Albus's eyes resisted the impulse to narrow. It had captivated him, at first, his inability to too accurately predict Gellert's words or actions, though much of that particular appeal had waned. Now, it simply felt dangerous to have so little idea of what might possibly come next. Or perhaps it was simply the way the space between them seemed to be vanishing. He'd done far better with a more formal sort of distance. Not for the first time, he couldn't help counting it fortunate that Gellert had returned so much younger, so unaware of the sway he could have.
"Twenty-three, soon," Albus corrected, his voice not entirely hitting the casual note he'd desired. He had been uncomfortable enough when Gellert had been sixteen to his eighteen, and now it was even worse. Six years was far too great a distance, surely, for the way he still felt when he looked at Gellert. It was buried, of course, amid all the rest, but the fog of hurt and anger and resent that had so dominated his mind the last time they'd shared company had abated somewhat. Now, now it was more noticeable, how much he still noticed of Gellert-- how Gellert's rolled up sleeves and partly unbuttoned shirt showed too much skin, how the rich blue of his shirt was eclipsed entirely by the blue of his eyes, how the curves to his lips were exactly the same--
Albus blinked, and pulled his eyes from where they lingered too long on Gellert's features. He endeavoured to avoid casting too much suspicion on Gellert, on the way he looked at him, at the way he moved closer. Knowing what was grounded and reasonable with Gellert had never been quite so difficult as this. In the past, what he'd believed had been so off the mark. Knowing that, however, told him nothing about the proximity of that fabled mark and their current location.
Standing up just a bit straighter, Albus attempted to stress, "It was a long time ago, when you and I were friends."