Work Text:
Albedo sighs, burying his fingers in his bangs as he leans over an old book, tracing lines of text with half-closed eyes. At the book’s side, he taps his pen rhythmically against a blank sheet of paper, leaving pinpoint marks on his otherwise pristine notes. Despite his interest, he can’t seem to focus on his research this morning, his mind too filled with other matters to properly zone in on his work.
He may be a prince, soon to be the next ruler of his nation, but even he can hit roadblocks sometimes. The high ceiling of his personal study taunts him with its distance and silence; not even the peace and quiet of this room can offer him the answers he seeks, not today.
Today, he is expecting a visitor, an important one at that. Then again, all of his visitors seem to be ‘important’ lately.
He’s about to give up on his sketching entirely and move on to something else when a knock at his door grabs his attention. He straightens himself up and takes a deep breath, folding his notebook closed. “Come in,” he calls, turning in his seat to face the door as it’s pushed open by one of his servants.
“Your Highness,” the servant greets, bowing so far forward that his body forms a near forty-five degree angle. “Lord Viator has arrived.”
Albedo would be more impressed with the messenger’s manners if he wasn’t so concerned about him falling over, what with the way he goes out of his way to bow. He waves his hand to the poor boy to allow him to straighten up again. “Please let him know that I will be there to receive him in just a moment,” he replies with all the regality that he’d been taught growing up. As much as he may despise the formality of it all now, he does have a responsibility to at least keep up appearances.
The servant bows low once more in acknowledgement of his orders and hastily exits Albedo’s study, leaving him alone to his thoughts.
Albedo exhales slowly, more of a groan than a sigh. It’s been this way ever since his eighteenth birthday more than a year prior—endless meetings with suitor after suitor as his advisors scramble to find someone for him to marry. Each one of them is a son or daughter of some prominent family or another, whether they be future monarchs or simply minor lords from far-off lands. It’s exhausting, having to deal with their thinly-veiled ulterior motives while maintaining his own regal politeness.
Well, he’s not entirely fair to them, either. Many of his potential suitors are fine young folk; friendly, polite, knowledgeable. Though some of them are obviously greedy for his throne, most are genuinely decent and good people. It’s just that Albedo has no desire to court anyone.
Maybe someday he will, but for now, the thought of having to make and maintain such an important and time-consuming relationship as that is… undesirable. He’d much rather spend his free time in the castle’s vast library, studying the ancient art of his family’s alchemy, or out in the gardens, tending to the many rare plants that grow there. Those quiet moments of solitude are quite precious to him, and the thought of losing them in favor of entertaining a house-guest never fails to make his nose wrinkle in distaste.
Still, he at least has a responsibility to meet them. It’s the least he can do, considering how far the suitors come in order to have the chance to speak with him. Lord Viator, especially, is said to have come from a far-off country across the ocean. No doubt the trip has been long and arduous for him. He would be remiss not to at least give him the same chance he’s given all the rest.
That doesn’t keep him from taking his time getting ready. He finds that making his guests wait a bit does wonders to separate the spoiled, avaricious snobs from those few who approach him in good faith, and so he takes perhaps a few minutes longer than he normally would checking his clothing in the mirror. He adjusts their many layers until they lay just so and redoes the braids that crown his head to prevent his unruly bangs from falling into his eyes inconveniently.
He does, however, forego the circlet that is the signifier of his status. He wears it only when it is absolutely necessary, preferring to leave it behind during these kinds of meetings. As much as his advisors may fight him on it, he’d much prefer to keep these kinds of visits casual if he can. For now, it sits unattended in its velvet box, delicate curls of gold inset with red gemstones that boast of his country’s old and vast wealth. He gives himself another quick once-over, and, satisfied, pushes open his study door himself.
The walk from his quarters to the reception hall is long when the hallways are empty and the ceilings are so high that every footstep echoes in the empty space. Not a single soul appears to block his path—such is the privilege granted to a prince who will soon be king.
He doesn’t spot another person until he approaches the door that leads to the reception hall, where two stone-faced guards stand watch. They nod to him politely, as they are trained to do, and reach in tandem to push open the hall’s towering french doors for him.
