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If we switched places
If you were the survivor
Then as the abandoned experiment, the failure of the Primordial Human Project…
I’d want to replace you too.
I would replicate your appearance.
Study your alchemy.
And create miraculous lifeforms to divert your attentions.
I would wait for the right moment,
Then dispose of you.
And then…
I could finally experience the joy of being brought into the world.
✧
Except, they aren’t the same.
They never have been.
Subject Two has been studying Albedo for a very, very long time. Long enough to know that coexistence was never an option.
Albedo is utilitarian, and far too like their mother. He will never tolerate the imperfect existence of the failed experiment.
Of this, Subject Two is certain.
And yes, it makes him angry. Angry that the cold and unsympathetic Albedo is granted a life so filled with love. Angry that others would waste their emotions on him, give and give something he won’t return.
Angry that no one else sees how readily he would remove his own brother from this world, seeing nothing but an obstacle.
First Alice, then Klee. Then the Knights, the otherworldly Traveller, and the bard stumbling over his own feet so eager for a shred of the alchemist’s attentions.
For the longest time, Subject Two wants that. He wants that love that is showered, unearned, on his brother. He knows Albedo will never willingly share, and so he does everything in his power to take it. He studies him, copies him, memorises every small, insignificant detail.
For a very long time, he watches, practices, memorises everything. And it's in that practising that he realises; Albedo is not the one who is unfeeling.
Albedo smiles, while he cannot. Albedo laughs, while he cannot. Albedo is loved, while he is not.
Even if he took his place, none of that love would belong to him, be meant for him..
His own mother didn’t love him. Neither do his brothers. One killed him already, and the other would kill him again if given the chance.
He doesn't want to take Albedo away from those people who love him. Not because of any shred of feeling for his brother. Absolutely not.
But… it would hurt the ignorant fools who adore him. There’s something in the expression that the little girl makes in his mind’s eye when she sees him standing over her brother’s bloodied body that makes his chest twist and ache. There’s something in the idea of causing them the pain of loneliness and loss that leaves him hollowed out.
He never makes his final move.
He doesn’t ask himself why. He doesn’t ask himself what he wants, or if he’s willing to fight for it. He doesn’t ask himself what the pain in his chest is, every time he sees a smile meant for Albedo that he believes could have been his.
He doesn’t ask himself why he wants those smiles for himself.
It’s easiest not to ask too many questions. When have his questions ever been rewarded with answers, after all…
He sneaks into Albedo's lab to steal his notes; one final time.
There has to be a final solution. Not the agonising limbo of body death. Not the cruel existence within the body of Durin. Not the nonexistence of watching life flow past him slowly, leaving him like an unmoving stone to be slowly eroded by the river..
There is a fire in him being slowly smothered, there’s an anger with no outlet. He hates Albedo, but he doesn’t hate humanity. He hates life only for the unfairness of it all; all he wants is to live, to be- it’s nothing that matters.
All that matters is the Final Solution.
(All he wants is to live. Doesn’t he deserve that, too?)
If anybody would have that knowledge, it would be Albedo.
He looks for it.
The alchemist is gone and his lab is empty.
Subject Two scowls as he flips roughly through Albedo’s journals. Are they sorted chronologically, or by subject? Even if he knew, would it help him narrow down his search? Unlikely.
His movements grow jerky in his boiling frustration.
He wonders if he’d have better luck just marching up to his brother and demanding a resolution. Surely, if he started a fight, Albedo would finish it. Perhaps, then-
He startles violently at a quiet cough behind him. He spins, sword drawn, expecting to come face to face with his twin. Instead, the tip of his sword is held at the throat of the bard.
(How did he arrive so silently?)
He drops his sword arm, weary, and frowns.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.” He says shortly. He’s a good actor, but even after all his time observing, he doesn't understand how Albedo feels about this bard. It's difficult to imitate emotions he does not understand. “What are you doing here?”
The bard laughs and it is the sound of twinkling bells and wind chimes. His hands are raised placatingly, unphased. In one hand hangs a paper bag with vegetables. “Don’t look so surprised!” He says, smiling - or smirking. He looks too self-satisfied. “I only came to make dinner. Don’t tell me you forgot .” He says.
Subject Two’s mind races. Is there a challenge in his voice, or is Subject Two imagining things? Is he being paranoid?
