of having the deepest emotional understanding, and until now, that has never bothered him a bit. He hasn’t needed it. Relationships with other people (whatever their classification) are exhausting by their very nature, and he has more pressing interests.

He does. Very pressing. Incredibly pressing.

Albedo sighs and leans back in his chair, putting an earbud in as he slides his chair as far forward as it will go with him in it. His office hours are over and he doesn’t have any planned visitors for the evening, but he knows well that he won’t get any of his own work done so long as he’s preoccupied.

There are some videos Aether doesn’t keep up on his streaming profile, but he does make them available to his monthly subscribers on a separate website. It is one of these that Albedo pulls up and starts once he’s sure his Bluetooth is connected.

“I feel it, the moment he cracks. It runs through him like a wave—first, he exhales sharply, then his fingers dig into my hips, then he steps forward a half-step, then…”

Knock-knock. Albedo nearly throws his phone in a desperate bid to stop the video from playing. He quickly throws it into a drawer along with his headphones, then grabs his pencil. “Come in.” He can play it cool, act like he hasn’t been distractingly aroused for half an hour and is now in the middle of doing something about it. 

The door cracks open, and there is a moment of hesitation on the other side before the person steps through. “Excuse me—Doctor Kreideprinz?”

Albedo’s world comes screeching to a halt.

Aether is in his office, in the flesh, looking directly at him with slightly-widened eyes and a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. He is somehow smaller than he has ever appeared on camera and larger than life all at once: golden, slender, hopeful, exquisite.

The fact that Albedo is able to speak at all is nothing short of a heaven-sent miracle. “...Hello,” he says, voice rough. He clears it then tries again. “Hello. How can I help you?”

Aether’s smile is shatteringly beautiful—pure and full of sincerity, it leaves no doubt that this is precisely where he wants to be. Albedo wants to ask why he’s here, but he learned long ago not to question the things fate or the gods or whatever dropped into his lap. Or the chair on the other side of his desk. Aether sits in it and visibly steels himself, taking a small, huffing breath before he looks into Albedo’s eyes. Perhaps it was bravery that gleamed there, rimmed in gold. Perhaps it was something else.

“My name is Aether. I’m not in any of your classes or anything, I’m still an undergrad, but...oh, sorry.” He thrusts out his hand across the desk, radiating awkward energy.

It is nothing compared to how awkward Albedo feels. His palms are sweaty, and he casually swipes one on his pants leg to dry it before reaching out.

They touch. Aether’s hand slides into his own and squeezes more than shakes, and Albedo doesn’t care. Mouth dry, he squeezes back, eyes focused on the way their thumbs curl around one another. It is an infinitesimally small moment in the grand scheme of things, but for him, it is the birth of a whole new universe, creatio ex nihilo.

This is the universe where Aether is in his office, eyes hopeful and bright and unknowing. This is the one where they touch for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon at 6:15 with no prior warning or hint that it might be this that lay in store. The study of physics is the study of why: why things move, why they act a certain way, or why they exist at all. It is the pursuit and study of truth; however, the laws of physics behave strangely in proximity to some things like black holes. Spaghettification.

Touching Aether is the opposite of that, and Albedo thinks for a moment that after all his research, his degrees, his life’s work...he knows nothing at all.

“Hello, Aether.” He has said it a dozen times in chat, has practiced it a hundred times to himself as though any day will be the day he unmutes his microphone. Not once did it sound like it does now. Reluctantly, he draws his hand back. “If you’re not a student, then how can I—”

Aether bursts. There is no other way to describe it. “I love your book. Your work. I...” He ignites, face burning hot. “...realize how creepy that sounds. Let me try again: I’m a undergraduate in Physics and I transferred to this university because you’re—God, no, that’s not—” 

Albedo presses the side of his fist to his mouth to hide his overwhelming urge to laugh. On stream, Aether is never awkward, never second-guessing himself socially in this way. Usually, he’s a perfect picture of confidence, and yet here he sits, fumbling. “You want a position in my laboratory. You want to research with me.”

“Yes.” Aether’s relief is palpable as his shoulders sag and he smears his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. No, I’m not an—I’m actually just going to shut up.” He is nearly trembling as he reaches into his bag and pulls out a single sheet of resumé paper, then slides it across the desk. 

Albedo takes it, turns it so he can read it. He doesn’t have to read it, incapable of focusing his eyes on the print. “You’re not an idiot.” After several moments (long enough to pretend he’s reading it in its entirety), he slides the resumé off to the side and smiles. “When would you like to start?”

The relief that spreads wide over Aether’s face could power a small city. Albedo can’t help but lean in just a fraction, warm in the sun.

How curious it is to spend decades in one’s own skin and still learn something new about it. Albedo doesn’t think he will ever get used to being Albedo. 

“That’s it for tonight, everyone; sorry I ran late. Thanks for stopping in.”

Albedo smiles at his laptop screen at the sight of Aether leaning in to stop streaming. He finished a whole hour after he usually does, too absorbed in the book he was reading to stop, and though Albedo usually wants to start winding down to sleep at this hour, tonight feels different. Something about Aether was different.

That shouldn’t matter, but it does. More and more every day, it matters, and that’s a strange notion to linger on.

For the last month, he’d been working in Albedo’s lab; gods, but if he had five of Aether, he’d have a Nobel in physics for the sheer amount of ambition. Even as an undergraduate, he’s brilliant and clever with a keen eye for mathematics. More than once, Albedo caught him staying late, hunched over a lab bench and writing so fast he broke his pencil lead. 

So, he really had meant it—he transferred here for the chance at this. Every free moment Albedo has is spent with Aether dogging his heels, chattering nonstop about something he’d found or a new theory, or just asking what Albedo thinks about things. It’s cute.

It is also absolutely maddening. This is a hell of Albedo’s own making, because any moment they are alone together, he has no brain above the waist. Aether laughs and he laughs. Aether leans in close to peer at something he’s written, he breathes in the scent of coconut shampoo and lets it curl his toes. Aether goes to lunch with him and it takes everything Albedo possesses not to brush his foot against his ankle.

As much as he tells himself that this is harmless, Albedo wonders. Aether can never, never know that he feels anything unprofessional, but even with all the enforced barriers between them, Albedo still finds himself closer by the day. Text messages, meals, shared laughter—so much shared laughter, more than Albedo has ever had in his life. At the end of the day, watching Aether read to his captive audience, Albedo studies him for something he isn’t sure about. A sign, maybe. A hint. Something that cannot and will not ever exist in this world.

Then again, so much of their research is utterly intangible but real nonetheless. Perhaps this is just another equation in a long line of equations, one Albedo doesn’t know because no one ever taught him. He’s missing something. 

Realistically, he knows none of this means anything and that he should establish better boundaries, that he should reclaim some of his free time if only so he can breathe. A little distance may be just what he needs, yet Albedo never misses a single stream. Ever. Particularly not since Aether calls after almost every one.

Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe that’s why, even though Aether has been attached at the hip for a month, Albedo’s heart still kicks every time he meets golden eyes or Aether says his name. Doctor Kreideprinz. The simplest things take him by the throat and squeeze.

Tonight, Albedo doesn’t expect Aether to call since it’s already bedtime; however, just as he begins to close his laptop lid, the familiar sound of a call rings through his speakers. As his heart leaps into his throat, he accepts the call and types quickly into chat.

late isn’t it? 

“I’m sorry. I can go if you want me to.” Aether’s voice is much softer, more intimate somehow; the moment his camera comes on, it’s clear why: he’s lying in bed on his side, facing the camera, sleeve slipping off his shoulder. 

He changed clothes in the minute between streaming and getting in bed, because he certainly hadn’t been baring any skin moments ago. Albedo stares at him, breath catching. Oh, he should hang up. He should make an excuse and go, because shadows pool in Aether’s collarbone and his eyes are soft in a way that screams danger. 

Never once has Aether got into bed and called him like this. Maybe it really does mean something.

of course not. you okay? 

“Yeah, I’m okay, just tired.” Aether looks away from his screen, picking at the pillowcase for a long stretch of quiet.

Albedo takes the opportunity to watch him, how the warm light plays over his skin and hair yes but also the way his brow creases slightly when he wants to say something, when he is somehow unsatisfied. Of all the ways he’s seen Aether in person—laughing, curious, intense, serious—never has he looked so very…

Albedo isn’t great with emotions or social cues; that’s no secret and never has been. But even he knows what vulnerability looks like. The longer the silence stretches on, the more Albedo squirms. Finally:

you’re lying

The message ping lifts Aether’s eyes and he half-smiles, shaking his head. “I’m not, I—”

you look sad

Aether drags a hand over his face with a self-deprecating laugh, more a bark than anything else. “I’m not sad, I think I’m…I don’t know. I moved to a new city a few months ago, right? Away from everybody I knew, and I really like what I’m doing here and the people I’ve met but, I don’t know. I miss my sister. I miss my friends. Would it be stupid of me to say I’m touch-starved? Or too much information?”

