Albus was closer- far closer. He was entirely overrun. As if it had simply been waiting for this, his body seemed to have usurped complete control. Even if he couldn't say it, how much he had missed this was all too clear. It was evident in the rough drive of his hips, in the demanding pull of his hand along Gellert's length and the automatic twist of his wrist with every stroke.
And Gellert was just so stunningly hard. Awareness of that, of every rigid inch of him, saturated Albus's consciousness. Everything about Gellert remained so breathtakingly vibrant, almost painfully exquisite. Albus was certain he'd felt this way before, years ago, in the middle of the night, after a sting at his arm, after Gellert had set aside that little leather bag. It defied the limits Albus knew, to feel so much, to be so weightless and yet so bound by the tightness in his chest and the greedy snap of his hips. His head swam with the way the world around them seemed to tilt.
Albus's mouth grew slack against Gellert's, their lips just barely brushing as he began to trip over his own breath. And he didn't quite care that he felt as though it was going to end all too soon, that tension flushed abruptly up his spine, that his vision went a bit dark around the edges before it exploded into white-hot oblivion. He couldn't even manage the first syllable of Gellert's name as he came, clinging to him as an overwhelming oblivion dominated Albus's mind.