The room is large and ornate, even more so than his own bedroom. Twenty foot mirrors framed with gold and platinum stand tall and proud on the far side of the chamber, standing guard over a ring of comfortable-looking plush sofas in shades of rich blue and white; the trademark colors of Dragonspine’s empire, and the colors that adorn its flag. A handful of his close advisors hover at the edges of the room, eager to witness the first meeting of their prince and his potential courtier.
At his side, a herald announces him by his title: Kreideprinz, the Chalk Prince of Dragonspine. He fights the instinctive urge to curl his lip at such a frivolous and ultimately meaningless epithet, choosing instead to focus on his newest guest.
Lord Viator is younger than he’d expected when he’d heard that the Lady of Khaenri’ah would be sending her twin brother across the ocean to meet him. It’s possible he’s even younger than Albedo himself, his face still maintaining some of its childhood roundness into his early adulthood. His golden hair, a common trait amongst Khaenri’ah’s nobility, hangs all the way down to his hips, its long and unruly strands kept tame by way of a loose braid adorned with the feathers of exotic birds.
The letters his sister had sent to him hadn’t mentioned his appearance, but Albedo still finds himself surprised despite his lack of expectations. When the young lord lifts his gaze to meet Albedo’s, bright eyes reflecting the light of the chandeliers overhead, Albedo is struck by a swift and surprising urge to stare.
A smile breaks out on Lord Viator’s face and he all but leaps to his feet, his movements excitable while still maintaining the grace that would be expected of any noble of moderately high rank. He bows his head to Albedo—not nearly as deeply at the servants in his castle do, but enough to show his respect—and holds his hand out to him, his palm facing the ceiling. “Your Highness,” he greets, his voice naturally soft and carefully smooth. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”
Albedo smiles back, both because he is expected to and because he does find the young lord’s demeanor somewhat endearing. He accepts his outstretched hand, laying his palm delicately over his. “And you as well, Lord Viator. I have heard many good things about you from Lady Viatrix. I hope you will enjoy your stay here.”
The words are well-rehearsed, the same saccharine sentiments he offers to every suitor who comes to knock on his palace’s doors.
“Please, call me Aether,” Lord Viator insists. His curls his fingers around Albedo’s hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to the back of his glove. “I’m afraid I’ve never been one for titles or formalities.”
Albedo’s eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly. It’s far from the first time he’s been kissed on the hand, but it’s certainly the fastest any suitor has jumped to wanting to be on a first-name basis. Luckily, Albedo doesn’t care much for formalities, either. “Very well, Aether, then I insist you also call me by my first name, Albedo.”
Aether smiles another bright smile in response to this, clearly pleased. Albedo revels in the scandalized looks he gets from the few advisors who had attended their meeting and does his best not to look too smug about it, though he can’t help the small but genuine grin that comes to his face.
“I’ll do that, Albedo.” Aether flashes him another smile, testing the name on his tongue, and the casualness of it knocks Albedo off-guard all over again. It’s a good kind of unbalanced, though, the kind he can only feel from learning something new and unexpected.
From the edges of the room, he can hear the whispers of his advisors already gossiping amongst themselves, no doubt harshly critiquing Aether’s substandard manners, but if Aether notices, he’s unruffled by them. In Albedo’s eyes, it’s just another point in his favor. Ignoring the hushed whispers and anxious looks thrown their way, Albedo draws his hand from Aether’s and offers him his arm instead. “Would you accompany me for a tour of the castle grounds?” he requests. “Seeing as you’ll be staying here for a little while, I’m sure you’re eager to explore.”
Aether takes his offered arm and lays a hand daintily on his bicep, his fingertips tickling the exposed skin between his sleeve and his long gloves. Albedo is both surprised and impressed to notice that his fingers are calloused; he may be a nobleman, but he’s clearly no stranger to working with his hands.
With a wave of his free hand, Albedo gestures for the guards and advisors to leave him be as he strides out the door, Aether close at his side. Typically, he’d be accompanied by one or two elite guards, but he finds himself wanting to be away from their stifling gazes and stiff posture for a time. Besides, it’s well-known that, should trouble arise, Albedo will be among the first to draw his blade. He has his bodyguards, of course, but he is far from vulnerable, especially here, where he is most familiar. And so, there is no complaint given when he frees himself of his posse in favor of guiding Aether himself.