What a curious notion, the idea of touch-starvation. Unrelatable, but still a curious thing. Albedo has never in his life ached to touch anyone save for the boy on the screen, but this is simply an infantile infatuation. He isn’t starving for anything. 

it’s not tmi it’s ok

don’t you have friends in your new city?

maybe one will come over?

Aether does not have friends—he’s heard him grumble about how difficult it’s been to transfer in and immediately start working for a professor. Albedo’s research students aren’t known for their social aptitude any more than he is, so with exactly zero free time between them, there’s no chance. Aether has his audience, has Albedo, and has…well, also Albedo, just the braver version. Princeps isn’t afraid to talk, to press, to flirt a little. 

He is all that Albedo can never be.

Sure enough, Aether laughs, though there’s little humor in it. “All I do is work and stream and talk to you. I know Doctor K—uh. My professor. I don’t think he’s much of a cuddler. It’s just me, really.”

A fair assessment, had it been made by anyone but Aether. Albedo wets his lips and leans back into his pillows. What would it be like to do something like that? What if he had the spine to get up, head to Aether’s apartment, knock on the door, and just… hey, want to curl up and watch a movie? Isn’t that what people do, at least the kinds of people who aren’t completely inept at socializing?

The thought of Aether sharing a blanket with him, head on his shoulder, makes his stomach flip. 

oh

that’s crazy like you have a lot of fans

why not just—

actually you’re probably right not to lol

people are creepy

I don’t know how helpful I am for this

but if there’s something I can do…?

Aether’s brow twitches at that, and he chews on his bottom lip before he glances at the screen again. “Maybe not the fans, yeah. Maybe…you’d be okay. I mean the chances of you being anywhere close are astronomical but it’s a nice thought. No chance you’re in Mond, huh?”

Albedo starts to type that no, no he wasn’t in Mond, if only to keep his online identity completely separate from himself; however, just before he hits send, he pauses, deletes it.

In what can only be described as a moment of absolutely zero sense:

you’re in mond???

I am actually

not that I’m trying to you know

come over bc I told you before like

I’m stupid shy sorry

but I am in the city

After reading his messages, Aether looks straight into the camera with something Albedo cannot hope to identify, His lips part, then he laughs as throws an arm over his eyes. “Is it insane that I’m so fucked up that I want to say something like, ‘I’ll keep my eyes closed’? You could kill me. I don’t even—I’m so fucking lonely that I—”

Aether.

The ping cuts Aether off, makes him look back to the screen with that vulnerability writ plain all over him. Some part of Albedo wants more than anything to forget going to sleep and go. Just go. Aether can keep his eyes closed, and they can…what? Touch?

you’re not fucked up

at all

maybe that’s just part of being human right

wanting to be around other people

that’s ok

Aether shuts his eyes for a moment, jaw tight. “Will you come over?” he asks, voice small. “I really will keep my eyes shut, if—if that’s what you want. Just don’t hurt me, okay?”

Goddamnit. Albedo screws up his face, trying to rationalize with himself. On one hand, it would be absolutely insane to do something like this. Not only would it put him in danger of discovery, but encouraging this kind of behavior in Aether probably isn’t the best idea. On the other hand, Aether looks like he’s on the edge of crying or some other manner of breakdown. Most likely stress-induced from school and work, of course. It can’t have anything to do with him.

On this hand, Albedo wants very much to know what Aether’s bed smells like, to taste the curve of his bared shoulder, to cover those expressive eyes and kiss someone he likes for the first time. 

His student. The one person he can’t.

I…

would never hurt you

aether

listen

it’s not that I don’t want to ok?

I just

I guess I don’t know how to say this

I’m not good with people

trust me

I’m better online

you don’t want to hang out with me or

other stuff idk what you want

I’m just kind of

boring and weird and 

rambling

The look on Aether’s face when he reads the refusal hits hard enough that Albedo starts typing immediately. Nevermind. Coming over now. I don’t know what I’m talking about. But before he can send it, Aether shakes his head.

“Sorry. Obviously no. I’m being stupid. Um…maybe you could…call me? Before you say no—I just want you to read something for me. Anything. The book I’m reading offline, maybe, or—”

that I can do

“Really?”

Anything for you. Apparently I’ll do fucking anything.

yeah you read to me all the time so

tit for tat

send me a link and your number?

Albedo is no idiot—he knew this day would come. After talking to Aether on private calls almost every night since they began, there was only so long he could play the no-mic game and get away with it. Even if he never speaks on video call, he can talk in other ways.

When Aether types his number into the chat, Albedo puts it into his VoIP and turns on the voice changer he’s spent the last few weeks perfecting. He went through dozens of configurations before he settled on one he liked, subtle enough that he still sounded human but different enough from his own voice that he’d never be clocked. A moment after he initiates the call, Aether’s rings.

Visibly embarrassed, Aether taps his phone screen and puts it on speaker. “Hi,” he says quietly, looking into the camera as though expecting the video to turn on.

Albedo clears his throat. “...Hello, Aether.”

Color floods Aether’s face and he covers it with his hands, laughing. “Oh, archons, uh. Hi. I already said—hi. Oh, wow, you sound…oh, it’s weird. I can’t ask you to—you can just tell me no.”

Of all the reactions Aether might have had to hearing him, giddy nervousness wasn’t one Albedo ever imagined. Flattering—nevermind the fact that the voice Aether hears doesn’t actually belong to Albedo. Now, treated to a show of playful panic live on screen, he chuckles. “It’s okay. Like I said, tit for tat, right?”

After making an explosive sound from behind his hands, Aether peeks between his fingers and nods. “...Tit for tat. Right. Okay. Gods, what’s wrong with me?” Drawing a steadying breath, he reaches for his laptop and clicks around a few times, then pastes a link into the chat. “There. Don’t judge me. You can stop reading at any time, I think it gets, uh. Spicy.”

Spicy? Albedo opens the link and blinks at the list of content warnings, heat rising up his neck. Aether wants him to read—“Alright. I’ll read this for you, no problem. Are you ready?” When Aether nods without speaking, he settles himself comfortably against his pillows and wets his lips.

“Footsteps. Footsteps. Don’t open your eyes. The light hurts. Everything hurts. Footsteps.”

While he’s read many, many stories in his life, Albedo has never done so out loud. Without the camera on, he doesn’t feel as self-conscious as he might otherwise, but watching Aether listen so attentively has his heart pounding. Being a professor, he’s used to public speaking, but something about reading a story is infinitely more intimate.

Particularly a story about falling in love. 

It’s not overt, not at first; the lead is gravely injured and fighting for his life, which allows Albedo some dramatic pauses and suspenseful wordplay. Better even than when reading, Aether as a listener is reactive and interested, hanging on every word even with his eyes closed, as though he’s imagining it.

Then, it begins. Slow suggestion, nothing stated but certainly hinted at: wet dreams, lots of imagery about mouths and water, the nagging feeling of missing something. Albedo glances at the camera, sees Aether turn scarlet at the first blatant display of something like sexuality. The love interest pushes his fingers into the lead’s mouth for seemingly innocent reasons that somehow don’t feel innocent at all.

Aether’s fingers caress his own mouth, lips slightly parting, and Albedo’s heart rattles off-beat in his ribcage as he watches them, briefly stopping speaking. Aether traces the bow of his lips with the very tip of his middle finger, color in his cheeks. An eye opens, glances at the screen—what does it mean? Is he annoyed that Albedo stopped reading?

Is he…asking if this is okay? Fuck, it’s okay, more than. 

Albedo clears his throat softly and draws in a breath. “Dreams, he remembers, and they taunt him. In dreams, he is allowed the things he wants but can never have, for even if he possessed them, they wouldn’t stick. In dreams, he remembers everything: what happens next, what will never, ever happen next.” Albedo huffs out a soft breath, feeling something clench in his chest. His shoulders bunch and he forces himself to relax, to disconnect from the main character. “It would be one thing if they were simply sexual—and some are, of course—but they carry a note of the thing he’s grown up around, the thing he wants more than anything. Belonging.” 

What has he wanted in his life so badly as that, if anything? Never has Albedo ached to belong somewhere, only to get somewhere. He wanted to pursue his research, but it never choked him. He never felt as if he could not breathe without it.

Now…

He reads, and his chest hurts, and he skips over words because Aether has not stopped touching his mouth.