Is there a right answer? A wrong answer? The real Albedo is nowhere to be seen, so if there were plans… then he must have forgotten.
Which seems unlike him.
He narrows his eyes slightly. “I wasn’t aware we had plans tonight.”
The bard laughs again and waves him off. “Okay, okay, we didn’t. But I thought I’d surprise you.”
Subject Two frowns. This is not how he had imagined his night going. The longer he spends in close proximity to Albedo’s friends, the higher his chances of being caught. Could he walk out now?
If Albedo returns while he’s here…
He should leave.
“Apologies, but I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.” He answers shortly.
He’s on edge now, he doesn’t have time to browse. He begins pulling journals off the shelf and into his bag. He’ll have to read through them later.
“Oh.” The bard deflates, slightly, though he’s still smiling as he tilts his head, watching Subject Two with curious eyes. “Must be a pretty important project you’re working on, huh?”
“Something like that.” He replies tightly. He forces himself to take a breath and relax. What does he have to be afraid of, anyway? Death? Nothing. Fine. He can humour the bard. He inhales, exhales, and turns to face him.
He’s sitting by the cold fire pit, arranging logs as if he fully intends to stay and cook despite Subject Two’s dismissal. He’s humming softly under his breath, smiling to himself. He looks smug; or, no, is Subject Two just projecting? It’s hard to say.
“Venti.” He says. It is not his first time saying the name. He knows the names of all of Albedo’s companions, and knows the shapes of those names, the way they fit in his mouth. Knows how to roll the sounds off his tongue in just the same ways Albedo does.
His speech is not his own. But it is a flawless imitation. He is flawless. (Not that it matters). “What are you doing here?” He sighs; the same soft sigh Albedo makes when he is tired, trying to focus, and has his work interrupted. The sigh he makes when he is annoyed, but not truly upset. The sigh that says ‘I am busy, and you are distracting me, but perhaps I want to be distracted.’
It’s just a sound. He can imitate it, even if he will never understand the sentiment behind it.
The bard’s eyes are sad. “I could ask you the same question.”
Subject Two bristles. There are alarm bells in his head. Before he can defend himself; before he can claim that this is his workshop and not Venti’s, the bard continues;
“But it seems you have me at a bit of a loss. You know my name, and yet I don’t know yours.” The quiet sadness fades as he straightens up, brushing his hands - dark with charcoal - on his shorts before placing them on his hips. He is still smiling.
He hasn’t drawn a weapon. His stance is unbalanced. He isn’t even blocking the exit.
It’s the first time anyone has ever looked at Subject Two and seen him as the fake that he is, without animosity in their eyes. The bard is looking right through him. But he is still smiling.
The hair on the back of his neck stands up. His hand inches to the hilt of his own weapon. “What are you saying?” He demands, voice shaking slightly - why is it shaking? Why does it choose now to betray him?
The bard deflates slightly. “Ah, hey, now. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He placates, holding his hands up. “I just wanted to talk.”
“To me.” Subject Two’s voice betrays him again; he’s speaking without thinking about his words. He feels shaken. He knows how to speak as Albedo. He knows the right words to say and the right way to say them.
He does not know how to speak as himself.
“Of course, to you! Why else would I be here?” He shakes his head and kneels again. He is crouched, half turned away from Subject Two. It’s an incredibly vulnerable position to be in. He is still smiling. “Now, why don’t you forget about those journals for a minute and come sit down?”
The bard doesn’t blink when Subject Two races past him and back out into the snow.
He merely sighs. Shaking his head as he abandons the fire. “Ah… perhaps I came on a bit too strong.” He murmurs to himself.
✧
Subject Two doesn’t know where he’s going. His feet want to draw him to Wyrmrest Valley but he knows he’ll be far too easy to find there.
Paranoia hounds him; where is Albedo? He hasn’t seen him for days. Is he out on the mountain as well? Is he searching for him?
He feels hunted, like he’s walking into a trap.
A false heart pounds in his ribcage.
Hundreds of years suffering, and freedom had been so close he could taste it.
Close enough to reach out and take it with his own two hands.
But in the end, he is too weak. Physically, he knows he is strong enough to kill Albedo; he is sure that he could. But too weak to take a life at all. Too weak to bring the same pain and suffering that he has always felt down onto others.
It was a simple plan. Straightforward. Why did he stumble? Why fail?