It’s far from the first time Albedo has dismissed his guard to wander the castle grounds by himself, but it is the first time he’s brought a guest along, and that much is evident from the way the castle staff cast him occasional conspiratory glances and surprised looks. He’s certain that rumors are already spreading, but, well, he’s used to that, too. Such things are inevitable when one holds his kind of position. Anything out of the ordinary immediately becomes fodder for rumors and gossip.
Let them talk, Albedo thinks to himself, never one to put stock into such rumors. Aether, too, appears unfazed, his abundant curiosity taking up the brunt of his attention as he points out plants or buildings or other people and asks about them with the kind of endless interest Albedo himself only shows toward his alchemic research.
“What’s that building?” Aether asks, one of many questions that Albedo is all too happy to answer. He points a finger toward a smaller, more unassuming building. Its outside is rather plain in stark contrast with the rest of the admittedly somewhat garish castle grounds, unassuming in nature but standing out amongst the fancier buildings that surround it.
“It’s an arena used for weapons practice. Sparring and the like,” Albedo explains. “The knights often use it to keep their skills sharp during times of peace.”
Aether tilts his head to glance up into Albedo’s face, catching his attention with those golden eyes of his. “Do you also practice there?” he asks. “You do carry a sword, after all.”
Albedo’s lips quirk up in brief appreciation of his perceptiveness. He lays his free hand on the hilt of his blade, one he’s rarely caught without. “That’s right,” he confirms. “I must also keep up my skill, just to be safe. I often come here to practice when I hit a wall in my research and need a break.” He drifts toward the building as he speaks, still leading Aether by his arm.
Aether peeks his head inside the room as Albedo leads him in, his eye immediately drawn to the far wall where all manner of wooden training equipment is hung. Swords, polearms, daggers, and even a few training bows lay waiting for their next use. “Wow,” he murmurs, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space, “I’d love a place like this back home.” He lets go of Albedo’s arm for the first time since leaving the reception hall, wandering into the center of the room to appreciate his surroundings.
Albedo’s eyes flick down to Aether’s hip, where a sword hangs from his belt within its sheath. “Are you also proficient with a sword?” he asks, curious as to how much training someone like Aether has. Perhaps the callouses on his fingers come from swordplay.
A nod of his head confirms Albedo’s theory. “Yes, though this one is mostly for decoration.” He pats the hilt of his sword the way he might pat the head of a small child. “It’s useful in an emergency, but it wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s a bit too ornate and heavy to be natural.”
Albedo can’t help but agree as he glances down at the hilt of the sword poking out from its sheath. It really does look rather gaudy; he swears the handle is gilded , which can’t be good for its weight or balance. Albedo’s sword, on the other hand, is quite practical, though its design is sometimes described as ominous, with the way the gem at the base of the blade resembles the eye of a dragon.
He’d expected more tentativeness from his guest, but Aether looks very much at home in the empty arena as he surveys the selection of weapons used for mock battles and spars. He tugs on his braid restlessly with one hand, fingers weathering the edges of his hair between his fingers, before he spins on his heels and abruptly faces Albedo once more.
“Fight me,” he declares boldly, eyes glittering with a sudden mischievousness that hadn’t been there before.
For a moment, Albedo is simply frozen. None of his tutoring growing up had prepared him for this kind of request. “Fight you?” he echoes, because it’s all he can think to say.
Aether’s grin fades, realization dawning slowly on his face as the strangeness of his request becomes apparent to him, his face flushing pink in embarrassment. “Oh! I apologize, I got ahead of myself,” he stammers. “I forget that I’m in another country sometimes… I don’t imagine princes of Dragonspine go around challenging their suitors to duels, do they?” He laughs meekly, running his fingers over his braid repeatedly.
Something about it strikes Albedo as charming. He laughs softly and crosses the few paces between them to stand at Aether’s side again. “Not usually, no,” he replies, unable to help but tease his companion just a little. “Tell me, is it common in Khaenri’ah?” The question comes from genuine curiosity; Khaenri’ah is not a warmongering country, but their people are known to be well-defended and adept in the art of combat. He doesn’t find it hard to believe that friendly duels may be commonplace as a result.
Aether gives a slight nod of his head, though he still looks like he wants to bury himself in his scarf to escape the conversation. “Yes, it’s… a way of evaluating people, at least among our high-class families. Potential business partners, friends, and suitors alike.” He says the last part quieter, like he’s afraid to speak it aloud.