“Simple things. What everyone else can expect eventually, what is achievable for everyone but him.” Like a dagger through the heart, that. All his life, Albedo has watched life pass him by in a way beyond his grasp. In a world full of hands, he has no fingers, no way to catch on, to hold. He never thought anything of it until now, palms itching for what lies perilously within sight, still out of reach.

Something he wants. Something that, as he continues to read, as the main character wakes heavy with arousal and struggling not to show it, bites its lip and trails its free hand down, out of sight of the camera. 

“Parting his lips, he catches two of those fingers between his teeth, sucks on them. Briefly freezes, because that wasn’t what he meant to do at all.” Shit, he needs to stop reading, not because he is embarrassed but because Aether’s fingers slip into his mouth. He’s close enough to the camera that Albedo can hear the way his breath stutters.

The shifting of cloth. A half-stifled sound in Aether’s throat, swallowed around his fingers. Albedo’s cock strains against his pajama pants, rubbing uncomfortably against the cloth until he pushes his waistband down. A quick glance between his own thighs turns his ears pink—he’s not sure he’s ever been this hard so quickly. Surely it sounds in his voice, because Aether twitches all over with the movement of his other arm, just visible.

Albedo swallows hard, lightly strokes himself. How the fuck is this happening? But he can’t stop reading, because if he does, he’s going to storm across campus and break into Aether’s room, crawl on top of him, put something else in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice low and rough. A line from the story, yes, but is it? “I’m sorry, please just fucking touch me.” 

Aether’s eyes roll back and he arches, breathing hard, before he opens his eyes and reaches over his laptop for something without daring to look at the camera. When he settles again, hand slipping once more off-screen, he seems content to simply lie there for the moment. Listening.

The characters kiss. They touch. They grind against one another, against all medical probability, and Albedo clenches his thighs as precome strings between his cock and his belly. If he touches himself even once more, he knows it’ll be all over. The characters don’t matter, Aether matters, Aether with his closed eyes and his fingers stuffed in his mouth and his other hand—

“I want you to fuck me,” Albedo reads, breathy and hot. “Aether, I want you to hold me down and—” Oops, that wasn’t the right name, not even close. 

Aether groans, followed swiftly by wet, rhythmic strokes that Albedo can’t see but he can sure as fuck hear. Albedo stutters through his next line, but it doesn’t hit the way he wants it to, so he looks away from the story.

Looks only at Aether. “Faster,” he whispers. “Take your fingers out of your mouth, I want to—”

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m so fucking—ha—” The moment Aether obeys, he starts talking, and that’s just as bad for Albedo’s fraying sanity. “Come over. Come over, come over, I need you.”

Panting for air, through immeasurable heat, Albedo can’t help moaning as Aether riles himself up into a twisting, desperate mess. “I should,” he whispers. “I should come over. I want—I want to taste you everywhere. I want to get on my knees and suck your cock until you come down my throat, then I want you to fuck me, Aether. I want you to hold me down and spread my legs and fuck me until—”

That’s all it takes, it seems; Aether twists the sheets in his hand, screws up his face, then sobs as his whole body spasms with the force of his orgasm. It’s wet, spurting as far as the collar of his shirt and soaking in, and Albedo curses as his own cock throbs, spills with uncontrolled jerks without a hand to steady it. So much for his shirt and sheets. So much for his fucking dignity.

Aether swallows roughly, panting and sweating where he lies in the aftermath. “Princeps?” Uncertain, raw, edged. He whines deep in his throat and opens his eyes to look into the camera, pupils blown wide. 

Albedo takes a moment to collect himself, to let the last waves of his embarrassing orgasm subside. “Y-yeah?”

Aether is so fucking beautiful, flushed and hot and unkempt. The look on his face as he stares into the camera is something Albedo will never, ever forget. “Keep reading,” he breathes. “Keep going.”

Fuck. Albedo curls his toes, bites into his bottom lip, then does just that until three in the morning, until Aether is boneless and filthy and drifting off on camera and he, more than ever, is absolutely certain.

He’s in fucking trouble.

The dictionary defines yearning as ‘a feeling of intense longing for something’. Albedo does not know what it feels like to long for anything, only how it feels when his body consumes itself in fire of its own making.

Chapter Text

If only the world would stop turning when something rocks it. 

Albedo is master of his domain, educated in the nature of the world and all the unseen forces that shape it, move it, propel it along into eternity. He has spent the whole of his life chasing the unattainable, grasping at nothing with sure fingers and discovering threads for all the answers he has ever sought. With enough research funding, there would be no end to the number of theories and laws with his name on them. Each step lands precisely where he knows it will, where it is calculated to fall.

Such is the comical nature of science. As soon as man is sure of something, it will turn over and do precisely what it should not. Over the course of one video chat, the ground went out from under Albedo and now the law of gravity means nothing. Time moves in fits and starts, stretching and contracting such that hours shrink to minutes and seconds—those precious seconds when Aether meets his eyes in the hall, asks him a question in the lab, laughs—make up the whole of his day.

He floats between classes, ground maddeningly beyond reach while his head floats in the clouds. Every blink brings with it flashes of images he knows himself lucky to possess: Aether biting his lip, Aether begging, Aether looking into the camera in a way no one has ever looked at Albedo, Aether.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Aether doesn’t know who’s on the other side of the screen. If he finds out it’s Albedo—his boss, his idol, his friend—then it’ll all be over. This realization alone keeps him from soaring off the surface of the planet and shooting into the stars. This realization alone stops him from rushing across the lab to close the door when Aether walks through it, from bending over a lab bench and—

These are not productive thoughts. These are not lab-safe activities, even if he wouldn’t have to remove his closed-toe shoes or his safety goggles.

The world does not stop moving because it turned upside down for one man who is not lonely. It keeps spinning, and Albedo keeps breathing, and Aether calls him night after night when the classes and lab shifts and public streams are over.

Wouldn’t that be convenient? If someone hit pause, his mind might catch up to the rest of him, might stop him from hurtling faster and faster towards what is sure to be heartache.

Because that’s all there can be at the end of this. Even if Albedo’s heart is not bruised, something in Aether’s vulnerable eyes says his should be handled with precisely-calibrated movements. When Albedo looks at his own hands, he sees them as anything but delicate enough to not shatter whatever he catches in them.

On Friday evening, Albedo stops by the lab to make sure it’s cleared for the weekend; catching Aether there is no surprise. They play this game every week, to the point that Albedo wonders if it’s become an inside joke yet. “Still here? It’s seven o’clock.”

Aether doesn’t answer, cleaning a lab bench and humming to himself. With his back to the door and earbuds in, there’s no way he knows he isn’t alone, and this provides a rare and intriguing opportunity—seeing Aether without a filter, sans observer effect. Albedo leans back against the closed door and crosses his arms, trying to be as still as possible. And Aether?

Aether dances.

Nothing about him is coordinated, elegant, or practiced. He moves to an unheard beat, wiping down the bench in tempo and swish-swishing hard enough that his braid bounces with the movement. He sings a little, disjointed and half-mumbled where he doesn’t know the lyrics to whatever he’s listening to, and for all his talent as a reader, he might consider some vocal lessons. He bumps a beaker, catches it before it rolls off the benchtop, laughs to himself.

Messy, human, perfect.

The word comes to Albedo all at once with the rush of an epiphany. The unattainable perfection that is Aether bounces along as he cleans up for the weekend, out of reach in every sense. Last night, he pleaded with ‘Princeps’ for the dozenth time, “Please just come to me, I’ll do whatever you want if you’ll just come. ” Albedo can never, not even once, no matter how much he aches to do it.

It would be so easy to close the gap. A dozen feet and a whispered confession—I’m Princeps, and I’m yours— would end their little game and make it real. Tangible.

In five words, Albedo can ruin Aether’s dreams or make them come true, if not for the five words Aether spoke to him that night:

Just don’t hurt me, okay?

As if on cue, Aether turns in place and yelps, ripping the earbuds out as he flushes crimson. “Professor! I didn’t—I didn’t realize you—”

“Don’t stop on my account.” Grinning, Albedo steps away from the door at last, casually tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. “But it’s late for a Friday night, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be out partying or something?” He’s not being fair and he knows it. If Aether has made anything clear on their one-on-one calls, it’s that he’s isolated and miserable. Unfortunately, it is Princeps who knows this, and Albedo must play dumb even if it’s cruel. 

Aether’s humorless smile hurts. “Oh yeah, big partier here.” The corners of his eyes ease somewhat, and he sighs. “...I don’t have any plans, no. Figured I may as well save myself an early Monday morning and get you set up now.”

