Gellert watched Albus, the shift of expressions on his face from dazed to pained to guilty, with the clinical detachment of a curious observer. There was something almost endearing about it all. Post-coital, Albus wore his emotions too-clearly on his sleeve for Gellert to pick through and analyse. If there had ever been any real doubt that Albus considered himself to be in love, this eradicated it.
His own heart still beating a rapid tattoo against the back of his sternum, Gellert bent down to pull up his trousers, doing up his belt buckle in two fluid motions. He stepped away from Albus, turning to find his shirt crumpled on the floor a metre or so away.
"Gellert, what?" he prompted as he pulled the rest of his clothes back on, doing up most of the buttons on his shirt and then running the fingers of one hand through his hair as if to order it -- though he only succeeded in tousling it further. It would have been obvious to most anyone that he had just finished having sex.
Of course, he could predict what Albus wanted to say. He just didn't care. It was irrelevant, and any complaints Albus had would go unheeded. And Albus, in the end, would not even care. He could (clearly, Gellert thought) forgive Gellert anything.