Studying Albedo for so long, enough to perfectly imitate him, instead showed him the truth of his own life. The true reason he was not good enough, why he was rejected.
He can take Albedo’s life, but he can never take the love or approval that he has earned. He will never find worth in other people’s eyes. He will never have a sister to adore him or friends to make sure he eats. People who care about his wellbeing. Who care about him as anything more than a commodity. A means to an end, or a subpar finished product, abandoned before he could ever reach his full potential.
All that's left for him is the Final Freedom, but he rails against that too. He does not want it . Surely it must be better than this, but is it so wrong to hope for more?
He runs.
Runs from all of the people who he tells himself he hates, because hating them is easier than the alternative.
Imagine it… wanting nothing more than life, deserving nothing more than death, and being so incapable of achieving either. Caught in the middle, fleeing from feelings he doesn’t understand but having nowhere to run to.
(He is raging against the unfairness of the world he was brought into, the mother who never cared for him, the brother who sees him only as an obstacle).
His feet carry him to the peak, and if he is surprised to see the bard already waiting there, he doesn’t show it. He is tired and he doesn't want to run again.
He has nowhere to go.
The bard glances over his shoulder and his expression is agonisingly soft. His eyes are warm and Subject Two wants to hurt him, just to see his face twist, to see any expression besides that smile.
Subject Two walks forward to stand beside him. He looks him over slowly. “I don’t have one.” He speaks, unprompted.
The bard understands nonetheless. His smile is soft and rueful. “You could always choose one.”
Subject Two scoffs; a sound entirely his own. He has never heard Albedo sound so derisive. “What purpose would it serve? Names are for others to address you. I have never needed one before. I will not need one now.”
Venti sighs, face falling at his exclamation. “I know why you’re here, what you want to do.”
“Do you?” Subject Two asks, crossing his arms.
The bard’s eyes meet his own, and they are so deep he could drown in them. They are a bottomless pit of sorrow, striking enough to send Subject Two stumbling back a step.
“What are you?” He demands, harsh.
“Would it be enough to say I’m an artificial human, as well?”
“You are not a product of alchemy.”
“No. I never said I was.”
Subject Two’s eyes narrow. His skin crawls under a gaze more inhuman than his own.
“Why are you so determined to die?” Venti asks instead.
“Why are you so determined to insert yourself into my personal business?”
The bard frowns. “It’s my business too, you know.
Subject Two bristles, taking stomping steps through the snow until he’s nose to nose with the bard, scowling down at him. “This has nothing to do with you.” He snarls, hooking his fist in the ruffled collar of the bard’s shirt.
“You want to live, don’t you?” The bard asks softly, tilting his head. He doesn’t react to the hand twisting in his shirt. “There is nothing stopping you except for the obstacles you’ve placed in your own way.”
He shakes the bard roughly. “You’re wrong. I will never be truly alive, and I will never be-”
“Loved?”
His blood boils at the pity in his voice. How dare the bard give him that sad, pathetic expression? “There’s no point. I understand why I am the failed experiment. I cannot understand those feelings. I cannot become human. I cannot love the way Albedo loves.”
Venti listens, his face twisted with so much pity that Subject Two does not want. He raises his right arm, placing a hand on Subject Two’s chest. Just above where his false heart lies. Every instinct is screaming to run, but he feels firmly rooted in place. Something older than him is running through his feet and down into the roots of the mountain. He is the prey animal here, and he is frozen in place by the hand on his chest, pinned by those unnaturally green eyes.
“The pain in your chest,” Venti murmurs softly, “is proof enough that you’re human.”
How could he know? How could he possibly understand that gnawing ache that’s been with him since the moment he first opened his eyes in this cursed world? The endless, unbearable yearning for something just out of reach- a place, a person, an emotion that was never meant for him..
“You know nothing of that pain,” Subject Two spits, venom and vitriol rising. “Do not pretend to know me.”
Venti’s eyes soften even further, sympathy bleeding into something deeper. An empathy that Subject Two refuses to accept.
How dare this bard stand here and act like he knows how it feels?
“You’ve prayed for it,” Venti states. There is no question, and no room for denial. “For a way out. That’s why I’m here, you know.”
Subject Two blinks, taking a slow step backwards as a dread fills him from the ground up. “What…?”
“Your heart - your wish - it reached me.”
For a long moment, Subject Two is silent, his mind spinning as he tries to process what Venti is saying. It feels like the world is tilting under his feet.