“Suit yourself.” Albedo eyes the rows and rows of benches. He should help, fall in and cut the work in half so Aether can get out of here; instead, a reckless and dangerous seed takes root behind his ribs. “...Or we can leave it for later and discuss the plan for the rest of the semester over dinner? I haven’t eaten yet, and there is a finite supply of Friday evenings.”

There, the flash of something similarly uncharacteristic in Aether’s eyes, so quick as to be imagined. They eat together often enough that dinner on a Friday isn’t unusual; there’s no reason to believe that flash to be anything other than hunger or joy at escaping the lab for a night. “I could eat,” Aether says, tucking the earbuds back in their case. “Burgers?”

All it takes is a nod. The next thing Albedo knows, he and Aether are side-by-side in the autumn air, heading for the campus strip. The leaves already burn red and orange, and in the fading twilight of an autumn evening, Aether gleams golden. Armed with a scarf and a wool coat against the threat of cold, he looks so soft and warm that Albedo balls his fists in both pockets to keep from reaching for him.

Ridiculous, the sudden need for what he’s never given a single thought. Familiar campus buildings look brand new when set as the backdrop to Albedo’s singular obsession. The same brick he sees every day becomes significant as he imagines them pressing into his back, sandwiching him between clay and the boy who spends secret nights begging on camera.

Aether is lonely. Albedo is something else, an unnameable something that twists in his belly and makes him feel ugly for how far into the gutter his mind dives. Even so, he gives himself over to fantasy as they walk together, talk about nothing.

Aether kissing him against this tree, dragging him into that alley, pinning him in those leaves, taking his hand as they walk, putting it somewhere else. There is no hint of Aether’s loneliness now but there could be if Albedo should be brave enough to look for it—to take it away from him.

When did Albedo become a romantic? Perhaps if he pinpoints the moment, then he can analyze it, make it clinical, thus rendering it palatable and understandable. He’s great at analysis.

Walking with Aether in the cold, standing in line together while waiting for a table, squeezing into two open barstools together—this he can parse. These things make sense and can be broken down into their base parts, into digestible tidbits of information. He can even explain away how they don’t move their stools apart when more room opens up on either side—they’re coasting on inertia.

But Aether smells like clean laundry and coconut shampoo when he shifts closer to hear over the music, and he doesn’t jerk away in shock when their knees accidentally touch under the table, and once he’s drained a cheap beer, he laughs so hard he leans into Albedo’s shoulder to stay balanced. Separately, these instants are powerful enough to stop a train. In quick succession, they make Albedo so absurdly hard he can’t remember what physics is other than the inconvenient thing that keeps him from what he wants.

The second law of thermodynamics states, in essence, that once something undergoes change, it can never go back to the way it was before. Only when Albedo knows what it is to desire does he truly understand entropy.

The last of autumn’s leaves hold on for all they’re worth, clutching at what made them alive in the first place. Albedo thinks he knows how they feel, except he clutches to the precious things keeping him sane while his baser desires twist him in the wind. Two weeks after sharing a burger and a beer with Aether, he stares blankly out the window in his apartment, watching storm clouds roll in.

Fall break starts tomorrow, offering students a last reprieve before the push to finals begins in earnest. Most students who live on campus go home to their families; Albedo looks forward to a quiet week of catching up on essays and drawing up the final exam ahead of time. Aether told him when he first started in the lab that he’ll be gone for the break, so the week presents a rare opportunity to relax. Unwind. Get a grip.

The daylight hours are torturous. He spends them counting down to the time when he won’t feel guilty for visiting home to anxiously wait for Aether to start streaming—either for the public or one-on-one. Albedo always gets alone time with him in the end, even if it keeps them both up until three o’clock. Sleepy mornings are worth the hours spent whispering into the dead of night.

If this strange arrangement was purely sexual, then Albedo might be able to stop. But no, most nights they just talk, flirting but still engaged in what looks more like true kinship every day. Albedo finds himself eager to talk about his own day (some details changed to protect the guilty, of course), to reminisce, to confess the secret parts of himself no one else knows. They exchange stories about their childhoods, Albedo offers advice on whatever struggles Aether confides in him, and they even fall asleep on call.

It’s more than he ever imagined. They’re more. Somehow, that excuses the later hours spent doing…

Well, Albedo doesn’t possess the vocabulary to describe what they’re doing. Aether doesn’t simply masturbate off-camera while Princeps reads aloud; increasingly bold, he sets the camera back, lets Albedo watch as he touches himself with hands, toys, whatever he has within reach. He teases the tip of his cock with the end of his braid until precome oozes into the sheets, edges himself while listening to the evening’s chosen story until he snaps and comes untouched before he can finish begging Princeps to come over, and indulges in his every whim in full view.

Albedo is exhausted, and for all he’s become accustomed to a certain standard of living, he needs fall break to recover. There’s no way Aether will be able to stream like this at home, not with a twin and their parents hovering. A little distance may bring some sanity back to Albedo’s life.

But distance is all relative. A thousand miles will be negligible with the touch of a button. As if on cue (and much earlier than usual), Albedo’s laptop begins to ring. He opens the lid and frowns at the banner displaying Aether’s streamer handle, ensures the microphone and camera are disabled, then connects the call.

Aether appears on screen, but not in one of his usual spots—neither at his desk, nor sitting in bed. Wrapped up in a scarf with his back to a tree, he looks cold and heavy in a way all too familiar, if much heavier than usual.

Loneliness often makes an appearance with Aether on stream; today, he looks ready to jump off a bridge. Albedo begins typing immediately.

did you call on accident?
aether
are you ok?

Aether opens his mouth to speak, then swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut. When they open again, bloodshot and damp, he shakes his head. “No accident. Um. Sorry for calling, I just…my family canceled on me for next week. My mom’s cousin broke her leg or something, so they’re going out there instead. My sister’s going to stay with her boyfriend, I guess.”

Shit. So much for a break; worse, so much for Aether clocking some sorely-needed family time. Over the past few weeks, he’s been nothing short of enthusiastic about going home to get away from the city. No wonder he looks like he’s on the edge.

oh…
that sucks I'm sorry
I know you were hyped to see them

Aether smears a hand over his face. “Yeah. I…yeah. Sorry, I don’t even know why I called. I’m stupid. I’ll let you go.”

no no no
hold up

When Aether doesn’t immediately hang up the call, Albedo breathes a sigh of relief and weighs his options. Whatever he suggests now, Aether will consider. As much as he wants to be viciously possessive and push a week spent streaming one-on-one, Aether teetering on the verge of tears has him in a chokehold.

you can't just go with them?
or go see your sister?

Aether slumps, more miserable by the second. “No, they don’t want me to come. Any of them. A broken leg’s enough to handle without me being in everyone’s way, and Lumine would kill me for, you know. Cockblocking.” A sniff, muffled behind his hand. “This is really pathetic, actually. I’m a grown ass adult and I’m sitting here crying into my fucking—”

you’re not pathetic
it’s ok to be disappointed
you’ve been lonely so
ofc you’re upset

“—coat sleeve like some kind of…I’m not this stupid in real life, okay?”

Aether isn’t stupid at all. On the contrary, he’s the best damned lab assistant Albedo’s ever had and will likely be gunning for his job once he has his PhD. Still, Albedo is intimately familiar with the duality they both live and breathe by; Aether may be brilliant, but now, light fades lumen by lumen behind golden eyes.

Powerlessness is not Albedo’s forte. He doesn’t know how to be useless, how to surrender. Drumming fingers on his desk, he watches the wind blow a chill through Aether, pull some of the last leaves from their branches overhead. “What do you want me to say?” Albedo says into his muted mic. A notification pops up on-screen: You are muted. Unmute the microphone to participate.

If only it could be so simple. Unmute, fix this, tell Aether the truth. Instead, he focuses on what little is possible.

you’re not stupid
don’t talk about my aether like that
only I get to talk shit about my aether and I would die first

My Aether. When did he start thinking of Aether as his, at least beyond the realm of fantasy? The declaration has its intended effect: Aether flushes red, and the barest hint of a smile touches his mouth. “Yours, huh? Why Princeps, aren’t you bold?” With another swipe of his face, some of the darkness clears from his eyes. “Maybe I should spend the break with you. You’re in the city. I could just…come over. You could play hooky from work and I can fight the cold weather away by doing my best to break your bed.”

The idea of spending a week in bed with Aether while the world gets colder around them beckons to Albedo with all the ferocity of mythical sirensong. Luckily, he considers himself a master of cold logic, pours ice water over what he cannot have.

