Chapter Text
People, for most part, dislike Albedo.
Not necessarily because he’s intentionally rude or an awful person (the former statement is up for debate), but he’s just… not there.
Kaeya tells him that his presence is that of a ghost with a hint of wallflower-y creep to it, and that he should consider himself lucky for being so cute; if it weren’t for his slightly above average looks, the others would be shunning him for the rest of eternity.
They don’t shun him per se, but it's true that he doesn’t really manage to make any friends during the first year and a half of his academic life at Mondstadt’s University of Fine Arts—well, with the unfortunate exception of Kaeya, an eccentric senior who’d been tasked with showing Albedo around the campus during introduction week. His mentor did try dragging Albedo to various mixers and frat parties, only for his efforts to fall short; the ash-blond introvert somehow managed to repel all and any potential friendship candidates with his quiet tone and complex thoughts.
Albedo doesn’t think of himself as boring—then again, he doesn’t really think about himself in any context other than philosophical, far too interested in the things around him—but he would be lying if he said that he’s easy to entertain. Most who’ve tried had nothing of substance to say, leaving Albedo dozing off in the middle of the conversation, blank gaze focused on whatever beverage Kaeya would squeeze into his palms that night.
He reckons that his chances of ever encountering someone note-worthy are rather low.
To his surprise, that mindset changes surprisingly early on.
On Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, Albedo likes to people-watch. He’ll be grabbing one of his sketchbooks and rushing out at 10:00 am sharp, eager to get some espresso in his system. There’s a cozy little café that he frequents situated right at the edge of the campus, giving him just enough time to clear his head on the way there.
The late autumn morning walks are indisputably the most relaxing thing ever. The air is crisp and pleasant against his ruddy cheeks, and the color scheme is something otherworldly, the main path lined with towering maple trees. He has a favorite spot deeper into the treeline—a lone bench in a desperate need of repairs. Sometimes it calls out to him, more alluring than the promised goodness of fresh coffee.
He’ll take out his sketchbook and immerse himself in it for hours at the time, ignoring hunger and thirst.
Albedo meets the golden boy on a Thursday.
It’s one of those days where he’s in a desperate need of inspiration, a heavy art assignment hanging over his head. To warm up his wrist, Albedo takes the muddy path off the main road, weaving through the maple trees with practiced ease. It’s a nice day outside, so much to his chagrin, he’s by no means alone.
Typically, he doesn’t mind boisterous kids playing and shouting about, or the couples swimming past him without so much as sparing the passersby a single look. He likes children well-enough and cannot be bothered to involve himself in anything romance-related, but a peaceful lonely haven is all that he craves.
It makes him tune out the noisy world, feet automatically carrying him towards his beloved spot for some much-needed stress relief.
Looking back to it, Albedo thinks that he would’ve surely noticed something amiss if his mind wasn’t so damn preoccupied by his bloody portfolio. For example the glaringly obvious moisture coating his favorite seat.
“Watch out!” a masculine voice calls out, and before Albedo can position himself on the bench, he’s being yanked backwards, none too gently. His poor sketchbook clatters to the moist ground, and before he can whip around to snap at whoever was so insistent on manhandling him, there’s a follow up of “wet paint!”
The owner of the firm grasp and dutiful warnings soon materializes before him, looking at Albedo with some level of concern.
The latter owlishly blinks, slightly dumbfounded by the sheer amount of gold intruding his vision.
It belongs to a soft-edged young man—possibly Albedo’s age—with a short stature and lean build. He’s underdressed for the weather, swaddled in a slightly dirty, too-long scarf and a rather beat up coat. His divine hair is tied into a long braid disappearing behind his back.
The attacker’s irises are a brilliant molten gold to match the thick braid, the color of wheat fields with the sun hitting them at the perfect angle and starlight.
Albedo’s fingers twitch by his sides, longing to put it all on paper.
“I warned you a few times, but you didn’t seem to hear me." The boy releases him as though burnt, bashfully scratching at the golden threads of his regal mane. He goes slightly red in the face at Albedo’s complete lack of response, the latter lost in a trance so mindboggling that he doesn’t know what to think, no less how to appropriately react. “Sorry if I startled you.”
The golden boy’s face is smudged in green and Albedo spots an empty paint bucket resting under the freshly-painted bench. A pair of work gloves is hanging out of his pocket. It doesn’t take much to connect the dots.
Finally, his prayers for the bench’s longevity have been answered by the man of the hour.
The gratefulness nulifies Albedo’s temporary speech issues. “Ah, well, I suppose that’s on me. Had a lot going on today,” he explains, feeling a little lost. For some reason, there’s an inexplicable nervousness creeping up on his gut. “I guess I have to thank you for salvaging my pants.”
