InsaneJournal

Albus simply could not convince his body to sleep in the middle of his own bed. It was a testament, he supposed, to how much he didn't want to have his bed all to himself. He did not wish to grow accustomed to it. He had no desire for it to become normal once again. So Albus's body settled onto his side, the side furthest from the door, of his too-large, too-empty bed. What he could managed was to sleep with his back to the door, to keep the first thing he saw in the morning from being vacant space beside him. It wasn't always successful. Half the time he woke up stretched across the bed, his face buried in Gellert's pillow, and those were the worst sort of mornings.

When he felt light and warmth drifting in from the window on the wall facing the door, Albus knew it wasn't one of those mornings. And then, when he was almost certain that the phantom weight on the mattress behind him was really there, Albus knew it wasn't morning at all. He hated and loved these dreams, when his sleeping mind saw fit to torment him with too-tender moments that left an ache in his chest when he truly awoke. So he kept his eyes closed, hoping the dream would just diminish on its own, that he would be spared having to choose whether or not to give over, to let himself believe, if only for a little while, that things were right in the world again. Because he knew what he would choose, he knew what he was willing to endure in the garish morning light in order to pretend, for just the fleeting comfort of his dreams.

The fingers that touched Albus's neck, that swept long auburn hair out of the way, were feverishly hot.  As were the lips that followed them, pressing a soft kiss to the knob of a cervical vertebra.  And then arms were curling around Albus's waist, drawing him close, hands curling into loose fists against his stomach.  Albus's body was as slender, as perfect as Gellert had remembered--his skin cool and as flawless as the finest silk beneath his touch. 

He had missed this.

Gellert's thumb traced circles on the ridge of Albus's ribs as his lips grazed along the line of his throat, crested over his ear to bite softly at the lobe.  Ah, that smell!  That smell brought him back.  Fragile summer flowers with the sweet-tasting nectar.  Parchment and ink.  And the physical scents recalled mental ones, recalled fresh grass and jasmine tea with too much sugar, sex-thick perspiration and opium, new cotton sheets and the burning smell as one of the rafters caught fire after Albus deflected a curse.  Yes, he could remember as though it were just yesterday.

"Albus," he murmured, breath gusting out against the boy's ear, "Albus, wake up."

Albus kept his breathing steady and slow, trying to will his mind back to murky dreamlessness as he bore the sweet sort of torture of impossibly precise hands seared across his skin. Perhaps he believed that if he could just remain still, just continued the farce of sleeping within sleep, it would somehow mitigate the sense of loss when it inevitably faded. But Albus could barely even insist to himself that this wasn't real. The idea might have actually been comforting.

And then came his voice and Albus's eyes snapped open. His voice, but not-his-voice. Just a hint deeper. Abruptly, Albus could feel the difference in the too tall, too muscled body behind him so acutely that he could not fathom how he had missed it only moments before. Apart from the opening of his eyes, which stared, unfocused, at the wall before his face, Albus didn't move. He managed not to shudder at the way lips grazed his skin or at the velvet of that voice- but he didn't yet pull away.

"Gellert." Naming him, though the syllables were the same, somehow sounded so very different. Part of him wished that he couldn't remember so clearly, couldn't so instantly recall the way Gellert had looked in the book, the way that cold core was too easy to recognize. This, the man behind him, was not his Gellert. (And oh, how Albus wished he could believe that.) This was the Gellert called Grindelwald. Called Chancellor. Called so many true and yet wildly insufficient things. It was hardly Albus's fault the way his pulse quickened. The possibility that this dream might suddenly slip away seemed to be shrinking.

Gellert's lips curled into a small smile against Albus's neck when he spoke his name and his arms tightened slightly around Albus's waist.  "Excellent deduction," he said, something like sardonic amusement lacing his tone.  And then he was turning Albus in his arms, using his now-greater physical strength to force him to roll over, to face him. 

Albus was so young.  The Albus of Gellert's memories, not that of press photographs and Transfiguration professorships.  Albus was never meant to be a teacher, anyway.  The very concept was so absurd that when Gellert read of it, he had laughed aloud.  And then, as the mirth faded, he tore the paper to shreds and set it afire.  Waste of talent.  Waste of a brilliant mind, which would be so much better put to work planning war strategies than planning curriculums and grading tests.  It had felt like a personal affront.

But this Albus, eighteen years old, pale and young and wide-eyed, had committed no such crimes.  He was innocent--if either of them could ever be called innocent.  If either of them had ever, even as they burst screaming into the world from between their mothers' legs, had ever qualified as blameless.  Minds like theirs were born, not made.  There was no innocence. 

Gellert was still smiling when their eyes met, his hand moving to caress the curve of Albus's cheek.  And this was how Albus should feel.  Solid and cool and real, not the vague illusory recollections that constituted Gellert's solitary fantasies.  "You are not dreaming of having any other men in your bed, are you?"

There was only the faintest hint of resistance before Albus's body moved all too pliantly. If he could have mandated that his eyes simply not focus, he would have. He didn't want to see the cold in this Gellert's eyes- not the cold from that photograph, not the cold from that last time he'd seen Gellert with his waking eyes. For a moment, his eyes had dallied, had tried to distract themselves with anything else. Glancing below Gellert's chin had seemed like a practical alternative, until the new lines of Gellert's body burned themselves into Albus's mind. Suddenly Gellert's eyes seemed less daunting. When Albus pinned his eyes on Gellert's, something loosely related to relief arose in him. The unabashed chill seemed veiled, and for that, Albus was grateful.

And yet, Albus was instantly so wary of that gratitude, at the way his body wished to relax. He'd never so mistrusted himself. Time had become such a tangled skein, and as much as Albus knew that this man, that some part of this man was his Gellert, there was now more to him than that. The worst, of course, was the corner of Albus that didn't want to care. It was the part of him that had his eyes falling shut at the press of Gellert's hand along his cheek. And it was so very tempting, to just give over to the possibility of it all. Albus had learned, however, to shy a little from the things he wanted too much; so his body was lifting itself slightly, his elbows pressing down against the mattress as he sat himself up a little. And he tried to ignore the way he delayed pulling his cheek back, leaning his head away from Gellert's grasp.