I wish
big project this week or maybe I would
gotta pay for all the donations somehow

Aether hesitates, brow knitting. “You don’t have to, I dunno. Keep doing that. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but Princeps, I…you know.” He clears his throat and looks anywhere but at his phone camera. “I like you regardless.”

I like you regardless.

I like you.

Albedo stares at his laptop screen, blood rushing in his ears while a thousand potential responses bubble to the surface. You don’t even know me. You wouldn’t if you knew who I really am. You don’t even know what I look like. Do you really? Do you like me enough to overlook the months of lying to you? How do you know if you like me or not? You can’t—

Aether draws a deep breath, holds it, blows it out. “Gotta go,” he says abruptly, and before Albedo can hope to stop him, he ends the call.

that’s not fair
come back damn it

Two hours later—two hours of radio silence and storms blowing in and alternating waves of giddiness and utter despair—Albedo waits for Aether to begin his scheduled public stream, hoping to catch some hint meant solely for him. Maybe he’ll make a comment about liking someone, read from one of the books Princeps sent, anything that might act as a signal of some kind. At the least, he seemed distracted from the lonesome week ahead. Such distraction will never last, but maybe a chip of Albedo’s sanity was all Aether needed to bolster his own.

The start time comes and passes with a full lobby and no Aether. Another hour passes, then another, another, until Princeps is the last viewer waiting. Outside, rain pelts the windows and thunder rumbles in a near-constant growl, and Albedo watches lightning illuminate the night sky’s heavy cloud cover.

Atmospheric instability. The violence when hot meets cold, deadly and beautiful and terrifying all at once. When Albedo was a child, thunderstorms frightened him so badly that his father gave him a book on the weather so he could understand them. Knowledge is power. But knowing how a storm works did not lessen his primal fear of the uncontrollable. At any time, lightning might strike and kill him.

All knowing did was make him more afraid because he knew what lightning was capable of doing to him, to anyone at any given time. Even now, his stomach leaps at every flash.

I like you regardless. He still can hardly breathe.

At midnight, the incoming call rings no more than twice before Albedo connects. Illuminated by the light from his computer screen, Aether sits blindfolded in front of the camera, holding a piece of paper in both hands. At the top, an address. Below:

Promises:
I’ll keep my eyes closed.
I’ll only ask this once.
Pretend this never happened?
—or—
Door’s unlocked, blindfold’s on.

Albedo digs fingernails into his palms until they hurt, curses, types no fewer than ten different responses without sending them: You’re out of your mind. I can’t. I shouldn’t. That’s dangerous and you need to go to therapy. I’d love to. This is so fucking unsafe are you kidding me? You may as well give up on me because this is never going to happen. It can’t happen, and I can’t pretend that this hasn’t. I can’t pretend I don’t love you.

Albedo has spent his entire life doing what’s expected of him, focused on academia and chasing the truths of the universe. But the universe that’s comprised of equations and dark matter and everything unseen feels…small. Insignificant. Limited and limiting when it was only ever meant to free him.

I like you regardless.

Door’s unlocked, blindfold’s on.

Pretend this never happened?

Fuck it.

Finally, he types, sends the message, and closes his laptop lid.

give me an hour

There are some things for which physics cannot account, that logic and facts and figures may never touch. Albedo never had much time for a life beyond the reach of academia; after all, time, like all else Albedo treasures, is a finite resource. 

It doesn’t matter if it’s pouring and the wind is howling, or that no one should be driving in this weather, or that Albedo shouldn’t be out here at all.

Scratch that—Princeps shouldn’t be out here at all. Because tonight, there must be no Albedo Kreideprinz in the room with Aether. Only Princeps has received this one-time invitation, and only Princeps must walk through the door.

This presented several challenges, all of which he overthought to the point of having a minor anxiety attack in the shower before leaving the house:

1. Princeps cannot smell like Albedo.
2. Princeps cannot feel like Albedo.
3. Princeps cannot sound like Albedo.

Luckily, the first two of these challenges were simple to remedy. For a different scent, he dug deep under his bathroom sink to find last year’s white elephant party gift: a bath set that’s about as far away from his usual argan oil as it gets. He uncapped one of the bottles and sniffed it. Too loud, too ‘this is probably called Wintergun,’ performatively masculine. Perfect. Once out of the panic-quick shower, he spritzed himself with a cologne sample picked at random from the drawer, just enough to seal the deal.

As for feeling like Albedo, he was limited in ways to change, and he agonized over his options before settling. He left his hair down, wild curls and all (a style Aether has never seen, not even at dinner), then abandoned his usual wool coat and slacks for a soft sweater and jeans. Finally, round glasses instead of his never-worn square ones.

Sounding like Albedo was and is the sticking point. Too nervous to be embarrassed, he tries to speak in a way as close to his voice mod as possible, but he can’t quite hit the pitch. He can blame the difference on his phone, he thinks, but when he records himself and listens back, he sounds so stupid he wants to scream.

Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. It’s the simplest solution, if not the most elegant.

In the flurry of activity leading up to sitting in the parking lot for junior-senior student housing, of trying to embody this persona he will never pull off, he forgot the most important thing. As soon as he puts the car into park and kills the engine, he freezes behind the steering wheel.

He has never been with anyone, not even in the barest sense. He’s never held hands outside of primary school recess, never kissed anyone (excluding the girl in his freshman year of university who kissed the corner of his mouth while drunk, thinking he was someone else), certainly never…whatever he’s doing now. He spent most of his life thinking himself above this, somehow beyond base human desires. He wasn’t broken, of course, just…solitary. A lone wolf.

Heart racing and hands shaking, he counts back from ten, then from one hundred. He wants this. He knows he does, more than anything else right now, and he’s ready to do whatever it takes to get it.

Even if that means becoming Princeps.

Steeling his nerve, he reaches for his umbrella in the back seat and comes up with nothing. The thought of running out into the worsening storm nearly changes his mind, but his phone lights up with a notification of a new message.

Aether. I’m ready. Lights are off.

Albedo opens the car door and rushes out into the storm, instantly drenched and given no time to care. He runs for the lobby of the upperclassmen dorm, grateful that security and student IDs are required only in freshman housing, and lets out an explosive breath as he looks down at himself. Soaked and dripping—and unable to do shit about it.

He punches the button for the elevator, heart pounding so hard he sees it through his sweater, and takes it to the fourth floor. To room 417. At first, he raises his hand to knock, but he thinks better of it.

Last chance to turn around. He should go back home. Once he crosses this line, there’s no uncrossing it—once changed, he can never be the same again, and he knows it.

The elevator opens again and, not wanting to chance recognition by a student, he makes his choice: he opens the door and hurries inside.

Some part of him expects Aether to be lying, expects to walk into a fully-lit room with a camera on him for some kind of proof. Maybe some of his grad students will be there to witness his total public humiliation, or the dean of the physical sciences college will laugh and fire him on the spot.

No such misfortune. He steps inside to darkness illuminated by the faint light from the window, flashes of lightning, and a nightlight by the bed that offers just enough light to see where Aether sits. 

On the bed. Blindfolded. Wearing nothing but that fucking sweater that never stays on his shoulder and a nervous smile. “Princeps?” How he sounds so confident and steady is a mystery. What if it was someone else? What if Albedo was a murderer or worse? Aether waits, trusts.

This is an offering. Albedo can accept it, or he can do the right thing.

You’ve done the right thing your entire life. For the first time since he stepped into the room, Albedo blows out a heavy breath and hates how shaky it sounds. Not trusting himself to speak yet, he steps out of his sopping shoes then slowly makes his way over to stand next to the bed. 

He wants to say a thousand things and all of them run through his head now that he doesn’t dare speak a word. The longer he stays quiet, though, the louder the silence roars between them, the more tension knots Aether’s shoulders. The subtle movement shifts the loose neckline down one of Aether’s arms, and what little light there is in the room seems to pool in his collarbone.

Light loves Aether. Albedo loves him more.

An unsteady hand reaches for him in the dark, hand landing first on a soaked sleeve. Aether twitches, laughs, then presses his hand flat against Albedo’s belly as if to feel him out, to determine what he looks like from touch alone. “You’re soaked,” he says, fingers tracing from one hip to the other in the dark.

It’s raining, Albedo wants to point out, but even if he dared to speak, Aether is touching him. Not like he touches Doctor Kreideprinz, either—his hand presses against the wet cloth, squeezes it into a fist until water drips onto the floor, then dips beneath the hem. Warm fingers against his belly make Albedo inhale sharply, drive rational thought away.

All the universe is Aether. It makes sense—so little of the universe is comprised of solid mass, and Aether is, by definition, the space between the stars. In Albedo’s universe, Aether is the stars, the planets, everything and nothing together. An entirety. 

