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Today was just another day,
unchanging and clinical. The laboratory was where William Birkin spent the vast majority of his life, far more than the quarters he shared with Wesker. It couldn't be helped the young prodigy possessed an ambition that eclipsed everyone else at the Umbrella Executive Training School, outstripping even those who had been there years longer than him. His brilliant mind consistently earned him Wesker's silent admiration. At times, Wesker would address him simply as "Genius" instead of by name. It wasn't sarcasm or mockery the boy, two years his junior, had proven with every breath that the title fit him as if he were born for no other purpose.
But for all his brilliance, he was still merely human—young, raw, and with much growing left to do. He required rest and sustenance to survive, yet Birkin treated his own well-being with a reckless disregard, as if it were an unnecessary distraction. To Wesker, this was a display of sheer folly. It created vulnerabilities: fatigue, carelessness, and an accumulation of chronic stress. When deprived of sleep, Birkin became a volatile storm of irritability. Other researchers avoided him like a plague, leaving Albert Wesker as the only soul capable of enduring him. It was a taxing chore, constantly tending to his lab partner and absorbing his venomous moods. Others often watched Wesker with bewildered eyes, wondering how he maintained such a cold, unshakable composure in the face of Birkin's temper.
birkin often became irritable when he didn't get enough rest. To the point that the other researchers didn't want to get close to him. It can be said that it is almost avoided. Right now, only Albert Wesker could tolerate him. Yes, it was terrible having to constantly take care of this lab mate. Sometimes having to suffer from his negative emotions, other researchers often looked at Wesker strangely and questioned how he could maintain such composure.
The truth was simple He didn't endure it.
Wesker knew that anything left fixed would eventually fester, creating complications too great to resolve later. Management was necessary.
If Birkin refused to eat, Wesker would be the one to bring the tray directly to him, standing over him like a sentinel until every bite was gone.
If Birkin grew stubborn or picked at his vegetables, Wesker’s hand would reach out, firm against those soft cheeks, forcing the food in with a gaze that remained impassive behind his dark lenses.
If Birkin refused to leave the lab, Wesker would corner the rat forcing him back to his bed—or, in more dire cases, simply hauling him there by force.
If he struggled, Wesker pinned him down. If he ranted, Wesker silenced him. If he scratched, Wesker bit back twice as hard.
It was a fair exchange, albeit a streak of childish behavior Wesker rarely indulged in. Still, he often wondered silently
How could someone so arrogant, so obsessed with power and acclaim, be so negligent of his own life? It was one of the many ironies Wesker found amusing. Perhaps it was his youth that allowed such willful caprices to run so rampant.
(…)
Behind Wesker’s sunglasses, his thoughts and his gaze remained a mystery to the world. It was a calculated advantage even Birkin remained unaware of how often Wesker’s eyes lingered on him.
He watched the way Birkin’s face contorted with immediate displeasure at the slightest inconvenience. He watched the brilliant cobalt of his eyes spark with a manic light whenever a test result yielded success. He watched Birkin’s slight, underdeveloped frame flit around the laboratory with an annoying, frantic energy—not unlike a small rodent. Wesker watched until he knew every capability Birkin possessed. He noted how Birkin's small fingers moved with an impressive, steady grace when handling test tubes or needles. He noted how those little legs supported him surprisingly well. Birkin was quite fast for his age. But as Wesker expected, physical endurance was not his forte. He could run for no more than fifteen minutes before his pace faltered, his face flushing crimson as the blood pumped furiously, and his breath hitching in painful tremors. His small body simply couldn't keep up with the demands of his racing heart.
Studying Birkin in silence brought Wesker a quiet satisfaction. Had Birkin looked up just two seconds sooner, he would have caught the faint, predatory curve of a smirk on Wesker’s lips.
Those weaknesses meant that Birkin needed him.
Whether he willed it or not, Birkin required someone who could keep pace with his intellect, someone cooler, stronger, and more adept at navigating the human element—everything he lacked. They complemented one another, merging into a single entity where all flaws were erased.
Wesker believed that his ideal world was not far off, as long as he held William Birkin in his possession.
( … )
On the day Birkin turned eighteen, there was no celebration, no fanfare. Wesker attributed this to Birkin’s mind being far more mature than his years. The boy lacked any sense of youthful enthusiasm. What remained constant, however, was the oversized white lab coat that never quite fit him.
When Wesker pushed open the lab door, the atmosphere was the same as always—cold and clinical—save for a small cake and a ridiculous party hat perched atop Birkin’s blonde hair. It was likely a gift from some researcher who still held a shred of affection for him, or perhaps someone desperately seeking the Chief Researcher’s favor.
Wesker knew their efforts were in vain. The birthday boy was hunched over his desk, eyes glued to a research report, seemingly oblivious to the significance of the day. Or perhaps he knew and simply didn't care. Deep down, Wesker agreed.. a birthday was just another day, a morbid reminder that one was a year closer to the grave.
Wesker’s long strides were silent. Birkin glanced up at him briefly before returning to his data. After a moment, his slender hand slid a plate of cake toward Wesker.
" Albert... want some cake? "
Wesker let out a weary sigh and shook his head.
"No. Eat it yourself, William. It's yours."
Birkin set his report down gently. He stared at the cake for a long moment before picking up a fork and poking at it half-heartedly.
" It's too sweet " Birkin muttered, his brow furrowing in irritation.
Oh ? this was the same boy who frequently snuck off to the cafeteria for late-night sweets. He was a creature of constant contradictions.
" Then don't eat " Wesker replied dismissively, moving to his own desk beside Birkin’s. Looking through his shades, he saw the small hand bring the fork to Birkin's mouth anyway. Wesker sighed again. The boy was impossible to read, which was why Wesker had been hesitant to get close to him during their early days at Arklay.
Wesker turned his focus back to his own work, but something moved in his peripheral vision. A piece of cake was being held up to his lips. Birkin stared at him with an unreadable, flat expression, refusing to back down even though he knew Wesker wasn't fond of sweets.
Wesker finally relented. He reached up, steadying Birkin’s hand with his own, and accepted the small bite. The flavors of vanilla and chocolate bloomed on his tongue, the sponge soft against his teeth. It was only after Birkin returned to his own portion that Wesker realized
That was the same fork Birkin had just used.
He was surprised to find he felt no disgust at the thought of sharing someone else's saliva. Instead, only the fading sweetness of the cake remained on his tongue.
An indirect kiss.
It felt like a provocation, yet the younger man’s face showed no sign of amusement or playfulness. It was as if he hadn't planned it at all—as if he had simply acted without a second thought. How careless for a genius. If he continued like this, anyone could take advantage of him.
Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, shielding his thoughts once more as the sweetness lingered. He realized then that Birkin’s recklessness would be his downfall if Wesker weren't there to prevent it.
Of that, he was certain.
He truly didn't like sweets.
But for Birkin... it was a taste worth try again