That little bit of distance helped, though it couldn't stop the way Albus's eyes swept over the other. Gellert's body just seemed so-

"Just you," Albus confessed as he glanced back up. There was no point to lying, not here, not like this. So he didn't bother to hide the wariness within himself. Wondering just how far honesty might extend, Albus asked, "And what do you dream of?" It was a question designed to say as much as it inquired: that Albus did not fully know the man still pressed quite close to him, didn't know his wants and dreams, and wasn't wholly sure he'd be pleased to learn them.

When Albus drew away, flinched away from his touch, the thin layer of warmth that had concealed the truth behind his eyes faded all too quickly.  Gellert's smile became tighter, acquiring a nearly bitter edge, but it did not fade.  His hand dropped from Albus's face to instead slip down his arm, gliding over his wrist to pull Albus's hand forward to press it against his own chest.  Over his heart, pulsing too-fast as it ever did against Albus's palm.

"You," he said. For a moment, Gellert's gaze slipped away from Albus's face to drift down his body, along the so-familiar edges and planes of his adolescence, that same skin that at sixteen he decided could very well be the only skin he touched again for the rest of his life.  That hand, now resting against his chest, which Gellert could so easily remember in its other functions: holding a quill, tracing along the Hallows symbol Gellert had carved into his wall, holding a wand, fingers intertwining with Gellert's own, smoothing along his body, bringing a cigarette to his lips, playing the piano, curling around Gellert's cock. 

And there was no need for lies, was there?  Not now, with Albus trapped in another time, when this was but a dream--a nightmare, when Gellert knew that he could trust his own younger self to easily explain away just about anything.  So Gellert spoke again as his eyes lifted to meet Albus's once more, smile widening just a bit.  "And other things, besides."

Albus knew that heartbeat. Knew the skin against his palm. Did he? Even as his fingertips tensed against the more defined of Gellert's chest, Albus knew this man. His thoughts tried to leap forward, to assimilate a timeline, a sequence of events, but - gods above - he missed Gellert. In any form. And even this, even the chill in his magnetic eyes, it sang familiar. Too familiar. And Albus was torn between finding that comforting and finding it worrisome.

Would it be so wrong, to just... forget? For just a little while? This was a man, after all, whose heart beat against his hand. Was there truly a man who was not due some love? To be accepted, as he was? How strangely steady Albus's breath seemed when his heart so thudded within his own chest. Because he knew, he knew, that there was nothing false to the words that fell from Gellert's lips. This Gellert, this older Gellert, who ought to have been doing what they had planned together. Who ought to be tempered by Albus's own self, who might keep at bay these... other things. He wanted to ask, intended to, desired to know the form of these things.

"You care for me, then?" was instead the almost hushed question that fell from Albus's lips. 'Still?' was the silent addendum. Albus found he simply could not contain the inquiry. Of all things to be concerned about, it seemed as frivolous as it was vital. So much seemed to hang upon the balance of the answer. So foolishly subjective. Gellert was right (both of them, no doubt)- 'quite idiotic.'

Gellert let out a small, soft sigh, his thumb caressing the back of Albus's hand.  How intense, how complicated Albus's feelings for him were!  At least, they had been, before Albus betrayed him.  Before he, like so many others, had dismissed him as a monster, had let him disappear to Europe.  Before he had abandoned their dreams out of cowardice and conscience. 

Gellert finally pushed Albus's hand away, but it was only to move forward, rolling over and rising up on his own arm to hover just above Albus's body.  A pause, and then he lowered himself down, resting on his forearms so that their faces were but a hair's breadth apart.  The fingers of his left hand curled through Albus's hair, twisting a few auburn strands around his knuckles.  "Albus."  His name was like soft velvet on Gellert's lips, too long gone unspoken.  And so he said it again, turning the syllables over on his lip, relishing the way his tongue tapped the back of his teeth on the 'l,' the soft hiss of the final letter.  "Albus...."  And Gellert's hand was back at Albus's cheek, brushing against his skin, his thumb tripping over soft, full flesh of his lower lip.  "I have always cared for you." 

It was true, despite the discrepancy between Gellert's definition of the words and what Albus might wish that he meant.  Because Albus...Albus fancied himself in love with him.  Gellert could not claim reciprocation in such a manner.  But care for him?  ...Yes.  Gellert cared for him very much.  Not always in a positive light, but there was no denying that the feelings he harboured for Albus were very strong indeed.

An inquiry of love, Albus doubted he'd have been able to bear. Love was a word Albus had given to Gellert, and not one that had been returned to him. There was a measure of comfort in that; it would be a sweet sort of cruelty for Gellert to say words simply because Albus desired to hear them. Even if Albus suspected love, and he did, he doubted he'd ever be able to ask Gellert so directly for fear of hearing the truth. And love, Albus knew, was by no means certain. Likely, perhaps, save recent developments, but not certain. Care, however, Albus could trust- and he believed the man now above him. (He declined to ponder much at all that he would have believed it of Gellert from the way the other said his name.) It seemed remarkable, substantial, that Gellert could say it and mean it, after so many years. So many of Gellert's years.

Albus's skin flared hot and flushed under the brush of Gellert's hand, his lower lip falling just a little under the press of Gellert's thumb. Even this Gellert - gods, this distilled, refined form of golden grace and a sort of glory that transcended the plebeian notions of morality - was so unadulteratedly beautiful. But Albus just wanted it too much. He wanted this man he knew and loved, regardless of the folds of time, so very badly. Surely, it could not be so terrible. Surely, his conscience could be alieviated if he'd found himself chained in some sumptuous tower, his ethical qualms entirely subjugated-

Albus practically gasped for breath as some measure of sense compelled his body to inch backward, leaving his shoulders pressed flush against the headboard, his despair over the distance between them he'd imposed upon them far from concealed. Tendrils of his thoughts scattered haphazardly. Too much of Albus enjoyed the body. Too much of him celebrated the unabashed snatch at power. And as he looked at Gellert, with his chilled, honest eyes, some small part of Albus couldn't help but wonder: Wasn't this what they'd been planning all along? Was this not the most honest, the most open, the most candid Gellert had ever been with him, to let Albus see the distance in his eyes?