The hand on his abdomen curls around his waist and draws him closer to the bed. Albedo stumbles in haste to strip out of his ruined sweater; before it hits the ground, another hand catches hold of him, and he stops breathing.

Aether rises onto his knees on the mattress. Face to face, he’s so close that Albedo could count eyelashes if they weren’t covered by a blindfold. “You feel so…” Aether hums, palms sliding along the curve of Albedo’s hips and waist, then steadily upward over his chest. Hands on his collarbone tap the apple of his throat, brush his jaw. “Beautiful. Princeps—Prince, I think. You’re a prince, aren’t you?”

Albedo would pay good money to stop shaking beneath those hands, to have the kind of confidence that would allow him to smile, nod. I’ll be anyone you want me to be. A prince, a king, a mystery suitor who was pathetic enough to run over here when beckoned on a lonely night. Aether’s hands are ceaseless, trailing goosebumps in their wake, and Albedo’s fingers itch to do the same. After all, he never dares touch beyond the most casual of casual gestures.

The moment hangs between them, tremulous and heavy with the promise of possibility. They may be great together, or terrible, or clumsy and giggly, or nervous and awkward. As soon as Albedo dares touch back, they’re sentenced to whatever fate lies beyond. Should he touch Aether’s hands, or take him by the shoulders, or tuck his hair back, or—

“Prince?”

Albedo twitches in surprise, sucking in a short breath and starting to speak before cutting himself off. “A-ah?” Shut up, shut up, shut—

Then, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if Albedo has never been touched by another person like this. It doesn’t even matter that he can’t be Albedo right now, because Aether takes him by the chin and his heart stops as he remembers vividly why he’s here.

I can fight the cold weather away by doing my best to break your bed. Come over, come over , I need you.

“Say yes?” Aether’s mouth is so close.

Trembling with nerves or excitement or arousal or some combination of the three, Albedo gulps for air and takes the leap, slips his hands under Aether’s sweater to touch back. The gesture is so small—barely a brush along the curves of Aether’s waist, the swell of his hips—but Aether is exactly as he always imagined. When a thumb slides over Albedo’s bottom lip, it rushes through every nerve ending he possesses, ones he never knew he had in the first place. 

He shivers. Say yes? To this, to all those late nights spent thinking of this, to indulging in everything I’ve never done and everything I want— 

With more courage than he has ever had, he parts his lips and kisses Aether’s thumb. “Please,” he breathes, unable to elaborate beyond one syllable spoken so quietly the storm outside nearly swallows it. Please. Yes. To all of it.

At once, Aether strikes, too fast to follow, and makes a desperate sound in his throat. “Thank the archons,” he breathes as he pulls Albedo in, pins him to the mattress.

Crushes their mouths together like he’s starving. Hot and wet and untempered, skin to skin, bodies and hands and Aether.

World upended, Albedo gasps into the kiss and clutches at him to orient himself, to somehow get closer through too many clothes. If he’s terrible at kissing, it doesn’t seem to matter, because teeth sink into his lip and a tongue slides against his own, and Aether breathes his name—Prince, Prince, Prince—like a hymn.

Albedo has wasted his life. For decades, he has been alone and happy about that fact; in a few blissful seconds, he feels as if he’s discovered fire, invented the wheel, come up with something new and vital to the human experience. Eyes rolling back, he surrenders to Aether’s mouth on his, on his neck, on his shoulders. To hands, roaming over rain-cool skin and tangling with his own, pushing lower to damp denim and breaking to tug it off. The blindfold makes Albedo bold enough to let Aether strip them both naked.

Aether knows he’s never been with anyone. Albedo knows Aether has, thanks the archons for it because every touch has him lost in the stratosphere. The smile kissed into his neck shoots electric down his spine and he forgets the panic that led up to this. None of it matters. None of his fears mean a damned thing.

Nothing can touch him now. Only Aether, the single anomaly, the one person  he’s ever wanted to touch him, now pressing him into the mattress to suckle bruises into his neck. 

“You taste good,” Aether whispers beneath his ear. “All clean and rain and—” He drags the flat of his tongue up from the collarbone. Albedo makes a sound he’s never made before, high and shockingly needy. “—salt. You’re sweating. Nervous?”

As if anyone could muster enough brainpower left to be nervous with Aether, the Aether, crawling all over them. Albedo shakes his head, anything but nervous; he needs this as much as he needs air, and given the choice between the two? I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life as much as I want this. He arches against Aether and shudders at the press of body to body, burning beneath those hands.

For all Albedo’s urgency, Aether is in no rush. The kiss he bestows in response is as slow and deep enough to leave Albedo panting into his mouth. He’s never felt like this, outside of his own control and given over to the fingers searing downward. Aether has him wound taut as a guitar string, plucks. “You’re so good to me, Prince. Let me be good to—”

And oh, how Albedo sings. “O-oh fuck, Aether.” All intentions to stay silent fall away the moment Aether’s fingers wrap around his cock and squeeze. He cries out, claps a hand over his mouth. All the heat and anticipation pools, hot and sudden, at the base of his spine in warning. “Wait—I’m—”

But he won’t elaborate, and the smile touching Aether’s lips is playful even in the dark. “You’re so hard already. ” But Aether squeezes, teases him with a swipe of his thumb, and Albedo bucks as if he’s been edged for hours. Months.

He curses, thrusts once into the curl of Aether’s fingers, and mortifyingly comes from no more than the barest—

“Holy shit,” Aether breathes, but he doesn’t pull away. No, he tightens his grip and strokes Albedo through the heavy, wet pulse of his orgasm until he’s writhing and crying out. “Prince, you’re so eas—”

“Shut up and fuck me.” Never in his life has Albedo been so embarrassingly desperate that he begged. Now, fuck, it feels too good to try to stop it, to be mortified for being so pathetic, to do anything but spread his thighs and give in to the unknown. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck—”

Aether takes the hint, roughly stroking him until he’s overstimulated and digging both heels into the mattress. Albedo claws at whatever he can reach, raking nails down his back and over his arms until Aether shivers and catches him by the wrist. “Let me get a—ha, Prince, Prince, chill for a second.”

The sound Aether makes as Albedo grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand and strokes it over him is the most wonderful song Albedo has ever heard. Surprised and delighted and heated all at once, it’s nothing like hearing Aether touch himself on camera or even read erotica on adult streams. This is for him alone, for them. 

There’s no chance in hell of Albedo ‘chilling,’ not when he is little more than a struck match in kindling. Anchoring his thighs around that too-thin waist, pushing against Aether’s bare cock, he pulls with all the strength his legs allow. They can relax later, they can talk and take it slow later. Albedo’s been waiting his whole life for this and will not wait a second longer, damn the consequences.

Aether curses and grabs Albedo’s hips, the head of his cock hot and slick where it presses between trembling thighs. “Let me get a condom—” He’s so close that Albedo can’t breathe for needing him inside now with nothing between them but sweat . One squeeze of thighs brings Aether dangerously close to breaching, a second makes him shudder and jerk his hips. Albedo bears down and hisses with anything but pain as Aether slips into him, no more than an inch. “Prince—wait—”

Albedo feels the moment his control shatters as surely as he feels the rest of Aether moving between his thighs. He didn’t plan for this—he brought his own condoms and would never dream of getting fucked raw by Aether or anyone else until they’d been tested. It’s irresponsible and unsafe and all the things that scare him to death.

But Princeps…Princeps doesn’t give a damn, indulges in his darkest fantasies.

“Fuck the condom, just fuck me,” he breathes. “Fuck me and come in me and keep fucking me. Archons, Aether, I want you to fill me up.”

“Holy shit,” Aether hisses. “I can’t, we shouldn’t, I’m—” Albedo groans through being stretched, of Aether shaking and shoving him into the mattress and thrusting deeper as though compelled by some higher power. It hurts and Albedo cries out with the masochistic joy of it, spreading his legs wider. Another thrust, lube-slick and audibly wet, and Aether scrabbles to steady Albedo’s hips, rolls his own, twitches. 

They definitely shouldn’t, but they most certainly do. Aether, all out of complaints, is so hard he throbs with every messy thrust, and when he leans down for a kiss, Albedo sees stars.

Heat rolls off of him in waves as he sinks his nails into Aether’s shoulders and sucks his tongue into his mouth; everything they’re doing feels, sounds filthy. Skin on skin is wet and loud enough to be embarrassing if he had an ounce of shame left. He’s sweating and messily dripping onto his belly, already-cooling come from his premature orgasm smearing between their chests. 

