Gellert Grindelwald (indivisible) wrote in unloading_zone, @ 2010-08-14 16:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | albus dumbledore, gellert grindelwald |
Who: Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald
When: Friday late afternoon
Where: Gellert’s shop
What: A fitting Not a fitting
Rating: High (warning for large age gap - 7 years)
Status: Incomplete
When Albus felt as though he was just barely retraining his every impulse, he didn’t bother fretting over the cause. On an island capable of dredging up his intimate secrets and dampen his magic itself, he was starting to suspect little here could surprise him. His lack of surprise, however, hardly made it any easier to cope with feeling as though his every action was hanging by a thread.
He considered dropping Gellert a note to reschedule. Knowing Gellert, however, it was unlikely that he would permit such a thing without some sort of explanation, and Albus found himself hesitant to rely on his own ability to lie. Under such an unnerving sensation, it might have been far, far wiser to keep as far from Gellert as he could until he was feeling more himself again. There was a solution, there had to be, if only he could see it.
Albus’s attention, however, was tragically impaired. The slightest of things set him off, and every inch of his skin seemed conspiring against him to render him incapable of focusing on anything but sensations that were laughably mundane. He was drowning in his own sense of touch ever since he’d opened that ridiculous second piece of luggage. In comparison, he was beginning to consider the resent preferable.
At least then, he’d still been capable of thought. Not to mention, controlling every fleeting impulse. It was, however, beginning to get quite ridiculous, the way his idle hands wished to amuse themselves while home by himself. So there he was, letting himself into Gellert’s shop.
This had to be a monstrously poor plan. Of course it was, seeing as to how there was no actual plan. Playing it by ear was not something Albus particularly enjoyed.
“Gellert?” he called, not seeing him immediately, and barely finding the available real estate in his mind to worry over the familiar ease with which Gellert’s name rolled off his tongue.
Somehow -- Gellert was not sure how this was possible, he had never heard of something like this being hypothesised even in theory -- the storm had made all of it worse. His baggage, the feelings it had forced upon him, the wants and desires, all enhanced and overemphasised beyond his ability to control. It was impossible to concentrate on sewing when all of his impulses urged him to do something else entirely.
It was as if any self-control he had possessed had been eaten away in that single night. He was held together primarily by the fact that he was in his shop and therefore rather removed from the general population. Unfortunately, any motivation he might have had to stay in the shop was quickly dissipating.
According to Gellert’s schedule, Albus had an appointment soon for a final fitting. Gellert was becoming increasingly inclined to skip the fitting and catch Albus before he left the house. It had been almost two weeks since Gellert had found those letters -- since he had almost convinced Albus to give in to his suppressed need. It would not be so terribly hard, to push him until he broke. Gellert could go home, kiss him before he could speak in protest, drag him down onto the bed and make sure Albus’s hands found bare skin.
The images that seared themselves across his mind’s eye were impossibly vivid. Gellert’s resolve snapped. Gathering up the shirt he had been hemming, Gellert opened up the wardrobe at the back of his room and started putting his materials away. He had only just finished folding the shirt when he heard the door open, and Albus’s voice wrapped around the syllables of his name.
Something clenched tight and hot in the pit of Gellert’s stomach and he very nearly slammed the wardrobe doors shut, stepping out into view. “You’re early,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he scarcely minded at all.
Albus knew he ought to leave. He ought to... run. But he wanted to stay. And his foolish feet stayed right where they were. Surely, there was a way to manage this, to ignore the sudden wash of things coursing through him that Albus couldn’t bear to name. How had he managed to distance himself, to extract so thoroughly from his thoughts and memories, from the way it felt to be around Gellert?
Albus couldn’t even condemn the want that itched in his fingertips. It was so easy to tell himself that this Gellert was different from the one he knew. Even if it rang faintly false, he couldn’t hear it over the uptick of his pulse. Unconscious of the way his thumbs were strumming against his fingertips, because he had to be touching something, he couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted along Gellert’s lean figure.
