pairing: albedo/reader
rating: general
summary: It comes all too suddenly, an impulse he’s forgotten to hold back, rein in, the words spilling out of his lips, quick and unexpected. “Let’s get married.”
notes: this was done on a whim, so forgive any errors! this is a little too indulgent. but shrugs
It’s a good day, he thinks, watching as you walk around the city, always two steps ahead of him, leading him through the streets by the hand as you bring him from one place to another, eager for him to try out things he hasn’t done before in his life: bowling in an alley by the corner, obscured enough from the rest of the city that only the two of you are there by the time you arrive; visiting the tavern next door to try out fizzy drinks whose names he could only barely remember; and then leading him to a karaoke booth in a shady part of the city, flailing your arms wildly as you sing along, screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs, not even caring if you’re off-key or if you’re practically coughing your lungs out by the time the song ends.
It’s a good day, he thinks, as he watches you—a wild thing in the daylight, reckless and carefree, always laughing and smiling as you pull him along from one place to the next, eager for him to enjoy the day as much as you do.
And he does. He likes being in your company, even if he’s never been able to do much, still overwhelmed by it all that all he could do is stand by and sit in the corner, watching you closely and carefully, etching every detail in his memory like it’s something he doesn’t want to forget: the gleam in your eyes as you lead him along, skipping every few steps like you couldn’t wait to show him everything; the echo of your voice in the silence as you sing along to whatever tune was playing on the stereo, dancing recklessly in front of him until he’s smiling; and then the tenderness in your expression when you finally turn to him, keeping your eyes locked on him the whole time as you mouth along to the lyrics you couldn’t bear to say out loud, the memory still playing on his head like a movie on repeat.
But then he ruins it, all of a sudden, struck by an impulse to say everything he wants to say. “Let’s get married.”
It feels uncharacteristic to say the words out loud, blurting them out in the open like it’s a secret he couldn’t bear to hide any longer. He’s never been the type of person to be easily swayed by his desires, his impulses, always managing to keep calm and composed, to stay intact even under pressure. He’s always been logical to a fault, always thinking things through down to the slightest detail, but that doesn’t seem to be the case now.
He thinks it might be the alcohol buzzing through his veins, giving him the courage he needs to pull this through, his head fuzzy and overwhelmed with thoughts of you, but he knows that it’s all just a lie. He’s sober, that much he is sure of; he’s sober when the two of you had been drinking, downing one glass after another as you regale him with all kinds of tales; he’s sober by the time the two of you exit the tavern with a giddy smile on your face and laughter rising in your throat; and he’s still sober now as he stands there in front of you, the words already out of his lips even before he could stop them.
And now it’s too late to take it all back, and for the longest time, all he could do is stare at you in silence, watching your face for the slightest changes in your expression, anything to give away your thoughts, your feelings—anything to give him answers, anything to give you away.
You stare at him for a long time, blinking at him as though in confusion, trying to process his words, your eyes boring into his like you’re trying to read his secrets—him. But he turns away from you all too quickly, unable to bear the weight of your stare, his question hanging in the air: open, unanswered.
A moment of silence settles between the two of you, seconds passing one after another, each one feeling like a knife as it cuts through him. He still refuses to look at you, keeping his head low and his eyes down, wishing he could take the words back, wishing he could take it all back. If only he could rewind time and turn it back to the second before he’s ruined everything, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
But then you are calling his name, a gentle whisper in the silence, and the sound of your voice is enough to snap him out of his reverie. “Albedo,” you say, and slowly, he looks up at you, and he doesn’t fail to catch the mischievous glimmer in your eyes, the teasing smile on your lips.
“Are you drunk?” you ask finally after a moment, returning his question with another of your own. He stops and blinks at you a few times, the corners of his lips twisting into a tiny frown, not quite believing the words that spill out of your lips. But you are still smiling at him, the glimmer in your eyes brighter than before, and all of a sudden, he wants to tell you the truth: that he isn’t drunk, and that it’s you he wants even when he’s drunk out of his mind, his head cloudy with thoughts of only you.
But he swallows the words down and gives you a quiet nod, forcing a smile on his lips. “Maybe,” he replies with a shrug, nonchalant and casual—the way other people would do. But it isn’t easy to pull off when he isn’t like any other people; he’s never been good at pretending, at lying on his feet, and it’s even harder when he’s standing right in front of you, even harder when all he wants is to tell you the truth.
“Oh,” you say after a beat, and there’s a brief second where disappointment flashes in your eyes, quick as lightning. But it disappears just as quickly, immediately replaced by a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, strained and hollow. “Well, you should’ve said so.”
He remains quiet after that, uncertain what to say. He stares at you in silence, watching you as you slowly pull yourself out of your thoughts, shaking your head and laughing as though it’s all just some big joke. “Let’s go.”
With a smile, you reach for his hand and take it in yours, holding it firmly as you begin to pull him along, leading him out and about in the city: past the throngs of crowds huddled in the center; the rows of stalls pushed neatly in a single row; the series of shops that seem to sell all kinds of things—barrettes, bracelets, rings.
And all the while, he could only stare after you in silence wondering what would happen if things had been different. What would happen if he’d been brave enough to push through his plans? What would happen if he’d had enough courage to tell you the truth instead of taking everything back like a coward?
Would things turn out differently? Would you say yes?
But he only sighs and shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from you, knowing that it’s too late to change everything now by thinking about the what-ifs, by wondering all about the wrong things.
Perhaps next time, he’ll do better.