#bitchass this is so shit PLSHWIAHDHDBA

[albenyx]

Romance with the Alchemist.

pairing: albedo x reader

warning: not proofread, rough draft, grammatical erroes (i think), wrote this like a year before and continued it on the spot so it's going to be a bit confusing but anw idc i js need to delete these drafts mehn HWIEHDJWJAH.

It began with a cup of tea.

Not yours—his. Albedo had brewed it, left it on the table, and forgotten about it amidst a string of calculations. You passed by, noticed the cup, and without a word, picked it up, warmed it again over the flame, and set it beside him with the gentlest clink.

That was the first data point. He didn’t write it down, but it stayed. He told himself it was curiosity at first.

You behaved unlike the others who visited Dragonspine. You didn’t press him with questions, didn’t ask for favors or boast about surviving the cold. You were…quiet, in your own way. Attentive without demanding. Present without pulling.

A quiet variable that returned, again and again. He found himself measuring time in your visits. Not in hours or days, but in the way the cave brightened when your boots left shallow prints by the door.

Noted. Unspoken.

Albedo’s affection bloomed not like fire, but like frost—slow, creeping, unnoticed until everything beneath was touched by it. He began adding a second chair beside his. “In case Timaeus visits,” he said. But he never offered it to Timaeus. Only to you.

He stored a second blanket in the corner—“for emergencies.” You used it once. After that, it was always folded neatly at arm’s reach from your favorite spot. These weren’t declarations. These were constants. Quiet insertions into his environment that proved your presence was not only expected, but accounted for.

The acceptance came not with a realization, but with a recalibration. One night, after you left with a soft wave and a promise to return “next week, maybe,” he found his mind drifting. Not to your face.

But to your voice, saying “next week.”

To your hand brushing his wrist as you passed something he needed.

To the warmth of your scarf still left behind on the hook.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, without a word, he hung it next to his coat.

It was in the way he started pacing when your return was delayed. The way his brush hovered above the page, unsure whether to draw the tree outside… or the way he could see your breath on the cold air as you looked at something from the distance.

He never called this feeling to be something possibly like romance or affection, he does not believe he could feel such emotions.

But he stopped testing it. Stopped resisting the instinct to brew tea for two. To write notes in the margin for you to find. To reach for the scarf you gave him even when the cold didn’t bite.

One evening, you fell asleep near the campfire in his lab, book in hand, cheek resting against your arm. The silence was soft, comforting.

Albedo didn’t move you. He sat, watching the snow beyond the entrance, the curl of your fingers against the page. And for the first time, he allowed himself to speak aloud—not to wake you, not to be heard, but simply to let it exist:

“Stay as long as you’d like.”

It was not an invitation.

Not a request.

But it was a hypothesis proven true, quietly, patiently: In a world of shifting truths and elusive formulas, you had become the one constant he never needed to solve—only preserve.

To be honest, the snow never bothered Albedo.

Most avoided Dragonspine unless they had no choice, but not him—and not you, either, much to his quiet surprise the first time you trudged through the thick frost just to bring him a scarf. It was hand-knitted, a little uneven in stitching, dyed a blue that didn’t quite match his usual palette. You apologized for it, babbling that you weren’t sure he’d like it, but—

He took it from your hands, wore it immediately, and didn’t say a word. But he wore it again. And again. Every time you visited. You never noticed the way his gloved hand would linger over the fabric when you left. He made sure of that.

Albedo didn’t love like others did.

There were no grand proclamations. No impulsive touches or clumsy declarations. He didn’t stumble over his feelings or turn crimson at your smile. Instead, he observed you—like an unsolvable equation that he didn’t want to solve too fast.

He remembered the way you liked your tea: a dash of honey, not sugar. So when you visited the lab, a steaming cup always waited near the heat lamp. He noted the books you skimmed in the library, then borrowed them in secret, reading ahead so you could “coincidentally” discuss them together.

He never said the words. But he showed them in ways he knew how—through routines, through precision, through the silence between thoughts where your name lingered like an echo.

One afternoon, you arrived while snowflakes danced lazily outside, clinging to your cloak. “You’re not cold?” you asked, setting down a wrapped lunch you made for the both of you.

