It was a beginning, at least. Gellert knew that there was more to the story--there were too many loose ends trailing off into the darker corners of Albus's consciousness that he did not seem willing to or capable of giving voice just yet. No matter; Gellert would drag it out of him eventually, thread by fragile thread.
Gellert reached forward, pressed one hand against the edge of the desk, his wrist perilously close to Albus's thigh. He had lost track of the exact reason why he was behaving this way--whether it was because he knew proximity would make Albus uncomfortable or because of that throbbing want in the pit of his stomach. Probably some combination of the two. And he hated Albus for dragging him down into this mess of his--for making Gellert want him despite the fact that he knew he would very likely be trying himself to an anchor if he were to have him.
"You've said as much," Gellert said, his tone suddenly gone cold, leeched of whatever imitation of warmth or sympathy he might have adopted had he not just been struck with the very vivid mental image of Albus chained nude to a bed, long auburn hair tangled with the shackles. Gellert wet his lips, and tried to focus solely on Albus's eyes. "And I know we have already discussed that I cannot apologise for what I have yet to do. I am ever so sorry that my actions--or your interpretations thereof--offended you, but there is nothing I can do about it now." Gellert's voice practically dripped with condescension. "So if you would, please, desist with the attempts at manipulating my conscience, I would be very much obliged."