Albus thought better of putting the box in the trunk from which Gellert said the letters had come. Precisely how long he would have them in his possession was unclear, and that lack of certainty courted a certain sort of possessiveness. More than he had in years, he wanted to read them. All of them. At least once, before they vanished, just one more time. Surely there was no risk in reading letters he already knew by heart. Alone, of course. Privately.
A slight push from his fingertips had the top of the trunk falling shut, providing a suitable surface atop which to place the wooden box containing the concealed pages of his past. He’d find a way and a place to hide them from any other prying eyes later.
“You would be hard pressed to find an optimist who is not,” he said, a hint of a wry smile tugging up a corner of his mouth. “People are capable of such wondrous things. That they so rarely manage to actualise that potential... it’s why all societies have leaders: the proper guidance is absolutely vital.” And why having the wrong people, the wrong groups in power was so dangerous. Sweeping his hair over his shoulder, he began to skim through the length of it. “It’s worth the while, I suppose, though it’s unlikely it will provide you with some new revelation.”
The word, however, carried a certain nagging weight. Weight, and an uncomfortable resonance. A recollection of Gellert, livid and cold and decades older, with a too-dangerous wand in his grasp.
“I don’t think you’ve read Beccaria yet,” he heard himself say. “On Crimes and Punishment, always the best place to start. The original Italian is better than its translations.” He had a hard time remembering, specifically, Gellert speaking Italian, but Albus knew that Gellert did. He knew that Gellert spoke more than sickly-sweet taunting German. Relegating the vision of that duel to the realm of subconscious manifestation was proving to be more difficult than he’d hoped. Eager to say something else, to shift his own attention, he added, “There’s a disappointing Russian book of a similar title that’s hardly worth the time.”
“Dostoyevsky,” Gellert supplied, reaching back to grab one of Albus’s pillows for his own and settling it in his lap--partially to hide the bulge in his trousers that refused to dissipate even after so many minutes without stimulation, and partially to have something he could clutch to prevent himself from lunging forward and grabbing for Albus yet again. “I’ve read that one. Interesting in parts, hopelessly tedious in others. As for Beccaria...well, I’ve never read his work personally, as you said, but I’ve read things that sourced him.”
An interesting suggestion, on Albus’s part. And even though Albus had not raised the issue, Gellert could not help but feel he must confront it, silently though it had been implied. “I do read works that do not necessarily agree with my personal viewpoint, you know,” he said. The bed cleared of letters, he was able to stretch his legs out, crossing them neatly at the ankles. “I find it best to be aware of all possible positions.” And now there was something teasing, something light in his smile. “That is the only way to prove your own to be unquestionably correct.”
How many conversations had there been like this? he wondered. The tone of some of those letters...their beginnings rushed and hurried, as if Gellert could hardly wait to get the words from his quill and to Albus’s eyes. As if he thought every moment they spent apart was a moment wasted, and so even if they could not physically be in each others’ presence, they must be through epistolary means.