Albedo nods his head, considering this for a moment. His eyes wander to the rack of swords against the wall that Aether has paused in front of. “Very well then,” he decides, reaching out to select a wooden sword from the wall, “I will accept your challenge.”
Aether jumps a little, turning to look at Albedo in shock. “Really?” he says, voice clipped, as though he’s trying very hard to hide his excitement at the prospect of a duel. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable with such a foreign request.”
“Nonsense,” Albedo reassures him, flipping the sword experimentally in his hand. It’s much lighter than his own blade, but, he figures, it won’t be much of an issue in a casual duel. “You may have come here as my guest, but if you were to court me, you would be expected to learn our traditions. It’s only fair that I learn some of yours, too.”
Aether’s eyes light up again, clearly enamored with the idea of a good fight. He’s quick to pick out a sword of his own, one that’s been well-worn from frequent use. “That’s kind of you,” he says, all traces of his previous reservations fleeing in the face of a well-anticipated duel. “Only a mock battle, of course. I wouldn’t dare to make the crown prince bleed on my first day.” he laughs lightly at his own words, melodious and easy.
“Even if you managed it, it would only serve to show me that I have much left to learn,” Albedo quips right back in response, letting the responses fall from his tongue with ease. Crossing the sparring floor to stand across from Aether, he takes a moment to briefly stretch his legs and arms in preparation. He sneaks a glance at his opponent and sees that he’s doing the same, his scarf shifting and revealing to Albedo the smooth expanse of his exposed midriff. Albedo briefly wonders if Khaenri’ah is a warm country, his eyes lingering on the curve of Aether’s back for a moment longer than is probably acceptable.
When he lifts his gaze again, he finds Aether looking right back at him, a slight smirk on his face and a knowing look in his eyes.
Albedo hastily averts his gaze, feeling a rare flicker of embarrassment at having been caught staring so unabashedly. He focuses instead on reminding himself of his sword forms, giving the wooden sword a few swings to bring his training back to the forefront of his mind. Across from him, Aether does, too, though the amused look on his face does not subside even as he readies himself for the fight.
Once Albedo is confident that he’s sufficiently warmed up, he takes his place at one side of the designated marker in the center of the room, feet shifting into a practiced battle stance. He stands with his right side facing Aether, arm outstretched and firmly gripping his sword. His left hand comes to rest behind his back, fingers curled into a loose fist. “Are you ready?” he calls.
Across from him, Aether adopts his own stance, his knees and back slightly curved in juxtaposition to Albedo’s ramrod posture. He leans forward on the tips of his toes, his sword held protectively in front of him almost like a shield. “Ready,” he confirms.
Albedo’s mind is already racing, eager to see the fighting style of another nation up close and personal. He doesn’t bother with a ceremonial countdown or any kind of fanfare—he lunges forward on light feet and thrusts his blade forward in a standard jab, testing the waters.
When Aether parries the blow cleanly, raising an eyebrow at him as if to ask why he’s being so tentative, Albedo knows immediately that Aether is no ordinary combatant. He moves fluidly, like water flowing down a mountain stream, unbothered by the many rocks and trees that seek to block its current. He goes in for another strike, aiming for Aether’s exposed middle, and once again his blade is swiftly and efficiently blocked.
“No need to play around,” Aether taunts. “I can handle whatever you have hidden up your sleeve.” That said, he dives in for his own opening strikes, a flurry of quick but still-powerful slashes that target common weak points: his throat, his stomach, his hands.
Albedo turns away each attack in kind, the scraping of wood against wood filling the air as he does. Aether sweeps his blade low, swiping at Albedo’s ankles, but Albedo leaps over the attack deftly and aims his own sword at the side of Aether’s shoulder. Each attacked is either blocked or dodged, neither combatant able to land a decisive blow during the first few minutes of tentative back-and-forth.
Aether takes a step back, assessing him. “You’ve clearly been trained well,” he compliments, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear that had come free from his long braid over the course of their skirmish. “I’m surprised. I wasn’t sure Dragonspine cared much for ritual combat.”
“We don’t. It’s simply a precaution, in case the worst should happen,” Albedo responds cleanly, shifting his stance into a slightly more defensive position. “Khaenri’ah’s strict battle training certainly lives up to its expectation. Tell me, is the Lady of Khaenri’ah as skilled as you?”
