Albus ached for magic, for the quick convenience of exchanging his present attire for the garments in his hands. His skin could almost feel the paths Gellerts eyes would take across his skin. A small curiosity blossomed in the back of his mind, over how different Gellert might look at him now-- this Gellert, who had never seen so very much of his bare flesh. The mere idea was close to terrifying. Close, but not quite. He was certain that it would have been a bit easier if only he more clearly determine what it was he actually wanted. Or rather, what he wanted the most.
"Perhaps I don't enjoy a sense of exposure," he mentioned, setting the set of clothes Gellert had delivered on the mostly vacant table just behind him.
More than he wanted to leave, he didn't want to look weak. He didn't want to be cowed. It was silly, perhaps, for his mind to withdraw from a posture simply because it might seem vaguely feminine. With anyone else, he didn't care how he appeared, but Gellert held a unique sway on his perception of himself. And his hands found his shirt, and he began pulling it off. He was more typically better capable of impeding his own aversion to such knee-jerk responses, but too much of his attention was devoted to not closing the distance between them and pushing Gellert onto the nearest available flat surface for anything else to gain much traction.
It was, however, something of a relief, to pull on more reasonable clothing-- clothing that made him feel dressed instead of covered. He only bothered with a few buttons before turning his attention to removing his shoes. Changing his trousers was going to prove a bit more difficult; as if being around Gellert weren't challenge enough, the comfortable wall he'd built between himself and his willingness to even acknowledge that physical desire ever struck his being had been all but obliterated. So he turned to face the table, his back to Gellert, as he slipped from his old trousers and donned the new ones.