The things Gellert was getting up to, in his own time, they certainly defied the baseline ‘moral truths’ upon which society built its customs, but part of Albus had been perfectly serious: the things a ruler did could not be judged by such measures. Gellert was not without his unnecessary excesses, but Albus believed he could see what Gellert was moving toward. It was easy enough; what was Gellert’s plan had once been their plan. Gellert was simply moving forward. And Albus hadn’t lifted a finger to move against him. The goal was still... worthwhile. In the broader arena of the Continental stage, it was possible that Gellert’s potential for cruelty would find itself evenly, acceptably distributed. On his own, Gellert might he able to achieve what Albus could no longer help Gellert achieve. And he could hardly justify some sort of confrontation, some measure of interference, when Gellert might still be moving toward good work. Resigned to isolation in Britain, Albus simply watched, however carefully.
“I don’t make it a habit to dwell on daydreams,” his voice and countenance shifting back to that formal distance, his more casual demeanour evaporating. In and of itself, such a gesture was more honest than he’d have liked it to be. He ought to have constructed a response, some lie, some helpful cover to obscure the fact that he didn’t wish to discuss it. That, of itself, was a certain sort of admission. His inclination toward obscurity, however, had a unhelpful penchant for shorting itself in Gellert’s company.
Gellert, he knew, was unlikely to drop the issue so simply. Once settled on a curiosity... relentless, seemed a good word for Gellert’s devotion. Collecting the letter box, because he hardly trusted his ability to withstand targeted inquiry from Gellert, Albus made to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a few errands that need attending.”
Interesting, Albus’s response. Gellert found it betrayed more than it concealed. Which Albus probably realised, knowing Gellert as well as he did. Then Albus would also realise that this conversation was far from over. That he could not hope to distract Gellert with quick farewells or elusive evasions.
Gellert almost asked why Albus was taking the letters with him, to run errands that would probably be easier to deal with if one had two free hands, but he already knew what he would hear. And he already knew the answer to that question. Even if Albus knew that Gellert had already read them all, that Gellert’s eidetic memory had filed every last word away in his mind, there was still that irrational instinct to preserve and protect things that lay close to one’s heart. He wanted to keep Gellert at a distance in any way possible, and if keeping Gellert away from letters he’d already memorised helped him feel that he was accomplishing that goal in some metaphorical manner--well, any extent of irrationality could be forgiven when one’s emotions were on the line.
So Gellert just nodded and reached for one of the books on Albus’s bedside table, settling himself against the headboard once more and flipping to the chapter with the most interesting title. Albus could distance him from the letters, but tonight, when he lay down to sleep, his pillows would smell of Gellert’s hair, and the memories would be impossible to forget.