His thoughts spinning, it was a nearly desperate sort of whimper that Albus's throat yielded.

Deprived of contact with Albus's face, Gellert's hands settled for resting on the now-nearest thing--the curves of his hips.  "Why so reluctant, Albus?" he said, tilting his head forward, kissing the skin of his stomach.  "There is no use in fighting me," he said, tongue flickering out into the hollow of his bellybutton.  "I always get what I want...."  And then his grip was tightening on Albus's waist, dragging him roughly down, repositioning him so that he was directly underneath Gellert once more. 

And now Gellert's own breaths were coming faster, shallower, his eyes acquiring a nearly manic glaze, his grasp still steady and tight, pressing down on Albus's hips so that he could not escape again.  And there was a faint red tinge to his own cheeks, though not at all for the same reason as the one that flushed Albus's own.  Gellert leaned over, biting Albus's neck, a small red mark blossoming in his wake.  His voice was husky, breathless as he asked, "Do you still love me, Albus?"  His hands shifted on his hips, pressing between Albus's body and the bed to cup his arse.  "Tell me."

His hair ensnared in Gellert's grasp, there had been no other option but to tilt his head back. There was no true argument to give for the statements seared into his skin. Whatever resistance he'd been clinging to had melted with the caress of Gellert's lips and tongue. As he found himself abruptly beneath Gellert, Albus couldn't find the will to protest. (And was there any part of him that didn't delight in the way Gellert's breath quickened? No.) Not even when the press of teeth turned sharp.

Or perhaps he simply couldn't deny a truth he knew so absolutely. His breath hitching over the nip of Gellert's teeth, or the possessive grasp of his hands, Albus's eyes fell shut. After raking in what felt like a shallow breath, Albus all but whispered, "Yes." And it sounded every bit of the confession that it was. And it was offered so readily, his breath coming just a little lighter and somehow, it all seemed easier to admit to if his eyes were closed. "Entirely," he added, after a moment's pause - because he knew, without a doubt, that it wasn't simply the Gellert of his own time, or a few years later, or even so many years later - Albus loved them all. And, almost against their will, Albus's fingertips found the sides of Gellert's neck.

When Albus spoke, a little bit of the grimness seemed to fade from Gellert's smile and his fingers relaxed their vise-like hold on Albus's arse.  But that odd glitter to his eyes never disappeared.  If anything, it seemed to intensify as Gellert ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the dip between Albus's collarbones.  "Good," he whispered.  His hands smoothed up Albus's torso even as Gellert's lips traveled downward, alternately kissing and nipping a path along his sternum. 

Of course Albus still loved him, Gellert thought, endlessly amused by the prospect.  But how?  Was it really another accomplishment that Gellert could relegate to his own charm and physical beauty and ability to out-manipulate even the cleverest of foes?  Because he had shown Albus too much of himself.  He had let Albus see into his core, if only a glimpse or two.  And how could Albus still claim to love him, after that?  What was there to love?  Gellert found the concept far too fascinating.  Albus loved him of his own volition, not just because of Gellert's design.  Bizarre. 

"Why do you love me?" he asked, unable to hold himself from it any longer.  Gellert's lips grazed the ridge of Albus's hipbone, followed by his tongue.  He tasted the same.  Dear god, would Gellert never forget that taste?  His hands slid lower once more, smoothing over Albus's thighs.  "You know what I am.  What I have done.  What I will continue to do."  Gellert's eyes closed as he buried his face into the soft skin between Albus's navel and his pelvis, breathing in the sweet scent of him.  "So why do you love me?"

Albus tried very hard to avoid reading too much into the fact that Gellert so approved of his love. In the end, it wasn't so difficult. It was simply too difficult to consider Gellert's actions as evils. Even the more gruesome of acts could inspire some good. Who was Albus, to judge Gellert? The motives and actions of lesser men, Albus could comfortably analyze, but Gellert? When Gellert moved, the fabric of time stood still. Gellert was an intersection of too many things- too much knowledge, too much magic, too much- just too much. It wasn't Gellert's fault. Fate crafted the agents it needed, and who was to say that Gellert wasn't necessary?

"I was made to love you," Albus breathed, finding that he believed the excuse he improvised. "I know how to do nothing else."

It was hardly a lie, with the way his muscles tightened, with the way his skin felt positively electric. Even those the rest of the world deemed unlovable did deserve some love- perhaps they more than anyone. Albus was no more at fault for being able to love Gellert. But why- why, there were so many why's. Perhaps it was sheer narcissism, to love a creature to like himself. Perhaps it was a vital sort of cosmic dynamic, to so love the being that was as much a part of him as he was Albus's complement and contradiction. And yet... did Albus truly love the man whose body blanketed his own? Albus's eyes opened, gazing down at the head of golden hair spilling across his abdomen. Albus's heart thudded a little harder. Did he love this man- could he?

One of Albus's hands curled around the back of Gellert's neck. The softness of his touch mirrored his careful voice. "Look at me." But it was so much more than simple eye contact. Albus wanted the full force of the cold Gellert could possess- or that possessed him. If Albus truly wished to know, he needed Gellert at his most brazenly cold.

Gellert smirked against Albus's skin, head still tilted enough that the other could not see the expression that overtook his face at his words.  Was Albus's love truly such a childish construct, that he found he could not control it?  That he could not moderate its complexities and its whims?  Was he so beholden to Gellert?  The very idea sent Gellert's thoughts careening down an all-too-excited path. 

He glanced up at Albus's words, meeting his gaze across the distance of the length of Albus's torso.  But that was not what Albus meant, was it?  So Gellert let his eyes fall closed for a moment, pressed his lips to Albus's stomach one last time before making the journey back up Albus's body.  And when their eyes met--when Gellert's brow was but an inch from Albus's, the thumb of his right hand pressing small circles into the space between Albus's ribs--he did not hide himself.  He let the veil slip from his gaze, as good as invited Albus to sink into his mind--to float through the icy exterior of Gellert's eyes and find out what really lay beneath them. 