Aether laughs, carefree and delighted, clearly enjoying the growing thrill of battle. He starts to circle Albedo testingly, searching for openings in his stance while Albedo follows him with an unflinching gaze. “Better, actually,” he confesses. “My sister did not become the ruler of our country simply because of blood ties. She had to prove herself, just as I did.”
Albedo’s lips quirk up into a smile. “It shows. I don’t often get the pleasure of facing such a competent opponent.” The praise falls easily from his lips, his eyes boring holes into Aether’s as he waits for the other to make his move.
“She’d like you,” Aether comments. He surges forward and presses his blade up into Albedo’s, locking them together as he forces himself in close. “Or rather, I should say she already does, otherwise she’d have never agreed to my coming out here.”
Albedo grits his teeth, finding his blade forced back by Aether’s superior strength. “Perhaps one day I’ll have the pleasure of meeting her in person,” he says clippedly, the words somewhat labored around his struggle to keep Aether at bay. Shifting his feet, he spins to the side to knock Aether off-balance, swinging his blade down with the intention of pummeling his back with the flat side of the wooden sword.
Aether’s quick on his feet, though. He rolls forward as Albedo worms out of his grasp and his sword hits wood instead, bouncing against the arena floor. Aether wastes no time rushing him again, keeping the fleet-footed prince on his toes.
They trade blows for a bit, each one growing in strength and intensity as they slowly test the limits of what the other can and cannot handle. Ducking and weaving, stabbing and slashing, Albedo chips away at Aether’s defenses with quick, calculated blows, contrasting Aether’s more disorganized, strength-focused fighting style with his own graceful fencing. Sweat beads on his forehead, his breaths coming in quicker, more forceful pants, and across from him he can see that Aether is in a similar state.
Although Aether’s form is less polished, he is certainly not an opponent to be underestimated. Every blow parried makes Albedo’s limbs groan with the force of impact, and his impressive stamina means he does not often need to pause in his assault. Albedo knocks his sword arm away with a well-timed parry, only to find himself wheezing when Aether’s shin sinks into his side in a bruising kick. He winces; that one will certainly hurt come morning.
So, he grits his teeth and turns up the pressure. Aether fights dirty, but there is a calculatedness to every one of his movements, a sense of strategy that can only come from years of sparring like this. No more words pass between them. He quiets his mind to only the bare essentials, steadying his breathing and setting his expression into a determined scowl as he puts all his energy into each minute movement.
He grunts aloud when Aether’s sword barely misses his head, his blade piercing the air over his shoulder. Acting on instinct, he lets his own sword fall from his hand. He hears it clatter against the ground, hears the shocked noise that erupts from Aether’s throat, before he seizes Aether’s wrist with one hand and the front of his shirt with the other. With a mighty heave, he yanks Aether off his feet and slams him into the hard ground, taking the opportunity to wrench his sword from his hand before he has a chance to recover.
He plants one foot firmly at the side of Aether’s head, barely missing his ear, and presses his opposite knee into his chest to pin him to the ground. Breathing hard, he straightens his back and points Aether’s own sword at him so the tip rests against his throat, dimpling the delicate flesh there. “Yield,” he commands. A bead of sweat trickles down the line of his jaw, a sign of his exertion.
Aether stares up at him with eyes blown wide with shock, his hands splayed uselessly up by his head. Then, a gasping laugh wrenches its way out of him, the vibrations of it shaking Albedo’s knee from where its pressed against his sternum. “Alright, alright, I yield,” he concedes, the words coming out in wheezes after having the wind knocked out of him so forcefully.
Albedo grins in victory, carefully pushing himself to his feet so Aether can move again, offering his hand to help him to his feet. The skin of Aether’s hand is warm even through the fabric of Albedo’s thick gloves as he accepts the offered help, and for just a moment, he relishes in the contact.
Aether retrieves the sword Albedo had dropped as he stands, taking a moment to steady himself and catch his breath. He grips Albedo’s hand tightly for balance until he’s confidently on his feet, grimacing. “ Ow. You really got me good with that last move. Was that martial arts?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head where it had knocked against the wooden ground.
