Gellert tore his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it down behind himself somewhere to pile on the floor. He'd pick it up later. Later, when there were not so many other, more pressing matters to attend to, such as the way his trousers were feeling more and more constrictive.
Everything, all of the emotions he'd felt since that damn luggage had opened itself, the intensification of the storm -- all of it seemed to be coming rapidly to a head. Gellert could not have stopped himself now if he had tried. It was impulsivity and it was calculation. It was desire and it was planned.
It was what he needed, to get Albus precisely where he wanted him.
And Gellert was too smart to feel remorse.
He pulled Albus's shirt off in turn and let it fall where it would, hands flattening against Albus's back, smoothing down to curve over his arse, then back up again. Albus's body was cool and tight and magnificent, fitting into Gellert's hands as if he had sculpted it himself.
Gellert met Albus's gaze when he drew back, his pulse not skipping a beat when Albus spoke. But he knew the question for what it was, of course -- and his voice was harsh, a bit too aggressive when he responded. "Sixteen."
Gellert's lips met Albus's throat, and then his collarbone, his hands pressing themselves between their bodies to undo the button on Albus's trousers that Albus had done up only minutes before.