Because there is no way. Every thing the bard is implying layers impossibility upon impossibility. The gods do not listen. And this child is not one of them. And if they did, if he was, even then, why would one of Celestia’s tools ever heed one of Gold’s.
Venti is not here because of some… some stupid wish Subject Two didn’t even realize he made.
“That’s… impossible,” his denial falls frantic past his trembling lips. He shakes his head slowly as the cold dread grows. “I didn’t… I didn’t…” Subject Two drops the bard from his clenched fist as he takes another step back, his breath coming quicker now, panic clawing at his throat. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Venti says, stepping forward to match his retreat, voice calm, patient. “You want freedom. It’s been in your heart this whole time. But what you don’t see is that you’re already free. The doors to your cage have been unlocked this whole time.”
In the stillness, a light breaks through the dark. Shining like a small moon, green against white, silver and snow, in the breath of space between their bodies. Light and shadow flicker wildly through the flurries. An Anemo Vision.
He knows, intrinsically, that it is meant for him.
Something not given by his mother, nor stolen from his brother. It is tangible proof of his personhood.
His legs feel like they belong to someone else as he stumbles backward. He drops the bard, shoving him away in his panic. “What are you doing?”
Venti’s gaze doesn’t waver, and his next words are cold and unyielding, with all the force of the winter storm. “Freedom isn’t a finite resource. It is yours for the taking.”
“I can’t! ” Subject Two’s voice cracks, sharp and jagged like broken glass.
Venti sighs, expression falling. “I’m not here to argue with you.” He answers gently, spreading his hands. “That’s not… I can’t force you to agree. I can’t force you to accept anything you don’t want to hear.”
Silence falls between them, heavy and suffocating. Subject Two stares at Venti, at the bard’s open, honest expression. It’s too much. How dare he act like he cares. How dare he expose Subject Two like this. How dare he know him?
“I…” Subject Two’s voice is barely above a whisper. He looks down at his own hands, trembling fists slowly unclenching. “What if I fail again?”
Venti steps forward, closing the distance between them, his hand still resting over Subject Two’s heart. “Then try again,” he says softly. “And again, and again, as many times as it takes. That’s what it means to be free.”
Subject Two closes his eyes. There is a part of him that wants to believe. That maybe, just maybe, Venti’s words could be true. But another part of him, the part that has known only pain and rejection, still clings to the idea that none of this is real.
Subject Two’s hands curl back into fists, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “No,” he snaps, shaking his head. “No, I don’t need this—I don’t need you telling me who I am.”
Gravity reasserts itself and the Vision, still unclaimed, falls with a silent thud into the snow at their feet.
Venti kneels to pick it up, his eyes lingering on Subject Two. He is quiet as he considers the other. He can see it - the fear that comes with being vulnerable, with wanting something so desperately but knowing it’s forever out of reach.
“You’re fighting so hard,” Venti rises, drawing close again. Subject Two does not let him finish the thought.
“I am alone! ” Subject Two shouts, voice breaking. His eyes are wild, filled with pain and something close to panic. “I’ve always been alone! No one - no one has ever -” His words falter, the anger rising again like a wave, crashing through him.
He stops abruptly, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself together. On the inside, though something is fracturing, splintering under Venti's evergreen gaze. His mind frantically tries to reject the words, trying to cling to the familiar belief that he cannot be loved, that he does not deserve it and that alone is the reason not one person has ever bothered to treat him gently.
But then Venti wraps his arms around Subject Two’s shoulders.
Subject Two freezes, his body going rigid with shock. For a split second, he’s too stunned to react. No one has ever - no one has ever held him like this. The warmth of Venti’s body against his is foreign, unsettling, and his mind is screaming. He has to stop this. He has to protect himself.
Instinct takes over. His hand flies to the sword at his side, drawing it in one swift, fluid motion. The blade gleams in the cold mountain light, the edge pressed against Venti’s side, sharp enough to cut a clean line through the leather of his corselet.
But Venti doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react with fear or panic. He just stays holding Subject Two as if the sword isn’t even there. As if it’s not a threat at all.
“What are you doing?” he rasps, voice low and strained. “I could kill you.”
“I know,” Venti says softly, his voice steady, a calm breeze passing through the trees. “But you won’t.”
