Sleeping on the exceptionally uncomfortable couch held sudden new appeal. Able to look back, to view the entirety of their friendship, Albus couldn't help seeing exploitation and manipulation-- of his own feelings, of his reservations, and his inexperience. There were things Gellert had done, things he had said, that still made no sense to him. If Gellert had every truly felt anything for him, he couldn't say with certainty, not yet. What he was sure of was Gellert's desire, but its inception remained a mystery. Precisely how self-aware Gellert was remained unclear.
And he seemed so young. Too young. But even as the thought took form in his head, he couldn't help the way the rest of his mind rebelled against ascribing Gellert too much youth, too much innocence. Innocent-- at the moment, Gellert looked nothing of the sort. How could he, when his gaze on Albus's skin practically carried a tangible sensation. Had Gellert always looked at him in such a fashion? Had he simply not known it for what it was?
"Good," Albus said, the word less pliant than it out to be, his eyes too stalwartly trained on Gellert's. "You're too young. To be out there, without a working wand with which to look after yourself."
He held out hope, that it was not so terribly transparent that he suspected it would be easier to endure from Gellert a foul mood or his temper over implications of lack of self-sufficiency than the way Gellert looked at him and the quality Gellert's voice had adopted. Surely courting offense to Gellert's pride was a preferable alternative. In truth, he had little hope of success, but slim hopes weren't to be neglected. Albus simply didn't trust himself with Gellert. Especially not a Gellert who had never wronged him.