The sharp crash of Aether’s hips between his thighs already bruises, and Princeps is alive in a way Albedo must never, ever be. Princeps is the one getting fucked into a cheap dorm mattress, who spreads his legs like a whore, who tries to meet Aether’s thrusts but gets shoved over and put on his knees instead. He grabs the pillow in time to sob into it as Aether plunges back in heedless of how much it might hurt.

It is Princeps who wants it to hurt, as if he must make amends with the universe for finally, finally giving what he does not deserve. Each brutal thrust, the sharp slap across his ass, the nails in his back, the hand jerking a fistful of his hair—these are more than he has ever dreamed to receive. 

And Aether, sweet and lonesome Aether who’s so touch-starved he would invite a stranger into his dorm and fuck him bareback without ever seeing what he looks like, is not a prize. He’s a god, the manifestation of all Albedo’s deepest and most wanton desires.

“Prince,” Aether growls, voice deeper than he’s ever heard it. “Tell me you love me. Even—even if you don’t mean it.”

“Fuck, Aether, I love you so fucking much I want you to kill me like this.” Voice high and quivering, Albedo squeezes his thighs together and groans as Aether’s rhythm breaks. “I lo—”

He yelps in shock as Aether slides out of him, reaches back only for Aether to grab his arm and push him again onto his back. Albedo catches him with both arms and legs, pulling him back inside with a desperate moan immediately smothered by a kiss he did not expect.

Tender. Aether is tender, clutching and sensual and needy. “Again,” he breathes into Albedo’s mouth, burying his cock as deeply as he can manage at this angle. It flexes and Albedo bucks hard beneath him, has nowhere to go. “Tell me again.”

Albedo whines into the kiss, toes curling and body greedy for more of all of this: pain, blinding pleasure, the sensuality of joining with Aether. Promises. He lifts a shaking hand and buries it in Aether’s hair, the other cupping his cheek so he may kiss him back the best he can. “I love you.” Whispered with reverence, the words taste foreign and sweet. Aether sucks in a sharp breath and throbs, starts to pull out only to be stopped by Albedo’s thighs anchored around his waist. “I love you, Aether. I love you, I love you, I—”

Aether unravels all at once, crying out with what sounds like shock before he shudders and comes while still buried between Albedo’s thighs. The steady, erotic pulse, the wild and uncontrolled thrusts attempting to get somehow deeper, the way Aether shivers and bites into a kiss fiercer than the one before it—Albedo doesn’t have a chance and doesn’t bother preventing himself from succumbing moments later.

Again, an hour later. Again, painfully, as the storm begins to wane. Again, as the sky begins to lighten with dawn, right before Aether kisses him with swollen lips and all the same hunger as their first. “Stay. Stay with me, be with me, Prince.”

Albedo has never wanted to be so reckless as when he nearly pulls off the blindfold. Instead, heart pounding and eyes burning, he presses his lips to Aether’s cheek. “I’ll see you Sunday. Same conditions, midnight?”

Aether digs the heels of his hands into his blindfold and groans, but he nods after a moment. “Deal.”

“Sweet dreams, Aether.”

Only when Albedo gets home, shaky as a newborn fawn with Aether’s come running down his thighs and his ass throbbing, does he allow his nerves to catch up to him. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time to be sick in the sink. 

What the fuck was I thinking?

Everything contains secrets. Adults, children, safes, long-forgotten books, the trees, the stars. Albedo counts his in purple fingerprints on his hips, the love bite beneath his jaw, and the ache behind his ribs. 

Chapter Text

It is in the nature of the observer to look and never touch. Albedo, observer, may only touch—and never meet the eyes of his subject.

Albedo locks his office as he heads out for the evening, scarf carefully tied around his neck and sleeves pulled down. Beneath his clothes, he plays tapestry to bite marks, bruises, scratches—all things that he must not reveal to the world any  more than he can reveal his identity.

Prince. Princeps. Professor.

After the night he caved and snuck into Aether’s dormitory, he hasn’t dared to do so again, no matter what his body demands. Fall break ended and another week has passed. Friday nights used to feel lonely. 

Now, he just wants to get home in time to eat and catch Aether’s show, less for the book of the week and more for the call that comes after. A night spent heavy breathing, watching Aether strip down and perform for him alone, directing his hands, his eyes—

Just get home.

He passes by the laboratory and frowns at the glow of light within. At eight o’clock, everyone should be long gone, so he steps inside and blinks at the sight of Aether sitting at one of the benches.

This isn’t unusual; how many times has he found Aether in here later even than this? But never on a night when he’s meant to be streaming, when he has a call to make. Albedo has caught him cleaning, has caught him dancing, has caught him making careful calculations—

Never sitting with his head down, slumped in his chair.

Quietly, Albedo shuts the door and pulls the blinds. Not that he has any ulterior motives—he wants to afford them some privacy in case any other stragglers make their way through the halls.

What a wonderful excuse those nonexistent stragglers make.

Aether doesn’t move when the door shuts. Albedo makes his way to the bench, where he finds Aether with earbuds in and eyes closed. Before they spent a night in bed together, touching him casually required no real hesitation. Now, he doesn’t know how to touch without continuing, to put a hand on Aether and not drag him in.

The pull at the corners of Aether’s mouth brings back the image of him sitting beneath a tree, cold and crying and missing his family. He was entirely out of reach.

Don’t overthink it. Just touch him, for fuck’s sake.

Albedo draws a breath before he lays a hand on Aether’s shoulder, squeezing at the resultant start. Lucky, that he had the forethought to make actual contact; it is all that prevents Aether from tumbling off the stool. “Easy. It’s only me.”

Aether pulls out an earbud, somehow both ghastly pale and red-faced. “Professor, I—what time is it?”

“After eight. I was just leav—” But the rest dies in his throat as Aether claps a hand over his mouth and stumbles to his feet. He nearly makes it to the sink before being sick. Nearly.

Well, that explains falling asleep on the lab bench and looking like death warmed over. How hard has he been working, exactly?

Albedo hurries along behind, shoves him over the sink and pulls the hair out of his face before he heaves a second time. “So that’s a no on grabbing dinner?” Because one of them needs a sense of humor about the vomit under their feet, Aether’s ruined sweater, the pressing need for a bath.

No response, only tearful retching. The joke would be funnier, probably, if Aether didn’t look so dreadful on closer inspection. Heat rolls off of him, sweat dripping, and he shakes so violently that Albedo puts an arm around him as an anchor. Luckily for both of them, he isn’t squeamish. 

The spell doesn’t last for long; Aether finishes and slumps miserably over the sink, mumbling an apology as he tries to breathe. Albedo turns on the water and sprays down the sink, helps Aether remove his sweater and rinse off. “Here,” he says, pulling over a chair and sitting Aether down in it so he can clean everything up. “Don’t argue. Have you been sick all day?”

Not exactly how he planned on spending his Friday evening, but he’ll take it. 

“No.” Aether hides his face in his hands, shivering. “Maybe. I didn’t feel well after my last class so I wanted to sit for a minute—I’m so sorry, Professor, I can clean everything up if you just—”

“Don’t argue, remember?” Archons, Aether is covered in fading hickies that he tries to hide without being obvious. Taking pity on him, Albedo slips out of his jacket then his sweater. “Put these on while I take care of this. You don’t want your fever to get worse.”

The fact that Aether does not argue is testament to how poorly he must feel. Albedo catches him looking at the fading marks along his own arms and neck, busies himself with squeegeeing the floor.

“I didn’t know you’re seeing someone, Professor. Not—not that I think about it. But you’re the only person who stays here later than I do.”

Albedo’s face burns as he works. “Mm.” Noncommittal. Because it wouldn’t be appropriate to answer that in any capacity he can think of at the moment: you should know, you did it, or, speak for yourself, I’m not blind either.

“Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t feel good, sorry.”

Albedo shakes his head. “It’s alright. Do you have someone who can look after you?” Knowing the answer is no. He hates that he needs to ask to keep up his charade, doesn’t bother to wait for Aether to vocalize his answer. The slump of his shoulders serves well enough. “I have a guest room. You can sleep it off there, if you want. Someone needs to feed you.”

Aether simply nods, shivering and huddling in his borrowed clothes. 

Once the lab is clean, Albedo gathers Aether up and leads him out of the building, tucks him securely into the passenger seat of the car. In any other circumstance, he’d be thrilled, but Aether looks so miserable that he can’t bring himself to enjoy the reality of their situation.

Aether, in his apartment. Aether, sleeping in his bed and depending on him. No one else but them.

He puts the car into reverse and pulls out of the lot.

Domesticity implies a tamed beast, animal nature lost to time and the influence of man. The beast behind Albedo’s ribs, slavering and snarling for purchase between his bones, knows only how to survive: to hunt, to kill, to devour.