The golden boy smiles, a bright grin that is perfectly matched for his aesthetics. “I hope you don’t purposefully sit on wet benches just to cope,” he bends over before Albedo can say anything in return, collecting the sketchbook and brushing off its invisible dirt. “Here. Nothing’s ruined?”
Albedo shakes his head with an affirmative hum, hugging the item close to his chest. There’s a beat of silence before it becomes slightly awkward—at least, on Albedo’s end—disrupted by a distant call coming from the direction of the main street, “Aether, these leaves aren’t going to pick themselves!”
Aether.
Aether, Albedo tests the name in his head, as the boy snaps his head in its direction, much like a golden retriever called to its master. “That’s my cue. I have to get going now, sorry for the bench mishap. Again. I suggest you avoid sitting down in this area for now. There’s a real good pile of rocks up ahead, though?”
There’s good humor in the golden boy’s voice and Albedo’s brain short-circuits before rapidly resetting with some error. “I’m certain,” he quips, fingertips drumming on the sketchbook. Without thinking too deeply into it and strangely longing for more of Aether’s effortlessly easy-going company, he opens his mouth to say “since it’s heavily implied that I won’t have a savior to look out for me anymore, I could at least use a tour guide. Feel free to lead the way?”
Albedo nearly bites his tongue off at the sheer volume of cringe escaping him, the type of nonsense that perhaps someone like Kaeya would use on an unsuspecting victim. Needless to say, it doesn’t fly with Aether as predicted, the boy’s smile fading a little, replaced by painfully awkward remorse. “I would love to,” he makes sure to underline the last two words as though trying to make Albedo feel better, only gauging the opposite effect, “but unfortunately, I’m running on a bit of a tight schedule here. Just go straight ahead, past the big bushes. Can’t miss it. Lovely spot, stain-free for most part.”
Albedo can't tell whether the kid is actually unbothered or is simply very good at acting. His disposition seems a bit hard to read. Strangely enough, it makes his newfound interest in the golden boy flare up even more.
He figures that he should start reading up on the more complex human interaction to discover how to conduct himself in these scenarios. This is getting quite ridiculous.
While he busies himself with thinking about it, Aether takes a few steps backwards, still fully turned to Albedo. His shoes scuff at the layer of decaying maple leaves covering the ground, the action making the scent of fresh earth flare up even more. It’s downright dizzying. “I’ll be seeing you around!” the golden boy pipes up with a sweet smile and quickly takes off. Leaving Albedo behind, still lost in a haze.
Seeing him around? How come? Albedo thinks that he'd certainly remember someone like Aether running around the campus, their hair made of spun sunlight.
The bucket catches his periphery. “You forgot your—“ he starts off, but doesn’t even bother finishing the sentence, not too good at raising his voice. The golden boy is already ways ahead, that entrancing braid whipping to the sides.
Albedo sighs. A bit on the ditzy side, huh?
He takes it upon himself to discard the bucket by placing it next to the nearest trash deposit, dragging himself to the aforementioned rock pile. He'd discovered that place all the way back on the first week of university, hidden well from the prying eyes of outsiders. He doesn’t really like it, though; sitting on the rocks and freezing his tailbone.
True to Aether’s word, every bench in his path turns out to be freshly painted. He wonders whether the beautiful boy was simply volunteering for the task. Perhaps he does this for a living?
Albedo guesses that it’s not meant for him to find out.
He settles on the rocky formation covered in slightly moist moss and draws. At first, it’s the surrounding scenery, then the little branch that he’d plucked off the shrub beforehand. The maple leaf that’s managed to catch his eye.
It doesn’t take long before the gold-tinged leaf turns into the golden stranger.
It’s no more than a faint outline of a person in an oversized coat mindlessly scribbled from memory; however, Albedo still puts extra effort into the paint smudge located on Aether’s nose and the dangly earring peeking through the tufts of fluffy hair.
Once he’s done, he regards his work with a critical eye and snaps the sketchbook shut, displeased by the earthly distractions placed on paper. Recalls the awkward plea for company and groans to himself, running a gloved hand through his messily tied back hair. “What were you thinking…? Tour guide? Gods,” Albedo scoffs. “Any more of this and I can start seriously considering a hermit’s existence in Siberia.”
Once he’s done scrubbing at his face, something new catches his eye.
Aether’s green fingerprints are positively glowing on the light gray back of his sketchbook.
The innocent smudges are enough to force Albedo to stand up and nearly speed-walk back into the bustling streets, a strange sensation that he doesn’t want to think about developing in his gut. He firmly thinks that he doesn’t have the time or emotional capacity to unpack all of that.
After all, Albedo is good at chasing people away.