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Albert has a strange difficulty remembering certain parts of his childhood.
Tiny, flashing bits of them are as clear enough to make out. Glints of metal in the dark, but what stands out are usually the bad ones. Of course, with Albert's luck, it would always be the bad ones.
He tends to use his work to block them out. Buries them under stacks of manila folders on his workstation, and his partner Will helps with that. More often than Will is aware, he keeps the fire low enough that it doesn't burn Albert. Just stings.
There he was, a spineless creature made of stupidity and clumsiness, and Spencer had taught him how to stand upright. He put him through school, and scolded him when no one else would, training that vile weakness out of him until he could no longer feel the poison of his failure creeping back up his throat. He'd pushed him harder than any of the other Wesker children - even Alex.
He had forced Albert to speak. He hadn't spoken a word until he was nearly 6 years old, a completely nonverbal child until he'd fallen into Spencer's hands. The hands that were made of barbed wire and shaped him into the young man he is today - brutally, forcefully, stinging with shame and humility until he was "suitable". He sat Albert down for hours at a time, forcing him to read the same lines over and over, aloud, cracking his cane like a whip against his wrist whenever he misspoke. He trained that out of him, too.
At the time, of course, it was the worst thing he'd ever felt, standing there humiliated for the crime of being born "flawed" until he no longer bore the roughness or imperfections of something natural. He wasn't natural, though. Albert, from the very beginning, knew that he was far from that, but every punishment, every pain, every grueling hour being forced into the hardest conditions of his young life, it all acted as a purifying flame for that disgusting taint he carried. His inner revulsion and self-hatred became power.
Spencer provided him with a future.
He provided him with everything, and to ask for anything more is excessive and ungrateful. He's survived, after all. Given the choice, he'd make the same decision again and again, no matter how much he'd screamed and cried or how much the process had hurt, he would always choose purity.
Being with Will, here at Arklay, feels like purity.
In this strange, hidden lab in the mountains, they're stronger than they've ever been, on the teasing cusp of perfection together - among other things. Will's support extends far beyond that of an average research partner, and while Albert's aware of it, he's not sure he can read it accurately enough to put his hand in the bear trap. Feelings tend to disguise themselves that way, dangerous and unforgiving, but he can't help what he knows. He knows that Will is different with him than the others, that he always stays up late talking to him, or listening to Albert talk, occasionally content on simply hearing his voice.
Every time, without fail, Will's touch and smile echo in his brain long after he's gone back to work, long after he's ghosted his hand over Albert's, long after he's sat too close to him on their break and leaned his head on his shoulder, feigning tiredness.
Something burns with him. At first, Albert had thought it was his intelligence (God, his intelligence) or maybe the fact that they're so isolated out here, and Will is one of the few constants in his life. He's always there, diligent, working alongside him, a support beam where he doesn't realize he is. He tries to match him, does little things here and there; staying late, brings him coffee, filling out reports with him, not because he needs it but because it lightens the weight on his shoulders and he knows that Will can tell there's weight there.
No matter how straight he stands up, Will's always been able to tell with him.
When Albert's bordering on a migraine from listening to the whir of machines, the buzz of the lights, the constant clicking and clanking of computers and machinery, Will comforts him. He brings him ibuprofen and covers for him while he lies down. When Albert's overwhelmed by the touch of his latex gloves, he gently slips them off his hands and gives him a different kind to wear. When Will notices he's struggling, he props him up. He always has.
Of course, sometimes Albert makes it easy. Sometimes he slams the papers down in a huff, stands up and walks off like a dog called by a master, and sometimes still, he lingers too long, lets his eyes wander, as if they're magnetically attracted and he has to try to pull them away. Oh, he tries.
He makes it easy when Spencer visits the labs, checking on his most prized little proteges, and when his eyes linger on Albert. Will sees him shrink his pride (ever so slightly), speak careful, respectful. Spencer's eyes don't have the disgustingly soft affection that Albert's eyes do when they linger on Will, but rather a contorted, sick threat of be careful, be smart, you know how this goes, and Will sees it all. He feels horribly small, a tiny child again, being shoved into that bright-white room where the bad kids go.
Will asks him if he's alright after, and of course he is. He always will be. To ask for anything more than survival is greedy, even if he does indulge on occasion. It's only a God's place to ask for more.
He makes it easy for Will right now, sitting beside him, shaking his leg in an uncharacteristic display of anxiousness. His friend places a hand on his thigh to still him, lingers. His breath is stolen from his lungs, even for just a cruel moment.
Will asks him something about Spencer. Something regarding his behavior, and Albert gives him a pre-loaded jargon response, excusing the old man. He shaped him, after all, from that sickening and malformed clay. He'd put up with young Albert's transgressions, beaten and sculpted him into a living machine. How much more ungrateful could Albert feel?
Then, Will asks him something he never thought he'd hear. What about before?
He repeats the question, incredulous, and Will continues, asking what Spencer was like. Was he ever meaner than he is now? I mean, he's pretty unforgiving, isn't he?
His silence told Will all he needed to know. I would be nothing without Spencer. Less than nothing. He's raised me to borderline godhood out of charity.
Gods don't get afraid like that, Al.
No, he supposes they don't. He hears something soft from Will, some comforting words that are blotted out in his mind by the gentleness and cadence of Will's voice, the touch of his hands. He moves a little closer, pushing that boundary like a rubber band and seeing how far it can stretch.
Albert stills his breathing.
You don't have to shrink yourself for him.
He's not afraid. He's not shrinking himself. He's surviving, like the good kids do.
What could he even do, Al? You're so strong.
Will's lips ghost over his cheek, barely there. If Albert didn't know better, he'd say he imagined it out of desperation, crafted some silly fantasy of gentle cloth to cover the barbed wire hands.
No, it's more simple. Will kisses him for the first time, and it sends ice-water running down Albert's back, painful electrodes all over his body, overwhelms him with something he's not sure he could ever feel outside of his partner, and his partner alone. The rubber band's snapped by now, for sure.
He doesn't realize his cheeks are wet until Will slips his glasses off his face, eyes hit by the burn of icy fluorescent lights and the sudden reality that he's so, so close to him. Will wipes his eyes for him in a way he's sure nobody ever has, not even when he was a baby, so careful he feels almost safe in his hands. I won't break.
Albert kisses him this time, taking the reins back and pushing him into his chair, almost playful? His lungs hardly allow any measure of air for a moment, a long moment while he watches Will smile and then lunge back at him to reconnect. It all spirals quickly, in the only way it possibly could for the two of them - passionate, strong, borderline obsessive, kisses that bruise and heal.
Maybe the bruises will let something good grow back, this time.