It rattled Albus's self-control, that escalating moan that tumbled past Gellert's lips. He remembered, of course, what Gellert sounded like. How he felt, how his body tensed, how English could slip further and further away from his tongue.
A rough sound tore out of him, and he couldn't quite keep himself from employing the backs of his nails as he moved his hand over the taper of Gellert's waist. Albus couldn't remember the last time Gellert had said 'please,' apart from social niceties-- no, he did. Or rather, he almost did. It pressed at the barriers of his mind, the last time Gellert had truly wanted something. Albus's mind, however, made simple work of convincing himself that this wasn't that Gellert yet. And he was clever enough to not bother asking himself if, at this point, it would make a difference on way or the other.
He was lost to the nearly harsh drive of his body against Gellert's, into Gellert's. Somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten how to think; or at least, how to think of anything but how the reality of Gellert's body so outshone even his most vibrant memory. Proving some sort of point was abandoned, overwhelmed by the physical domains of heat and friction and the staggering gratification of Gellert's skin beneath his hands.