pairing: albedo/reader
rating: teen
summary: There’s a word for this but he doesn’t know how to say it, and for the longest time, he lets the silence wash over him, lets the moment eat away at him, bit by bit until he could no longer ignore it: the voice in his head, the wanting in his chest - the feeling that has never gone away ever since he’s met you.
notes: i wanted to try something new, so sorry if this is messy and all over the place! based on an anon request, but i also tweaked it a bit. hope it’s still ok!
By the time Albedo arrives in his apartment, he doesn’t expect to find you still up and about, sitting on the couch with a book in your lap, as though you’ve been waiting for him to come back this whole time. He frowns at the sight of you, a surprise he doesn’t expect to find, especially this late at night. He isn’t quite certain of the exact time, and yet he is certain that it’s already past midnight based on the peaceful silence that has fallen all over the city: the doors are locked tight, the curtains are drawn closed, the lights are turned off with everyone shut inside their houses safe and asleep.
He calls your name in the silence and watches as you bolt up from your seat, startled at the sound of his voice, the book in your lap falling to the floor with a quiet thud. For a moment, the two of you could only do nothing but stare at each other; he could feel your eyes on him, glued to his face, looking for signs, for clues—for some kind of answer.
He opens his mouth, wanting to ask you why you’ve decided to stay up this late to wait for him, but before the words could even leave his lips, you’re already running over to him, reaching out to touch his cheek: a brief caress that leaves him breathless and wanting, aching for more.
“You’re bleeding!” you exclaim, your voice filled with worry, with concern, and for a moment, he only blinks at you in response, confused. Slowly, he moves to touch his cheek, the warmth of your touch still lingering in his skin, and he is surprised when it comes away wet and sticky, smeared with blood. He frowns, suddenly uncertain; he doesn’t even realize he’s wounded, doesn’t even realize he’s bleeding until you’ve pointed it out, and even now, as he touches his cheek for a second time, aware of the blood smearing his cheek, his palm, he still couldn’t feel the pain, still couldn’t figure out where exactly he’s gotten it from.
But when he looks up at you, he finds you already looking at him, staring at him with obvious concern: your eyebrows creased and your eyes wide. He opens his mouth to tell you all the words you need to hear, that he’s alright, that there’s no need for you to worry—a series of reassurances he doesn’t even know if he means, but you’re already shaking your head, interrupting him just before he could even begin to speak.
“Hold on,” you say, and there’s an urgency in your voice, a kind of restlessness that he could feel in the air, sharp and heavy. He stares at you closely, quietly, watching as you shift your weight from one foot to another, ready to move if you feel the need to. “Let me patch you up.”
He tries to shake his head, tries to form a response, to reassure you once more that he’s fine, but you’re already running out of the door and into the kitchen, rummaging around in your apartment in search of supplies: opening cupboards and drawers, cabinets and doors.
You return to him a moment later, motioning for him to sit on the couch, and briefly, he hesitates, as though he isn’t quite sure if he should do it, but then a moment later and he’s finally conceding, sighing as he slowly makes his way to you, seating himself on the space beside you. He rests his hands on his lap and stares at you quietly, watching as you open the tiny box in your hands, flitting through your supplies: bandages and gauze, boxes of band-aids with little flowers printed on them, bright and colorful.
You grab a cloth and press it against his cheek, wiping away the smear of blood, and he feels the dampness against his skin: cold as ice—a complete contrast to the warmth of his body. He winces a little, a tiny hiss leaving his lips as he instinctively pulls away from you, not quite expecting the sting that suddenly assaults him.
You stop and stare at him with worried eyes, murmuring an apology under your breath, soft and quiet. Slowly, you look up at him, searching his eyes for an answer, for permission, and he gives you a silent nod in response, the corners of his lips twitching into the tiniest of smiles.
“It’s alright,” he replies, trying his best to reassure you with his words, keeping his hands folded in his lap even when he wants nothing more than to hold your hand and grip it with his own, lacing your fingers together. “I’m alright.”