And there they were. Those chilling eyes Albus had caught glimpses of. Albus didn't try to rationalize them, didn't seek to explain them away. He simply looked. Let his vision become saturated with them. That unfeeling void- only, not so unfeeling. Despite all odds, all likelihoods, Albus did believe that Gellert cared for him. Of all the people on this earth, Gellert cared for him. How could Albus not love him in return?

After a heavy moment of hesitation, one of Albus's hands lifted, his fingertips settling along Gellert's cheekbone. His eyes never wavered from Gellert's. As the gazed, entirely open, Albus lifted his chin. It was still cautious, almost experimental, as he brought his lips to press against Gellert's. Albus wasn't even entirely sure what he was expecting, whether he was expecting those eyes to stay the same, expecting them to thaw (no, surely not), or simply awaiting some sort of conviction to send Albus recoiling backwards. Eyes still pinned to Gellert's, feeling as if he was holding his breath, as if he were waiting for some... something, his lips tenderly skimmed across Gellert's, his tongue just barely slipping out to pull along the soft, familiar full of Gellert's lips.

The dead frost in Gellert's eyes never vanished, never faded--and he kept his eyes open as Albus's lips met his.  Kept their gazes locked, unwavering, unblinking.  And yet, in wild, ironic contrast, when he returned the kiss it was with every ounce of gentleness and caring that he had kissed Albus in the past.  Soft, loving, tender, his lips moving against Albus's as though the other man might break if an excess of pressure was applied.  He let his own tongue flit out to glide against Albus's own--and then letting it slip between Albus's lips to explore the far-from-foreign interior of the boy's mouth. One of Gellert's hands lifted to press against Albus's cheek, to run his fingers through his hair as, at last, Gellert's eyes drifted shut. 

"Albus," he said, a slightly needy edge overtaking the sound of his name, turning it into something that could as easily have been a demand as a prayer.  He bit lightly, almost experimentally, on Albus's lower lip.  And at the same time he drove down with his hips, pressing the beginnings of his arousal into Albus's stomach.  Even now, after fifteen years, I still want you.

No revulsion. No fear. No innate repulsion. None of it sprang to life in Albus- nothing but the way his body and soul longed to simply melt beneath the ministrations of Gellert's mouth. And when Gellert said his name, it banished any phantom doubt in Albus's mind that this Gellert was somehow distinct from his younger incarnation. With every beat of his heart Albus became more convinced that as long as he lived, he'd never stop loving Gellert. No matter what he did. No matter how many people he killed. There was simply no obstacle Albus's love could not overcome.  

What a terrifyingly powerful thing love could be.

Albus's hand sank into Gellert's hair, his knee hitching itself against Gellert's hip. He knew, of course he knew, that Gellert could hurt him. Would hurt him, in so many ways worse than the physical. But Albus couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn't find a way to blame Gellert. Because Albus loved him, every bloodstained bit of him. And Gellert - Albus's eyes dipped closed and he moaned softly against Gellert's mouth - Gellert, who had no reason to care for anyone, cared for him. The thickening of Gellert's cock against Albus's flesh all too quickly inspired a reciprocal sort of heat to begin pooling between Albus's legs. Some part of Albus knew this was foolish. But how could he do anything else when presented with the opportunity to bridge space and time?

"I love you," Albus confessed all over again, all but gasping the words against Gellert's jaw. Why lie? "I do. Still."

"I know," Gellert said, a slightly smug tone infiltrating his voice.  And he could feel Albus starting to grow hard against his thigh, could nearly taste the arousal in those breathy words.  They were both already naked--had been, ever since Albus had realised that he was not alone in this dream--so there was no fabric to interfere as Gellert reached a hand between them and curled his fingers around Albus's length, gently stroking and tugging it to its full stiffness.  And his lips followed as Gellert crawled down the bed, free hand pushing Albus's legs further apart to give himself room as his mouth took over the movement of his hand.

Albus was warm and familiar and thick between his lips and Gellert found a soft, pleased sound escaping his lungs.  Albus's was far from the last cock he'd had in his mouth, but it was the only one that Gellert could really remember.  The rest all blurred together, in the end.  Nameless, faceless bodies.  A series of crafted manipulations or simple, impulsive pleasures.  But none of them mattered.  Not even the schemes, the glorious political moves that somehow happened to involve sex as a pawn.  Not really.  Not in the grand scheme of things. 

There was something maybe just a little cathartic to the honesty in this. This was a brazen sort of candor, one Albus suspected his older self incapable of- not that he blamed his older self. There were too many mitigating circumstances. Albus could excuse the actions of his older self as easily as he could excuse his own.

His hips practically bucked up into Gellert's mouth as that wet furnace enveloped his cock. His breath was suddenly coming quick and shallow. Was this really a killer, a tyrant, a murder between his legs? Of course it was. Did it matter? Yes and no. It mattered, because it was part of who Gellert was, what he was. And yet, it did nothing to deter the way Albus felt the shuddering jolt of arousal flush through his body. Albus's hands had found their way into Gellert's smoothed hair, and as much as they missed the curls, his mind was all too aware of the beauty of Gellert's carefully constructed image. He'd never have expected anything less from Gellert. Boundless and unfettered. Was it any wonder that Albus had delayed so long, had been biding his time, waiting for Gellert's masterstroke of benevolence? There was, however, nothing to be done about the Gellert atop him now. Nothing but writhe just a bit under the perfect pressure of his lips, the meticulous canvas of his tongue.

And Merlin, but how very nice it was to simply let his mind get overrun by those sensations. How easy it was to let the world condense down to this moment, to his bed, to the intoxication of Gellert's mouth around him. The sounds that left Albus were taut and heavy- and shamelessly needy. Albus couldn't help wondering what it would be like, if this were his life. If he simply let Gellert do everything he pleased, and let his own mind become overwhelmed by love and desire and a singular devotion. It was a safe sort of contemplation within the realm of his dreams. Excusable. Forgivable. One had fisted in Gellert's hair, the other splayed along Gellert's shoulder, Albus couldn't help the keening moan that welled up in the back of his throat.