Albedo has the decency to offer a sheepish glance in response. “I apologize, I acted on instinct,” he says, “but yes, if you must know. I picked up a few tricks growing up.” Reaching up with one hand, he cups the back of Aether’s head and thumbs his hair away, checking for damage. “Does it hurt?”
“Mm, a little,” Aether admits, “but it’s nothing I can’t handle, promise. It was worth it to get to see the famous Kreideprinz in action.” He flashes Albedo a blinding grin, all white teeth and crinkling eyes. “I must admit my pride is a little hurt, though. I can’t remember the last time I was disarmed in a fight.” As if to emphasize this fact, he shakes out his sword hand, curling and uncurling his fingers.
Albedo replaces the training sword on the wall and reaches for a towel, taking a moment to wipe his face and neck. “Well, you’ll be glad to know I won’t be getting away unscathed. I imagine my side will be bruised for weeks after taking a hit like that.”
He glances back at Aether to find him staring, a glimmer of something in his gaze that he can’t quite place. He blinks, waiting for his companion to reply, but the young lord is oddly silent, his gaze fixed on Albedo unflinchingly. “Aether?” he prompts.
Aether blinks a few times. “Hm? Oh, yes,” he laughs and, to Albedo’s surprise, blushes. It’s a gentle flush that climbs up the back of his neck and spreads to his ears and face, tinting his cheeks pink. “Well, you’re sturdier than you look. I thought it would at least break your stance.” He accepts a clean towel from Albedo’s hand and hastily hides his flustered face in it, taking his time wiping away the sweat of their fight from his skin. “I, um, hope it doesn’t bruise too badly.”
Albedo blinks at him, somewhat amazed. Aether fascinates him, the way he can oscillate so quickly and seamlessly between the brutality of battle and the soft, genuine concern of the aftermath. The scientist in him is desperate to know everything about what makes him tick, the instincts and impulses that drive him.
Usually, when Albedo feels this urge to discover, it’s quickly overshadowed by his unwillingness to further engage with the target of his interest, but he finds himself thinking in this case that he wouldn’t mind frivolously spending his time around Aether. Very few people have the privilege of Albedo’s undivided attention, and none of them had wormed their way into his mind with the swiftness and intensity that Aether has in the span of less than a day. There’s something exciting about the idea of learning more about him, of exploring who he is and how he’d come to be that way. Briefly, he wonders if Aether feels the same.
“It will heal,” he assures softly, laying a hand over the sore spot already blooming on his side. “I knew the dangers when I agreed to spar with you. Think nothing of it.”
Aether doesn’t look wholly convinced, but he drops the subject anyway, taking a deep breath in and letting it out again. Thankfully, he’d recovered quickly from being thrown to the ground—such is to be expected from any dignified warrior. “Once you’ve healed, I’ll be looking for a rematch, I hope you know. I can’t let this injustice go unsettled.”
He smiles over his shoulder at Albedo to show he’s mostly joking, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way Albedo hardly recognizes. It’s the kind of genuine, bright smile that Albedo can’t remember ever making himself. He can’t help but find himself lost in it, even if only for a moment.
Aether continues, “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble falling asleep after that.”
Albedo chuckles softly and nods his agreement. “It is getting late,” he agrees, and extends his hand to Aether. “Allow me to show you where you’ll be staying while you’re here. You should be able to get some good rest there.”
“Ever the gentleman,” Aether comments with another smile, but this one is softer around the edges, fond. He accepts the offer, laying his own hand lightly over Albedo’s.
There it is again, that juxtaposition between Aether’s strength and his overwhelming gentleness. As overpowering as he’d been in battle, one would never know just by seeing him move. When Albedo curls his fingers around Aether’s hand, there is no trace of the fiercely strong, stubborn warrior he’d just encountered. It’s perfectly hidden beneath the surface, a secret message etched into an otherwise unassuming pattern, only visible to those who know what to look for.
Albedo, against all odds, finds himself desperate to know what other secrets lay hidden in Aether’s depths.
—
Despite how far away he is from his homeland, Aether worms his way into Albedo’s life with surprising speed and makes himself right at home. Their spars become a regular spectacle as they trade victories back and forth, learning more about each other with every day that passes. It’s easily the strangest bonding activity Albedo has ever participated in, a far cry from the tea parties and other boring fares his previous suitors had enjoyed.