“I’m adjusted to this climate,” he answered without looking up, yet he slid a warmer chair closer to the heater for you. “But you should be careful. I noticed your gloves are worn. I’ve… made you a pair.”

You blinked. “You made them?” He nodded. “Woven from wool. Reinforced with wind crystal shards. A minor alchemical enhancement for warmth retention.”

You laughed softly, slipping them on. “They’re perfect.” He turned away too quickly. “I’m glad.” He never said the three words. He didn’t need to. The way he watched you with steady, unwavering eyes—the way he noticed what even you didn’t—said it all.

It wasn’t until much later, when you found an old sketchbook half-buried under his pile of notes, that you truly saw it. Pages and pages of you. Not exact portraits, but impressions—the curve of your hand holding tea, the softness in your gaze when you looked at snow falling outside his window, the tilt of your head when you read aloud.

Each drawing carried a different kind of tenderness. And at the corner of one, written in his delicate script: “Hypothesis: In the presence of [Name], the concept of home shifts. It is no longer a place, but a person.”

When it came to everyone and their thoughts regarding the both of you, Lisa knew first. Of course she did.

You visited the library one afternoon looking for a book Albedo had once mentioned in passing—Floral Properties of Subzero Climates, Vol. II. You didn’t ask for it by name. You simply described the way his voice softened when he last spoke of it.

Lisa smiled, handed it over without a word, and watched you leave with a knowing hum. “That boy…” she murmured. “Head over heels in his own way.

Kaeya noticed when he caught Albedo adjusting his gloves one evening at the tavern. “You’re headed back to Dragonspine, aren’t you?” Kaeya asked. “Say hello to our favorite snow visitor for me.”

Albedo blinked once, the way he did when caught off-guard. “You mean Timaeus?” Kaeya chuckled. “Sure. Timaeus.” But Albedo didn’t argue. He just quietly picked up the satchel with two thermoses inside—one with his usual tea, the other with yours.

He wouldn’t call it affection. But he made sure the one labeled with your initials was sealed better, warmer.

Sucrose found one of your hairpins tucked into the corner of Albedo’s desk. She reached for it absentmindedly, only for Albedo to stop her gently. “That’s not… for use,” he said.

“Oh.” She blinked. “It’s the traveler’s, right?” Albedo didn’t answer. He just took it and placed it into the locked drawer where he kept his most fragile samples. Not because he wanted to hide it—but because things that mattered should be protected.

You never talked about what it meant. When you arrived, you simply sat beside him. Sometimes you read. Sometimes he painted. Sometimes you both just existed in quiet parallel.

But small things kept building up.

The sketchbook left open where he knew you’d peek.

The comment you’d drop about something he made—just enough to make him pause, the corners of his lips curling slightly.

Once, you brought lunch and forgot utensils. Without hesitation, Albedo offered his own.

Two hours later, he was still touching the spot where your fingers had grazed his.

Amber visited one time and caught the two of you mid-conversation—or rather, mid-silence. You were both just sitting, sipping tea, watching the snow fall outside. Nothing romantic, at first glance.

But then Albedo leaned closer, brushing a stray snowflake from your shoulder without breaking eye contact. You didn’t flinch. You smiled, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Amber blinked. “Wait,” she whispered under her breath. “Are they…already dating?”

You weren’t.

Neither of you said anything.

But everyone could see it and they had bet on it. In the way Albedo set aside a space for you in every part of his world. In the way your laugh softened his features in a way no potion or pigment ever could. Still, the words were never spoken.

Not when he adjusted your scarf before you left.

Not when you left him your gloves by mistake and found them cleaned and folded neatly in your bag the next morning.

Not even when he handed you a notebook one day—filled with formulas, sketches, pressed flowers, and on the last page: “Certain variables defy classification. I’ve stopped trying to define what you are to me. I’ve decided instead…to keep you.” There was no name on it. But you knew.

And when you returned the next day, you didn’t say anything either. Just sat beside him like always, eyes shining a little brighter.

And he, ever subtle, simply handed you your cup.

Still warm. Still waiting.