That sound--dear god, that sound.  Gellert's fingers tightened their grip on Albus's hips, his every thought suddenly completely sacrificed to the task of trying to elicit more gasps, more moans.  He wanted this proof of Albus's commitment to him.  His obsession.  His love.  It was as heady as the rush of power and just as all-consuming.  Gellert quickened the pace of his head, one hand finding its way up the bed to grasp Albus's, tangling their fingers together.  The other hand grasped his own shaft, moving in rhythm with his head, unable to resist addressing his own arousal as he pleasured Albus's.

It was several minutes before Gellert finally withdrew, sweeping his tongue out once more at the bulb of Albus's cock before finally just tilting it against his cheek and turning his gaze toward Albus's.  His voice was soft and thick with desire.  "Do you wish me to continue?" he asked, running his thumb up Albus's shaft, wiping a bubble of pre-come from its tip.  "Oder vielleicht sollten wir ziehen weiter."  Or perhaps we should...move on to other things.  The question was phrased out of a need to give Albus some semblance of control over the situation.  Of an equal balance of power.  Because once they did move on--once Gellert had Albus where he wanted him--there would be no such equality.

Only the barest hesitation was offered before Albus tightened his fingers around Gellert's. And part of Albus liked that, liked that he though about it, liked that he made the conscious choice instead of moving thoughtlessly, mindlessly, no matter how easy it was to loose track of his sense with the searing heat of Gellert's mouth around his cock. And every time Gellert's tongue brushed against the rim of the head of his cock, Albus's breath snagged. Despite the localized attention, it was as if Gellert was touching him everywhere. The way it wrenched at Albus's core, the way it penetrated deeper than arousal and lust- it was staggering, how love could transcend time and space.

The way Gellert spoke sent tremors up Albus's spine. Given the way his legs were parted, the way Gellert was situated between them, Albus couldn't help but guess where Gellert wanted this to go next. Some part of him balked, the memory of pain all too recent, but it was overcome by a deeper sort of desire, and an intellectual level of experimentation (because no true knowledge was gained without risk). For a moment, however, Albus teetered on the brink, wondering if this was Gellert's dream or his own. It was a damning sort of curiosity, because the divisions between them in Albus's reality felt greater than the chasm between in Gellert's. So Albus gave over. He clicked his brain from his native tongue and breathed, "Ein, und gemeinsam." Merlin's blood, and fate be damned, but he wanted to give this to Gellert, as some sort of grand apology for not chasing after him. And language- what better tool than language to dictate the sort of world in which they were indulging? And how far would Gellert - this Gellert, his Gellert - be willing to take this? Albus's physical well-being, especially within the confines of a dream, were negligible.

The smile that curved over Gellert's lips was almost immediate.  "Ausgezeichnet."  There was something nearly predatory to his motions as he pulled himself back up Albus's body, lips leaving a trail of kisses along his side.  He had almost forgotten, how terribly cool Albus's skin could feel beneath his own.  Beneath Gellert, he felt soft and slender and young--a perfect recollection of so many summer nights.  Would he still feel and smell the same, Gellert wondered, if he could touch him now?  At thirty-three, would Albus be as beautiful and as in love with Gellert as he was at eighteen?  But there was no way of knowing...no way to tell. 

Gellert's lips found Albus's own, kissing him softly and gently, caressing his lips with his tongue.  And even as they kissed, one of Gellert's hands slid down to reach between Albus's legs and massage his opening with his first two fingers--which suddenly, miraculously, were coated with lubrication as he slipped his forefinger inside.  And Albus's body was hot, insanely tight around Gellert's finger--and Gellert could feel his heartbeat, somehow, pulsing against him as he gently stroked Albus's interior. 

"You're perfect," Gellert murmured, voice thickly-accented as he attempted to revert to English.  A second finger joined his first, and both curved upward, seeking that small bundle of nerves that surrounded Albus's prostate.  Gellert's lips pressed to the corner of Albus's mouth, to his cheekbone, to the crest of his ear.  "You should never have let me leave."

Albus's body was set abruptly on edge by the intrusion, though it was hardly unwelcome. No, if anything, his mouth became only more demanding against Gellert's, because this wasn't....it wasn't quite like the first time. Even the slender press of that single digit had Albus feeling so very full- just, so very, nicely full. As Gellert set to speaking again, his softly lilting words seem to join his fingers as they brushed against something stark-white and glorious within Albus.

Somehow, despite all of it, despite who utterly overwhelming that sensation seemed to be, Albus could hear Gellert perfectly. Leave. It tore at Albu, had him all but clinging to whatever bits of Gellert's flesh he could reach. Because he shouldn't. He shouldn't have let Gellert leave, shouldn't have told him to leave, shouldn't have-

"You never should have left me," Albus returned, his voice too sure, too solid beneath the haze of arousal. His hips tilted up, rocked against the press of Gellert's hand. "I need you- I needed you, I still need you."

Gellert made a soft sound against Albus's skin, one that had a nearly hushing quality to it.  He kept the movement of his fingers within Albus steady, pressing against that same spot over and over again as the fingers of his other hand brushed over a nipple.  "You could have gone after me, you know," he said, that same hand dipping lower to wrap around Albus's length, his own throbbing needily.  And after several seconds he finally withdrew his hand from Albus's arse, that lubrication now slickening his shaft, the exterior of Albus's hole. 

Gellert could have asked if Albus was ready, could have given him time to prepare--but if anything, with age his grasp on patience had grown only more tenuous.  So he pressed his lips to Albus's mouth, silencing any complaints as he directed the head of his cock to Albus's entrance.  "Do you have any idea what I am capable of," he murmured, "when I do not have you to moderate me?"  Slowly, he began to press himself into Albus, holding the base of his shaft for balance, for control over speed and depth.  His words trailed off into a groan, the deeper he went into Albus's body, the tight sensation around his cock very nearly overwhelming.

Gellert gripped Albus's waist for leverage, his nails digging slightly into the other's skin, leaving small red marks in their path.  But still, he restrained himself.  Did not let his hips jerk forward too quickly, too roughly.  Simply pressed steadily on, until he was buried completely in the hot perfection of Albus's body.