Aether keeps him on his toes, both in and out of the arena. Albedo finds himself somewhat insatiable, hungry to learn anything and everything he can from his enigmatic house-guest. While previous suitors would have him dragging his feet at the prospect of spending his precious time with them, Albedo finds himself looking forward to the hours he spends with Aether, even if all they do is sit in silence under the same tree. Separately together, engrossed in their own activities but close enough that their elbows brush with the proximity; a fleeting touch Albedo had never known he could crave.
Perhaps his advisors notice how close the two of them become in such a short time, because they stop whispering and subtly telling him he should move on to the next candidate. It’s a weight off Albedo’s shoulders, to not have their judgmental attitudes pointed at him day in and out anymore. As much as he has never put much stock in their opinions on his personal affairs, their constant nagging had become tiresome over time.
Aether lifts that weight for him. It’s like magic, the way Albedo’s worries seem to ease the moment he’s in his presence, his hard edges smoothed over with the littlest bit of effort. The way his heart flutters in his chest in response to Aether’s smile is new but not unwanted. It does not take Albedo long to realize that he is in love.
A particularly peaceful day finds them wandering the castle’s vast gardens. Albedo sits himself on a bench beneath a pavilion, his sketchbook in hand, while Aether admires a carefully-manicured flower bush. The weather is mild, not hot or cold, and not a cloud to be seen in the sky. It lets the sunlight through, its soft rays turning Aether’s long hair to gold and bathing the whole scene in a sort of ethereal beauty that makes Albedo’s fingers itch to sketch it.
So he does, producing a pencil from his pocket and flipping the book open to a blank page. It takes but a few careful strokes to transfer the setting to paper—he traces the curve of Aether’s back, the graceful lines of his braid pushed back and forth by the breeze, the gentle slope of his nose turned just so.
He loses himself in capturing the feeling in his chest that he can never put words to, letting it flow through his fingers and onto the page. The scratch of graphite on paper fills his ears as he pencils in the delicate cecelia Aether plucks from the bush and twirls between his fingertips.
A touch of fingers against the shell of his ear draws Albedo from his drawing, and he realizes with a start that Aether has crossed the distance between them and tucked the cecelia behind his ear with gentle, deft fingers. He tilts his head back until his eyes meet Aether’s, finding himself immediately lost in their gentle, affectionate glow.
“Your sketch is beautiful,” he comments, leaning over Albedo’s shoulder so close that his hair tickles his neck.
Albedo’s hand stills, and he runs his fingers softly over the scene he’s captured. “It was like something out of a painting,” he says.
Aether chuckles softly. He steps over the bench to sit himself at Albedo’s side, so close their legs brush together, but Albedo can’t bring himself to mind the proximity. His hand comes to rest lightly around Albedo’s shoulders, a tentative touch, like he’s not sure how Albedo will respond to it.
Albedo finds himself leaning in, reaching up with one hand to brush his fingers over the cecelia.
“I thought it would suit you,” Aether explains before Albedo can even ask. “I was right. You look beautiful.”
Aether is not shy about complimenting him, and he’s made it clear on more than one occasion that he finds Albedo attractive, but the way he says it today is different. It sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach and brings a blush to his pale face. “You’re not so bad to look at yourself,” he mumbles in reply, feeling oddly sheepish.
Aether laughs softly, the vibrations of it reverberating pleasantly down the arm wrapped tight around his shoulders. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he says suddenly, an abrupt change of subject accompanied by Aether’s somewhat trepidatious tone.
In all the days he’s been here, Albedo has never heard him nervous before. He blinks up at his companion in surprise. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Go right ahead.”
Aether swallows visibly and retracts his arm from around Albedo’s shoulders, reaching instead to take each of his hands in one of his. He smooths his thumbs over the backs of Albedo’s hands restlessly. “I’ve really enjoyed my time here. I wanted you to know that,” he starts.
Albedo quirks an eyebrow at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Briefly, he wonders where Aether is going with this. With nothing for him to say, he simply gives Aether’s hands a brief squeeze as encouragement.
“And unless you’re really good at hiding it, it seems like you’ve enjoyed it, too. Having me here,” Aether continues, his words tinged with uncertainty despite his phrasing.
“I have,” Albedo confirms, wishing to dispel any lingering doubts Aether has about their relationship, whatever it has evolved into.
