It was as if Albus only had the resources to manage on set of impulses at a time, and he was trapped, ambivalent between those of his body and those of his mind.
Sixteen. That hardly seemed right. Gellert had been sixteen when they'd met. Somewhere in his mind, that seemed to resonate, serving as a sort of recognition of the fact that he knew Gellert was soon due to meet him, in their original timeline. But Gellert was still in school- hadn't he been fifteen when he'd been expelled? (And perhaps that should have snagged something, the things he'd later learned about the true circumstances of Gellert's expulsion, but at the moment such trappings were relegated to the cold, flat realm of superfluous facts.)
Besides, it should hardly matter, how young Gellert was. His youth wasn't so much the problem. The real issue was Albus's age. He was twenty-two. Days from turning twenty-three. It was seven years. It was an entire student. And, Merlin, Gellert was young enough to be a student. Even as his mind balked, something in the pit of his stomach thrilled at the unbidden image of Gellert in the less militaristic lines of a Hogwarts uniform.
While he was busy trying to evict that image, his arms had helped his shirt find the floor. Liberated, and desperate to keep Gellert's mouth against his skin, one hand grabbed a thick fist of Gellert's hair. Dipping his fingers into the waist of Gellert's trousers, he slipped his hand below the small of his back. Two long fingers teased between his cheeks. A voice he didn't much care for hissed in the back of mind, morbidly pining to know how many other boys there had been before him, but the more pressing curiosity won out. "How long have you been sixteen?"