Subject Two’s grip tightens on the hilt, his breath catching in his throat. The warmth from Venti’s body seeps into his skin, into the hollow places he’s never known how to fill. It’s terrifying. He doesn’t know what to do with it.
“I could kill you,” he repeats, but the words sound hollow, like they’ve lost their meaning.
Venti rests his chin on Subject Two’s shoulder, his breath warm against the cold. “But you don’t want to.”
The sword in Subject Two’s hand trembles. He feels a knot forming in his chest, a pressure building behind his ribs, something that feels too much like the emotions he’s been insisting he does not, can not, have. He wants to push Venti away, wants to reject everything about this moment. But he can’t. His body won’t move, and the warmth… the warmth is sinking deeper, unravelling him in ways he didn’t think possible.
His throat tightens, and he grits his teeth, the words coming out choked. “I’m not like Albedo. I’m not-”
“You don’t have to be,” Venti interrupts. “You can be loved, just for being you. You already are loved. Just for being who you are.”
Subject Two’s heart pounds in his chest, the false beat feeling too real, too overwhelming. “No,” he breathes, but the denial is weak. Something inside him is breaking, something that’s been frozen for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like to want, to need something like this.
“You’re loved,” Venti says firmly.. “And the more people you allow to see your true self, the more people will grow to love you.”
One arm shifts, and his hand settles over Subject Two’s own. Between their palms rests the Vision. Venti’s palm moves to the back of the homunculus’ hand, pushing his fingers closed around it.
The warmth from earlier blooms in his chest again, spreading through his body like he is nothing more than kindling.
It pulses in his grip, blue-green glow refracting in a dozen directions, lighting up against the blue in his eyes. It is solid and heavy in his hand, a warm pulse within cold metal. The metal frame is pointed and sharp, like he is. It is a metaphor, it is living poetry, and it is a piece of him.
Subject Two stares at the sword in his other hand, the blade gleaming coldly in the light. The warmth of the Vision is stronger than the chill of the steel in his grip. Slowly, reluctantly, his fingers begin to loosen around the hilt.
“I don’t… I don’t know how,” Subject Two says, haltingly, voice barely audible above the wind.
“You don’t have to know how,” Venti murmurs. “You just have to try.”
For a long moment, Subject Two stands there, the sword hanging limply in his hand, his body still tense but no longer fighting. He doesn’t know what to do with this warmth, with the idea that maybe, just maybe, Venti is telling the truth.
He’s afraid. Terrified, even. And yet, in Venti’s arms, that fear feels… smaller.
The sword falls, the sound absorbed by the snow.
He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into something unknown, something vast and terrifying. And for the first time in his existence, he doesn’t know if he wants to be pulled back.
He doesn’t speak, his throat tight, his heart caught somewhere between disbelief and longing. The words Venti spoke - the gentle reassurance, the impossible kindness - they hammer away at his walls, chipping through layer after layer of ice. Subject Two had never thought it possible that anyone could look at him and see anything worth holding onto.
But Venti does. He stands there, offering warmth and acceptance, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
He seems to sense the shift in Subject Two’s silence, the way the storm inside him has quieted, if only just. The bard sighs softly, his breath warm against Subject Two’s skin, and then he slowly pulls away, releasing him from the embrace.
“You’ve found your answer, haven’t you?” Venti says quietly, a small, relieved smile tugging at his lips. He takes a step back, giving Subject Two space, his bright eyes softer now, as if a burden has lifted.
Subject Two blinks, the question catching him off guard. “My… answer?” he echoes, his voice hoarse.
Venti chuckles lightly, the sound gentle like the wind rustling through the snow-draped trees. “You’ll figure it out. Maybe not right away, but it’s there. You’ve always had it in you.” His gaze lingers on Subject Two for a moment longer, as if committing him to memory, then his smile softens.
Subject Two watches him, unsure of what to say, unsure if he can say anything. His chest feels too tight.
Why do you care?
(He is beginning to understand; he cares because he can).
The cold settles heavy around him, the mountain silent and vast. The world feels small. Manageable, even.
Clarity strikes him with force: he will live.
His life won’t end here. He will not fade to nothing, nor perish out of sight, out of mind. He will live - not for anyone’s approval, not to reflect another’s glory. Not for anyone else but for himself.
Simply because he wants to.
Because he deserves to. His life is not something he needs to fight for or earn.
It is his.
It has always been his.