If only guilt and arousal didn't flare so simultaneously. It didn't matter that he knew there had to be some reason he hadn't pursued Gellert, and he could only hope that the reasons were more than just emotional. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he hoped that it was just his pride, just his heart, just his subjective little emotions that had kept him England, and not some more substantial cause. But it was just so hard to think in a linear fashion when every brush of Gellert's relentless fingertips coiled a raw, aching want ever tighter within him.

The memory of pain, his body's anticipatory tensing, had a furtive sort of whimper falling nearly mute under the press of Gellert's lips. His body shifted, though whether it was to accommodate Gellert or to try to withdraw, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Gellert's body - this older, stronger body - was sheathed with more muscle, a fact that only served to emphasize the diminished disparity between their heights. And Gellert's personality seemed to have developed further, now honed and sharper still, right along with his physical form. The inquiry lighted on concerns too close to Albus's chest for him to be able to disregard it. He'd already turned the notion over in his mind countless time, but it was made somehow worse that Gellert seemed to be so entirely aware of the fact that Albus would have sought to reign in Gellert's impulses, that Gellert seemed to realize it was necessary. That Gellert needed him, and Albus hadn't been there. For the first time, Albus wondered which one of them had strayed into whose dream.

Knowing that it was a dream didn't gloss over the tight burn that lanced though his entire body. And yet, even as he raked in a desperate breath, even as his hands clung to Gellert's skin, Albus didn't feel overwhelmed by the pain of it. It hurt, yes, but not nearly as much as the first time. This time, Albus didn't have to actively seek out the trappings of pleasure. Everything simply blurred itself together in a staggering mix of sensation. Albus forgot entirely about answering Gellert's question. Part of him didn't want to- didn't want to say yes, he knew, when he lacked the specific knowledge, and he didn't want to say no, he didn't, for fear that he might receive just such an education. What Albus wanted was for Gellert to make that sound again, to drown out the rest of Albus's thoughts.

Gellert paused for a moment, fully thrust into Albus, tilting forward to press his lips to Albus's temple, gently brushing a few locks of hair from his face.  He was never less grateful for his eidetic memory, for his ability to recall to perfect detail any item, once seen or read or heard.  For his ability to recall every factor of Albus, from the exact shade of that hair to the almost-microscopic freckle just above his left collarbone, and the way it looked when Albus bit his lower lip.  Sometimes he was tempted to take a draught of Polyjuice and Portkey to England.  Find Albus, at that school of his.   Pretend to be a visitor from the Continent, looking into Hogwarts as an option for his son.  See if he still had that freckle, if he still bit his lip in that same way, see if he still moaned so prettily when aroused.  ...It was a fantasy that Gellert had played out in his mind a thousand times, but he knew it was never one that would see reality.

He began slowly, pulling out just a few inches before pressing himself forward again.  Albus's body was warm and viselike around his shaft, and Gellert wished that he had thought to learn if it really felt this magnificent, to be buried so deep within Albus.  But too late, and there was no time for regrets.  So when he kissed Albus again, he made a point of biting down hard on his lower lip, feeling it swell beneath his tongue. 

"So you don't know, then," Gellert breathed, letting his accent thicken his words, turning them into exotic representations of sexual arousal.  He pushed in again, smoothing a hand up the outside of Albus's thigh, licking a small circle around his nipple. Albus's skin was still too cool against Gellert's lips.  He wanted to feel it go feverishly hot, to flush with need and desire.  "So you have no idea...the darkest desires of the man you love...?"

Albus couldn't tell if he was breathing, of his lungs were transmuting carbon dioxide into oxygen of their own accord. The sharp nip at his lip, however, had a gasping sort of breath pulling into his chest before it left him wrapped around a moan. His entire body felt as though it were throbbing. Gellert's words sent decadent thrills shooting down his spine to pool beneath his stomach, until the sounds of them formed proper words in Albus's mind. But why- why did they have to discuss it in the middle of this?

And yet, some part of him couldn't help his curiosity, his need to know. Conceptually, Albus knew. He knew that Gellert's potential was nearly limitless, so it only served that such potential could extend in any direction. In every direction. The unknown, of course, was a far more alarming notion. If Gellert were capable of anything, it made him capable of everything. And just what was Gellert doing, so far removed from Albus's watchful eyes? Albus didn't want to know, but he had to know. In the internal struggle between want and need, it was always doomed before it even began.

So even as his hips tilted and his knees tightened around Gellert's hips, pulling Gellert in just a little deeper, Albus managed in spite of himself, "Tell me... tell me what you desire." Because he could hope, couldn't he, that his fears might be alleviated instead of exacerbated.

Gellert smiled again and began to increase his pace, increase the extent to which he withdrew, increasing the depth of each thrust.  He took hold of Albus's cock once more, stroking it in a quick and heavy rhythm.  Another pleased sound fell from his lips and Gellert kissed it into Albus's sternum, alternately licking and biting from his ribcage to his throat.  "Did you know," he began--and of course Albus didn't know, how could he know?-- "that last week, I fucked a boy.  Twenty years old.  He had--long red hair."  And Gellert twisted that very hair around his fingers, pulling a little too roughly but then kissing the pain away, caressing Albus's lips with his own.  "Like yours." 

A little faster, now.  Gellert pressed one arm beneath Albus's body and gripped his shoulder, using it to pull himself in deeper.  His grasp tightened slightly around Albus's cock.  "I called him 'Albus,' but I don't think he could hear me."  Gellert was slightly breathless, his eyes gone glassy with want.  "He was screaming too loud."  Another groan burst from Gellert's lips with a particularly hard thrust and his brow fell to Albus's chest.  "I kept him under the Cruciatus for the duration of our night together.  I killed him at climax."

It had started off simply enough, almost innocently, but for the ominous weight in the air. And for a moment, Albus let himself live comfortably in the lie of it. That it might be as simple enough as Gellert still wanting him, still trying to find him in a parade of red hair and blue eyes and pale skin. His hips snapped up all to eagerly into the firm grasp of Gellert's hand, his body feeling too tight, too hot.

