What Gellert made of his own feelings, or of their evidence, Albus was hesitant to decide. He’d believed that Gellert had never before felt for anyone the things he’d felt -- or led Albus to believe he’d felt -- with him. But he’d also believed that Gellert’s inexperience had paralleled his own. No, not believed, Gellert had told him so, had lied to him, and for no reason Albus wished to entertain. Gellert’s comfort with nearly all things sexual had been simple to write off, as Gellert had never hidden his past liaisons with women, a realm of experience where Gellert’s history infinitely trumped his own. Now, of course, Albus felt he had to consider whether or not that had been true, or just a construction to conceal the extent of Gellert’s dealings with other boys.
He wanted to ask. He wanted to demand and interrogate and pull Gellert’s mind to pieces until the foundation of his own understanding was solid once more beneath his feet. Neatly settling the stack of parchment into the small wooden box at the foot of the bed was a meager substitute.
“I did,” he said, pulling out the considerably smaller assortment of neatly folded letters, penned in messier, and more feminine writing. “The point was well-made, how far the human animal will go, and what it will sacrifice, in the pursuit of even a vague, half-formed notion of its own greatest desire. The notion of cost, instead of worth, imparting value... more interesting,” he yielded after a moment. When he’d first let the idea settle into his mind, it had integrated so seamlessly with the mechanics of populace control. Keeping part of his mind distracted from the implications of what he was saying, he stacked Ariana’s letters atop Gellert’s, and closed the lid of the box. “It seems to be an inexorable facet of human appraisal, that something worthwhile must be fought for-- bled for, even. Upon such a premise, with the proper rhetoric, even someone perfectly rational could be driven to nearly mindless devotion... to a cause. Or its figureheads.”
Gellert watched Albus closely, unblinking until he reminded himself that to stare so intensely was unnatural and he forced himself to glance down. So he had been right in his assumption, then. There had been the possibility that Albus had merely wanted to go with him to Europe because of his love for him. That politics played no real role in Albus’s desire to seek power with him, that passion was not behind his interest in the Hallows. Or that there had been passion...simply not Hallows-lust. A different, baser craving.
Gellert was not sure why he found it oddly relieving, that Albus clearly shared more with him than an intelligence and a great amount of magical ability. But his response proved as much. Albus cared for the principle of the matter, for the ideals, as much as he did for Gellert. Something about what Gellert had told him that summer had resonated with him, or perhaps Albus had been harbouring the same thoughts long before they ever met. Gellert had not read the Goethe analysis yet himself, but it had long been on his personal list of things to look at, and he knew what it was generally about. It had seemed the perfect testing standard.
Besides, it brought the conversation away from the personal, and into something more objective and rational. This was about more than Albus’s feelings for him now. They had a foundation on which Albus could attempt to build some sort of relationship--and that quiet baggage-voice whispered, Gellert could get what he wanted, as well. More than just a peer.
“Perhaps I should try to find it in the library, so that we have something to discuss,” Gellert said, uncurling his arms from around his legs and leaning back against Albus’s pillow, adopting a casual and almost lazy posture. “But you’re absolutely right, of course. People will always be predictable. Even in their unpredictability, they are predictable.” His gaze lifted up again to trail after Albus’s, a small smile teasing at his lips. “Have you always been such a fan of the Hobbesian dialectic?”