Aether does nothing but sleep in a medicine-induced coma and blearily sip bone broth while Albedo cradles his head in one hand and the bowl in his other, all Friday night and through Saturday. Surprisingly, taking care of him feels less like a chore and more like something natural, like something he inherently knows how to do.

Keep Aether’s fever down, his body hydrated and fed, and his stress as low as possible. The directives are simple, pleasant. They could not be more different from his original plan to spend the weekend texting and flirting behind his anonymous mask.

Prince can’t take care of Aether like this—only Albedo can. 

Late Saturday night, Albedo finishes washing dishes and turns on the kettle to make tea. As he prepares his mug with sugar and a strainer filled with loose leaf, a sound from the hallway lifts his eye, and he smiles. “Well, well. Look who’s risen from the dead—shouldn’t you be lying down?”

Aether rubs his eyes as he sits down heavily at the kitchen counter. “Needed to get up for a minute. What time is it?”

“Late.” Albedo steps over to press the back of his hand to Aether’s forehead. Still warm, but not nearly as high as earlier. “Better than before. Can I make you some tea?”

Aether leans into the touch, eyes staying shut. “Yeah, okay. Um.” He slumps lower on the counter. “I’m really sorry, Professor. I’m pathetic. You have enough to worry about without me getting you sick. Or puking all over your bathroom.”

“I have an excellent immune system and a washing machine. I’ll put some honey in your tea; it’ll help.” He sets out an extra mug and strainer, taking special care not to  let his hands shake. “How are you feeling?”

“Out of it. I barely remember how I got here.”

“I drove you. It didn’t seem right to send you off to weather through it alone.”

“Just kill me actually. Gods, how embarrassing.”

Aether had been so nervous the first time they met in his office, too much energy in the face of his idol. No one wants to puke on their idol’s floor. No wonder he’s embarrassed. “You can’t help it. You didn’t ask to get sick.”

Aether pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it, winces. “I have about a thousand notifications. I should have let people know I couldn’t do what I promised this weekend.”

Not surprising—Aether was scheduled to stream last night and simply never showed up. Once he was showered and in bed, Albedo peeked into his stream chat to see how people were reacting. The overwhelming concern warmed him through.

Aether’s audience cares about him, worries for him in a genuine way. No one was angry, at least not in the chat. 

But now, watching Aether scroll through his notifications, Albedo feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as he realizes: Prince didn’t send a message last night. Or today.

Shit. He can’t grab his phone and send one now; it would be too coincidental. Maybe Aether hasn’t noticed, hasn’t realized that his notification isn’t among the massive number he scrolls through now. “Are you hungry? Do you want to see if you can keep anything down?” he asks, in case he can distract him in time.

No such luck. He sees how Aether’s shoulders slump, how it looks as though someone drops a weight on his shoulders. “I—okay. Maybe.” He drops his phone, puts his head down on his arms.

If he doesn’t ask, it’ll be weirder than if he does. “...Are you alright? Other than the obvious?”

Aether shakes his head without lifting it. “It’s not—you don’t want to hear about my problems, Professor. It’s all TMI.”

“I don’t mind.” Albedo pours their tea and leaves it to steep while he digs through cabinets for chicken soup. “Really. We’re not at school, so I’m just Albedo until you feel better. Maybe I can help you figure it out.” Aha. He comes out with a can of chicken and rice.

When he turns back around, he finds Aether watching him with bloodshot eyes, cheeks flushed. “Albedo.” Like he’s testing the way it feels in his mouth. It seems to bolster his confidence, because he continues. “Okay. Well, I have a…thing with someone. And I kind of stood him up last night, but he hasn’t asked me about it. That’s weird, right?”

Albedo turns away to hide his face, legitimizes it by opening the can of soup and pouring it into a saucepan to heat up. “I don’t know, is it? Is he very communicative normally?”

“Yeah, we talk every day. We’re not dating, I think, but…” He trails off, looking exhausted. “I’m probably overthinking it. I probably sound like I’m a middle schooler with a crush; I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You don’t.” Albedo turns back to him and leans back against the sink. “You’re sick, and you’re sad. That’s perfectly normal.”

He’s the reason. He is the reason that Aether, who once bounced nervously into his office while spilling sunshine everywhere, looks like he’s about to cry. Albedo, who has never broken a single heart, who has never encouraged anyone to look at him romantically, is entirely at fault for this.

All you had to do was send one text while he was asleep. This might have been avoided if you took the time to think and show up for him.

“I don’t think anything about what’s going on is normal, Pro—Albedo.” Aether tries to smile, fails; impossible not to see the tears welling up in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m not normally so—”

“I cannot think of a single thing you need to apologize for. You can be however you need to be.” He pushes off the counter and rests a hand on Aether’s shoulder. He’s crying over you. “Maybe something is going on with him. I can’t imagine he would leave you hanging on purpose. Doesn’t he know how good you are at physics?”

Aether snorts and doesn’t reply, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. Albedo clucks his tongue and dries them with his sleeve, aches to simply take Aether in his arms and apologize for being so careless. Instead, he pulls back to the stove and stirs the warming soup until it’s ready.

Watching Aether eat and scroll stressfully through his phone makes his stomach ache, so he settles down onto the couch with a book to pretend to read. Aether’s spoon clatters into his bowl, and a few moments later, he joins Albedo on the couch and leans into his shoulder.

“My professor. I don’t think he’s much of a cuddler. It’s just me, really.” That conversation feels like it took place years ago, in an entirely different world. Aether sounded almost as miserable that day as he looks now. Without putting up a fuss, Albedo slips an arm around him and pulls a blanket over them.

“Can I stay out here for a bit?” He meets Albedo’s eyes from his shoulder, lashes still wet and face flushed hot. His fever still lingers; beneath the blankets, he’s a furnace. 

“Yeah, I’ve got you.”

An hour later, when Aether is fully asleep tucked against his side, Albedo unlocks his phone and sends a text:

aether i’m so sorry my internet has been fucked
hope your show went great last night
miss you
talk to you tomorrow

He locks his phone again, breathes a sigh of relief, and settles in. It’s the least he can do.

The next evening, Albedo’s computer plays the ringing chime of Aether’s call, less than an hour after he heads home on Sunday night. Fever broken, strength somewhat regained, he insisted on ‘giving Albedo his house back,’ and he was gone before Albedo could argue.

Ensuring his camera is off and his voice modulator is on, he settles down on his bed and answers the call. “Hey—I miss you.”

Aether appears on screen, lying in his own bed with damp hair and tired eyes. “I miss you, too. I—I was really worried. It’s so stupid, I thought—it doesn’t matter what I thought. Hi, Prince.” His eyes slip closed, and he shivers. “I’ve been really sick. I don’t think I can stream tonight.”

“Probably best that you don’t. You look flushed, do you have a fever?”

“Mm-mm, not anymore. I just took a hot shower.” He chews his bottom lip, glances at the camera. “...Can you come over?”

They’ve been apart for less than an hour, and still, Albedo craves closeness with him. Closeness as Prince is different from closeness as himself; spending the entire weekend close to Aether without being able to kiss him, to touch and taste and help him sweat the fever out, was torture. How easy it might have been to make him feel better, if only in small ways.

By making him feel cared for, by making him feel human and loved and cherished.

He shouldn’t go over. He should start to pull away before they get in too deep. It isn’t fair to either of them to continue the way they are now, but it especially isn’t fair to Aether. Aether, who is blameless for all of this, who loves so openly and purely—

Reconcile the two. Be yourself. Tell him the truth, show him that he can have anything he wants.

On screen, Aether grabs his blindfold and slips it on. “Please, Prince?”

Damn it.

“On my way.”

An hour later, after showering with Prince’s shampoo and soap and grooming himself, Albedo parks his car and pulls his hood up as he steps into Aether’s building. As ever, the door to his dormitory is unlocked, so he steps into the dark room and locks the door behind himself.

“Prince?”

He steps out of his shoes and shuts off the bedside lamp before he crawls into bed beside Aether, pulls him into his arms, smothers the sound of his own name with his mouth. Aether gasps into the kiss, pushing his arms around Albedo’s neck and arching into the touch—completely naked under the sheets. Warm, freshly scrubbed, begging to be possessed.

And Albedo, helpless to resist, is more than happy to possess him. For all the emotional turmoil of the last few days, he knows the truth at once.

He can’t just walk away from this. He’s in too deep.

Fundamentally, magnetism is nothing more than the force generated by the movement of electrons. In reality, Albedo knows magnetism to be the unseen stirring in his core, attracting him to his polar opposite with such violence that he may never be extracted.