But. God. It somehow seemed like it wouldn't have been quite so bad if Gellert weren't so brazenly enthralled with what he'd done, if it weren't for the way he seemed intoxicated by the memory of it- and what was worse was knowing that Gellert was thinking about it, was so terribly aroused by the memory of torturing and killing someone. Someone who looked like him. And Albus could feel it, how impossibly hard and ridiculously deep Gellert was as he drove himself into Albus. He found himself wishing that it hurt more. Maybe, if only it hurt a little more, he'd be able to find the will to bring this to a stop. Somehow, his foolish, brainless body just continued to writhe with a luxurious sort of desperation, despite the possibility that Gellert might be trying to say that he actually, truly wished he'd have killed Albus. It was possible.

Albus's thoughts broke a bit free from a static sense of time as he remembered all too well the way Gellert's cruel lips had sought his tears, how Gellert had been all too eager to join their bodies. Albus had wanted it to stop, and he'd pushed Gellert away. He knew he ought to do that now. He ought to want to. So why didn't he? Was his own sense of offense truly so feeble that it only properly riled when it was him Gellert was hurting?

"You- you enjoy my pain." It was perhaps more an observation than a question, and the real line of inquiry was more subjective: Albus couldn't tell if Gellert simply delighted in administering pain, or if hurting Albus specifically held some kind of unique appeal.

"Yes," Gellert said honestly, the word harsh and edged from his desire.  His nails dug into Albus's shoulder, more roughly than before. "Very much."  And though it was true that Gellert enjoyed causing pain to anyone at all, there was a very unique sort of pleasure that came from seeing Albus in agony.  Perhaps it was because Gellert knew that only he could cause Albus to feel pain that acutely.  Perhaps it was because he was so vibrantly aware of Albus's devotion to him--and it was all too easy to take that devotion, that love, and use it against him.  To break his heart. 

Gellert twisted his hand around Albus's shaft, the dream's lubrication making that velvet skin move even more easily beneath Gellert's touch.  Gellert traced his lips with the tip of his tongue before parting them with it, the interior of Albus's mouth reminding him quite starkly of the sensation that now surrounded Gellert's cock.  He still tasted like lemon sherbets.  You eat too much candy, Gellert had told him once, so many years ago as they sat by the lake, picking through a bag of Bertie Bott's.  It was only a week after they met.  You are going to make yourself sick.  And then of course, he had pushed a too-colourful bean between Albus's lips, a bean that had sent Albus choking and gagging into the dew-damp grass.  Gellert had laughed until he had stitches in his sides, rolling around in the dirt, pressing his hand to his face to muffle the sound.

Gellert missed that, every bit as much as he missed this.  He drew his mouth away from Albus's, their eyes meeting, his own gaze somehow softer as he spoke.  "But I enjoy everything about you," he whispered.

Nothing in the world was cut and dry, least of all, people. There were no mythic manifestations of the wholly good or purely wicked. Who was to say that Gellert didn't deserve to be loved as much as anyone else? Albus was becoming more and more certain that Gellert couldn't help enjoying the things he did, and it seemed unreasonable to hold someone accountable for the things they could not control. Everyone had their flaws. Were Gellert's really that much worse? They could not negate every good, sweet thing Gellert had ever done. People weren't books to balanced, they weren't to be judged by tallying up the cosmic columns. So maybe it wasn't so very bad that Albus's breath caught with the slick slide of Gellert's hand. Maybe it wasn't so awful that Albus's heart fluttered over Gellert's whispered words. It had to be something like trust, Albus believed, for Gellert to show himself so plainly. Or maybe it was simply that like this, there were no risks.

"You wish to hurt me?" There was the hint of offering in that soft question. Because wasn't that what it meant to love someone, to give them what they needed if you were able? And better Albus than someone else. Better Albus than some poor boy who had no idea what he was in for. Despite the warning ache of his shoulder, Albus doubted Gellert would go too far, would actually kill him, even in a dream.

The question--the fact that Albus was asking at all--sent a shiver down Gellert's spine, and his body physically shuddered against Albus's, another moan swelling up from deep within his chest.  It was fantastically tempting.  A dream offered the perfect opportunity for Gellert to play out any number of sordid desires without risk of consequence.  And yet...was it not enough?  Just to be with Albus again, however temporarily?  To reenact their encounters from so many years ago? 

Gellert's lips found Albus's brow, kissing the skin just below his hairline, an almost paternal gesture.  "Not right now," he said.  And then his lips brushed down over the bridge of Albus's too-long nose to capture his mouth.  "Do you remember," he murmured against Albus's skin, words uneven, catching with every thrust of his cock into Albus's body, "that time we went swimming at the pond in Godric's Hollow?"  He drove forward and the sensation elicited another sharp hiss from between Gellert's teeth.  The hand that was at Albus's shoulder slipped down his chest, memorising that smooth skin all over again, the ridges of his ribs, the jutting swell of his hipbones, to rest on the curve of his arse.  "I thought you had drowned.  Thought I might have to...to bring you wieder zum Leben."  As always--as always, with Albus, at last the English language failed him.

Relief flooded through Albus's pleasure-addled senses. It was truly daunting, how much he suspected he would permit Gellert to do to him. And it was a comfort, on so many levels, to know that Gellert didn't need there to be pain, not all the time. Oh, he knew the risks of such a conclusion. It might be a more dangerous thing for Gellert to only need it sometimes, once in a while, because Albus might feel all too content to indulge him. If it were pointless, if no amount of concession would satisfy Gellert, it would have been pointless to try. But no, Albus was now all too sure that Gellert could be managed, that little indulgences could hold a bay a greater hunger. There wasn't madness in Gellert, not truly, not if he could appreciate and yet resist what Albus had been prepared to offer him.

And it barely even hurt anymore, the deep thrusts of Gellert's hips. Well, there was pain, but not unpleasant pain. The memory Gellert conjured, however, set a reflexive sort of flush to blossom in Albus's cheeks. Gellert, young and breathing heavily over Albus's body. Gellert, wet and glistening, golden in the sunlight as he hovered above Albus, worry and concern knit across his features. It hadn't been Albus's fault - not really, not in the least - that he'd so wanted Gellert in that moment. Even if, at the time, Gellert had seemed so positively put off by Albus's all-too-exposed arousal. Albus still felt a sort of shame in that. Yes, he hadn't been able to help it (how could he, with Gellert just so... gloriously golden and beautiful above him?), but at the time Albus's desire had offended Gellert, had proven a wedge in their friendship. It was a concession that cropped up again and again- Albus would take Friend instead of nothing even if he really wanted to be so much more, and he'd take this over the void inspired by Gellert's absence from his life in Lockewood.