Aether gives a nod of his head, his nervousness easing some. “Good, I’m glad.” He manages a small smile. “In that case, I have a request.” He pauses, letting the words sink in for a moment until Albedo can hardly stand the suspense anymore. Then, finally, he says, “I wanted to ask for your permission to court you. Officially, I mean.”
Albedo had anticipated this. He’d run through every potential scenario that could come as a result of Aether being here, every end that could arise, but that doesn’t keep the proposition from sending his heart into unexpected somersaults. It’s the cementing of an idea that this—that they—could be permanent. That Aether could commit to a life together, or at least could commit to giving it a try. It sparks a warmth in his chest to think about it, as out of place as it currently feels in his typically solitary life. “Do you really need my permission?” he asks with a soft smile.
Aether breathes out a quiet laugh, ducking his head. “It’s a bit unorthodox, I know. Traditionally I would ask for permission from your parents, but seeing as they aren’t here anymore, I figured the most polite way would be to ask you directly,” he explains, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Unless you have someone else you’d like to direct me toward? That advisor who always looks like he’s walking with a stick up his behind, or maybe your maid?”
Albedo flashes him a dirty look for that sentiment. “No,” he says firmly, sending Aether into another bout of giggles.
“Then I have no choice but to ask you.” Aether lifts one of Albedo’s hands up to his lips and presses a kiss to his bare skin. It’s reminiscent of the one he’d given when they’d first met, but this one lingers purposefully, an outpouring of emotion he can’t really put into words. “So, what do you say? Will you give me the chance no one else has gotten yet?”
Albedo inhales sharply, Aether’s lips like a brand against his skin. “Are you sure? It would mean moving here permanently,” he warns. “You’d be leaving your sister. I know the two of you are close.”
Aether smiles, soft and fond, and gives his hands a squeeze. “We knew that this was a possibility when I first decided to come. Besides, it won’t be the last time I ever see her. Khaenri’ah is not so far away that I wouldn’t be able to visit,” he assures. “Besides, you… have also become someone I don’t wish to leave. I would stay with you here, if you’d allow me.” His expectant gaze meets Albedo’s as he peers up at him through his eyelashes, waiting.
Albedo swallows thickly. “Then, I accept,” he says, his voice so quiet that the words are nearly whispered. “I would be happy to call you my partner, if that is what you want.”
A bright grin breaks out on Aether’s face, filled with elation and relief. “It is,” he says quickly, his grip on Albedo’s hands tightening even further. He leans forward with the movement, unconsciously drawing Albedo toward him.
Albedo lets him. He can feel his heartbeat all the way in the tips of his fingers as they thread between Aether’s, their faces so close that their noses nearly brush together. Biting back the nervousness that catches in the back of his throat, he lets his eyes fall closed.
Albedo has never kissed anyone—not seriously, at least. He’s never had someone he’s wanted to kiss before, until Aether. So, when he feels the first tentative press of lips against his own, soft and so, so careful, he’s not really sure what to do. For once, his mind ceases to function, all thoughts turned to unintelligible static as Aether swallows the quiet gasp that works its way up his throat.
Aether lets go of one of his hands to reach for Albedo’s face instead, his palm cupping his jaw with a feather-light touch and guiding him to turn his head just slightly.
He lets Aether take the lead, his free hand moving to rest against the warm, exposed skin of his waist. Against his mouth, he feels Aether smile into their kiss, a small noise of approval bubbling up in his throat that gets swiftly muffled by Albedo’s lips. He uses it to pull him closer, his hand sliding around to cup the small of his back.
Aether’s hand falls to his shoulder when he finally breaks the kiss, still grinning ear-to-ear. “I can’t wait to tell Lumine about this. She’s going to be so excited,” he says.
“I’ll arrange a call. Tonight, if you want,” Albedo suggests. He removes his hand from Aether’s waist to fold his sketchbook shut, then pushes himself to his feet, tugging Aether along with him by their joined hands. “I’m sure she’s eager to hear from you.”
Aether smiles at this, his shoulder bumping against Albedo’s as he hovers close. “That would be wonderful. We can tell her together.” He gives Albedo’s hand a squeeze, an undeniably intimate and affectionate touch.
Nodding his approval, Albedo leads Aether down the garden path by the hand, toward the castle that will now become their home.