“Are you busy?” he asked, barely aware of what was coming out of his mouth. How could he possibly focus on something like speech when it took no effort of his imagination whatsoever to see in his mind’s eye every feature of Gellert’s naked body. “I could... leave. And come back. Later.”
Gellert’s pulse skipped along in his veins, too-easily recognising that sound in Albus’s voice, and far too eager to mirror the progress of Albus’s gaze as it glanced down his body. Perhaps, it occurred to him in one blinding, reeling moment -- perhaps what the storm had brought was lust. Or, more lust, in Gellert’s case, as it had been far too easy for Gellert to identify the emotion accompanying his opened luggage.
“Not at all,” Gellert heard himself saying. Merlin, he was glad Albus had come to have his clothes tailored that very first time. They looked magnificent on him, cut perfectly so as to draw attention to the long lines of his limbs and the subtle curve of his arse and thighs, the flat plane of his chest and abdomen. And the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, his collar, the waist of his trousers, all begging to be undone.
Gellert somehow made it back to his table, where he had stacked the finished sets of Albus’s clothing. Well, finished except for their final fitting. The idea of kneeling next to Albus, of touching him even if only for the task of taking in a trouser leg...the temptation would be far too much to bear. But then again, Gellert had never intended to finish this day without seeing Albus in his bed, one way or the other.
So Gellert gathered the first set of shirt-and-trousers in his arms and stepped toward Albus. “If you could just...change into these...?” He realised belatedly that the sentence was incomplete, but found he barely cared at all.
Albus very nearly interjected into the lapse of Gellert’s words-- with what, he was entirely unsure, but he couldn’t the way he needed Gellert to continue, the same way he needed to draw his next breath. But when Gellert finished his request, an alarming sort of disappointment bloomed within him. It was rightly worrying, how pliant he felt, how ready he seemed to meet whatever innocent request Gellert might put before him. He found he couldn't even begin to stem the new train of thought that begged him to entertain the idea of Gellert as innocent. As blameless and untouched and so touchable.
It was harder than it ought to have been to move his attention from the exquisite spread of Gellert's pale, slender fingers along fabric that could have conservatively been described as luxurious. The impulse to touch skin he knew was too warm and too soft for anyone's good contended with the lure of that fabric. By some measure of grace, Albus managed to take hold of the clothes from Gellert without unnecessary contact. Or any contact at all. But then he found himself confronted with a new challenge altogether.
Glancing around, he found no safe refuge to remove the clothes he had on, the garments that felt so abruptly constrictive and confining. And he tried not to think about undressing. Or about Gellert watching him undress. Or about watching Gellert undressed.
“Have you somewhere I might change?” he asked, to his great surprise not sounding quite so utterly distracted as he felt.
“The privacy screen is broken,” Gellert said almost absently, the lie falling from his tongue even more easily than the truth. He took a few steps back, slid onto his favourite stool, the one that spun. He kept it still now, though, feet locked around the metal bar that looped around its legs in a circle, not once letting his gaze slip from where it had focused on Albus.
One of Gellert’s hands gripped the seat of the stool, hard enough that his knuckles blanched, as the other drifted up to toy with the end of the measuring tape wrapped around his neck. It had become increasingly difficult to live with Albus over the preceding weeks, and after finding the letters on the first of the month, Gellert’s attraction to Albus had shot up exponentially. Albus had made himself a bit of an enigma in Gellert’s mind, and Gellert had never turned down a challenge. It did not hurt, of course, that Albus was precisely Gellert’s type -- long, slender, a bit effeminate with strikingly-coloured hair. Gellert had wondered more than once if all of Albus’s hair was the same deep auburn as that which grew upon his head.
“But we are all men here, are we not?” Gellert said, discovering that his attention had been trapped by the sight of Albus’s fingers, his imagination tumbling off into fantasies of what those fingers would look like curled around Gellert’s cock, or digging their nails into Gellert’s skin. Gellert’s lips twitched the slightest bit as he lifted his gaze back to Albus’s face, the joke obvious. “There is no need to be modest for some fragile woman’s sake.”