You smile back at him in response, reluctant and uncertain, and still, you push on, continuing your previous ministrations. You are careful with him this time, your hands moving slowly and gently as though he is something fragile and delicate, someone you couldn’t even bear to hurt, and he closes his eyes and leans in, desperate for your touch, for more of this, for anything you could give him.
Seconds pass, one after another, and he counts them down in his head: one, two, three. He breathes in, breathes out, slow and steady, feeling like he could fall asleep at any minute, savoring the feeling of your hands against his cheek, wishing that the moment could last just a little longer, wishing that the moment would last forever.
But then it is over too soon, and a moment later, you are calling his name, whispering it all too carefully in the silence like you’re afraid to disturb him, and slowly, he opens his eyes and looks at you, meeting your gaze all too quickly.
He sees the expression on your face, in your eyes: the worry, the concern, as well as something else—an emotion he couldn’t quite name, no matter how familiar it is. He feels his breath hitches in his throat, feels his heart skipping a beat, and suddenly, he is uncertain, afraid of all the possibilities, of everything that could ever happen.
“Does it hurt?” you ask, your voice soft as a whisper, and he only shakes his head at you in response, not trusting himself enough to speak. You stare at him for the longest time, and he keeps his eyes locked on yours, unable to look away. He watches you all too quietly, watches as you slowly reach out and touch his cheek, your fingers warm and gentle as you trace circles all over his skin, tender enough to make him want to melt into a puddle by your feet.
He opens his mouth to whisper your name, and then stops all of a sudden, closing his mouth, uncertain how to proceed. There’s a word for this but he doesn’t know how to say it. And for the longest time, he lets the silence wash over him, lets the moment eat away at him, bit by bit until he could no longer ignore it: the voice in his head, the coil in his stomach, the wanting that has never gone away ever since he’s met you.
Slowly, he moves to grab your hand, seizing you by the wrist, his grip firm and steady—unwavering. He leans in and stares at you, memorizes every detail on your face: your eyes, your cheeks, and then finally your lips, his heart beating loud and fast against his ears, drowning out everything else.
But you are the one who finally closes the distance between you, leaning in to press a quick kiss against the corners of his mouth, chaste and sweet, but he wants more, needs more, and before you could even pull away from him, he is already pulling you back against him, wrapping his arms around your waist, trapping you in his arms and caging you in, refusing to let you go. He leans in and kisses you once more, and this time, it is different: hungry and desperate like he wants nothing more than to swallow you whole, to devour you bit by bit until you are a part of him, always and forever.
He bites at your bottom lip, a gentle nip that leaves you gasping in surprise, and he seizes the moment, quick and immediate, slipping his tongue inside your mouth and drinks you in, just until he’s finally had his feel. He savors the taste of you, savors the way your body reacts against his kiss: the moan that spills out of your throat, sweet and wanton against his ears; and the way you kiss him back, hungry and feverish as though you want him just as much as he wants you.
He runs his hands all over your body, touching as much as of you as he could, wallowing at the warmth of your skin, at the heat of this moment: the way you pull away to whisper his name, gasping and breathless; the way you stare up at him, your eyes twinkling with desire, mirroring the emotion behind his gaze.
A moment later and he is finally pulling away from you, trying to catch his breath, tearing his eyes away from you as though he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye just yet. Even now, he still isn’t sure what happened, isn’t sure what possessed him to do such a thing; all he knows is the fire at the pit of his stomach, the desire that coils around him like a lover, and now, he feels ashamed, embarrassed, uncertain what to do, what to say.
A moment of silence settles between you, tense and awkward, and he feels it pressing against him, heavy as a burden. But then he feels you reaching for his hand a moment later, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and when he turns to look at you, he finds you already smiling at him: tiny and sheepish, but still warm enough to make his heart flutter in his chest.
He opens his mouth to say something, to finally break the growing silence between you, though he closes it just as quickly, swallowing the words back down in his throat like he wants to keep everything a secret for a little while longer. Instead, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in response, returning your smile with one of his own, small and reassuring.
There is a word for this but he still couldn’t bring himself to say it, and so he lets the silence wash over him, wallowing at this moment, in this peaceful kind of quiet. What else is there to say?