"Yes," Albus breathed out, his eyes falling bashfully and unable to help it. Part of him wanted to forget it, wanted to discount the awkwardness he'd felt and Gellert's derision. Some part of him couldn't help but wonder if he didn't so love Gellert because, of all people, Gellert was the one who inspired an organic emotional reaction in him.

Gellert smiled, eyes slightly unfocused as the memory unfolded itself before his mind's eye.  The effort it had taken for Gellert to keep himself under control when he realised how much Albus truly did want him had been...extraordinary.  A truly magnificent feat of self-control.  And he had staged irritation and impatience with Albus's apparent inability to settle for simple companionship.  He'd had to--if he had continued his charade of feigning disinterest while still finding a way to touch Albus as suggestively as possible, as often as possible, his true game would eventually have become apparent.  No, it was always better to be unpredictable.

"Let me tell you a secret," Gellert gasped.  His skin was slick again, but this time from perspiration, not lake water.  From want and need and desperation for release.  He kept his hand quick and steady around Albus's shaft as he propped himself up on his other arm, giving himself more room and ability to thrust harder, deeper, faster.  "That afternoon...after I left you...I went back to my bedroom, and I closed the door, and I thought about you.  About how hard I had made you."  He bit at Albus's jawline, at his neck, at his clavicle.  "I pretended that you had grabbed me, had flipped me over and taken me.  And I..." he moaned again, "I brought myself to completion, thinking of you."

You should have taken me weeks ago. Was that what Gellert had meant, was that what Gellert had been thinking of when Albus's restraint had finally faltered? At the time, that day at the pond, Albus had been so wholly embarrassed that he hadn't been able to contemplate any other motives behind Gellert's offense, hadn't been able to consider that it was, perhaps, Gellert's own reaction and not Albus's that had so alarmed the other.

The idea of Gellert touching himself, let alone the notion of Gellert touching himself to thoughts of Albus, never failed to slam Albus against the very limits of want. A rich, throaty sound trembled out of him before it devolved into something desperate. His hips ground out, meeting every push of Gellert's hips and each undulation of his hand, his own hands tangling in Gellert's hair even as he bared more of his throat to Gellert's mouth. "I should have," he managed at last. "I wanted you... so badly." And, gods, but the idea of Gellert- "I miss you," Albus all but whined, his thoughts fraying to pieces.

The sound of Albus's voice--of that noise that just seemed to shudder from his throat--was almost enough to send Gellert over the edge.  The hand that caressed Albus's face was shaking slightly, but the one that moved around his cock was even and sure.  "I know," he muttered, drawing back from Albus's neck so that he could look him in the eye.  Could see that sublimely perfect expression on his face.  "I miss you, too."  And it was true.  Dear god, it was true.  Gellert had tried everything in an attempt to replace Albus's presence in his life.  None of it had been the least bit effective.

Gellert considered reverting to cruelty--to a catalog of his most heinous deeds, drawn out and in detail.  But from the way Albus's cock pulsed in his hand, he knew that the boy was close to coming.  So he kept his thoughts on a salacious track, whispered words hot and velvet and thick with his accent as he spoke.  "I will find you," he said, holding Albus's gaze, making his every word a promise.  "I will find you, out there, wherever you are.  And I will fuck you.  And I will bring you back to Germany with me."  He kissed him, the gesture surprisingly gentle in contrast to the strength of his voice.  "No more dreaming of you.  No more...touching myself to thoughts of you.  No more screaming your name every time I come." 

Gellert's body felt hot, overwhelmingly so.  And beneath him, Albus was so warm and soft and real.  The tightening of his muscles around Gellert's cock--it had to be real.  It had to be.  "Albus...."  His name came out in a hiss, Gellert's eyes falling closed as his hips convulsed forward and he came, spilling himself deep within Albus, biting back another groan.

Sweltering, needy sounds left Albus with every pump of Gellert's hips, every swipe of his tongue and each perfect twist of his hand. Albus felt as if he was trying to claw his way out of his skin with each new word Gellert said. He pined for it- ached for it. Surely it wasn't so much to ask, that Gellert come after him? That Gellert abduct him by force? Surely Gellert could find a way, to tie his hands, to shackle his morality, to make him stop thinking and just feel.

It all kept tumbling together in his mind- how much Gellert wanted him- still wanted him. And if this Gellert could still want him so much, couldn't the Gellert in Lockewood? "Find me," Albus begged, barely able to stretch the words across his taut breath. He meant both of them. He wanted his Gellert back. He wanted this Gellert. Gods above, he just wanted, needed, so much. It was a crystalline sort of clarity. Albus's every thought condensed down to a singular, unified want. A life with Gellert, however he could manage it. A life of this, of nights in Gellert's bed. Of Gellert holding his chains as much as Albus held his.

And then Albus was coming, pumping hot and thick over Gellert's hand. But he could feel it slipping away. He clung to Gellert, but his senses felt hazy. The consonants of Gellert's name weren't even faded from his lips before he was demanding, "Come back to me-"

Violently, it seemed, Albus's eyes fell open. Pre-dawn gray had seeped into his bedroom. Engel dozed with soft puppy-snores near his feet. And Albus was left with the phantom weight and lingering taste of Gellert atop him. Something lurched in his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut, as if some part of him could will the dream to resume. His hand stretched out, knowing it would find nothing but unable to do otherwise, seeking a body next to his own. But Gellert was nowhere to be found. The sheets were cool and vacant beside him. Atop him, the  sheets were heavy and saturated. Pressing his face into his palm, Albus's other hand Vanished the mess. How easy it was, to dispatch the physical evidence. It was a joke, a sadistic irony, to the way his shoulder still throbbed, the way his lower lip still ached. Albus turned onto his side, showing his back to the empty bed beside him, and tried very hard to keep his breath from hitching with a desolate sort of sorrow.