Back in the hotel room, Gellert locked the bathroom door behind him. While searching in the Roman catacombs they had been ambushed.
“Whatever happens, we don’t attack. It’s the only way to keep everyone safe,” Gellert had told the three of them on the train.
His eyes had whitened for an instant, the fleeting shade of a vision warning him of what was about to come. Albus would have liked to ask for more information but Rosier had just nodded in agreement and Queenie Goldstein had followed her example. Wasn’t brevity the soul of wit? Albus could only grasp his intention of not giving away more than necessary after it had all happened.
The British Ministry didn't want to involve more people than the ones that were already knee-deep in the affair, so the faces had been familiar. Theseus, Tina, Newt. And Elphias. And the Italian secret agents that had come with. It had become an international issue before it had even been made public, Albus was sure of it. There must be a reason why it hadn’t been shouted from rooftops, he suspected it was because he was a well-loved personality, and it would be too strange to turn the world against him overnight after everything he’d done for the country, for the world, for magic history and theory.
A letter from Dippet had come a few days earlier, when they were still in Nurmengard, asking him to resume his usual teaching schedule. In between the formality, the sticky note at the end had been almost comical, just one word: don’t. A warning. Gellert, reading with his head next to his, with his around him, standing behind the chair he was sitting on, had snorted at the sight.
Albus had answered with an equally official research leave form. Thank you for the opportunity, these years have been a gift. For now, the future is uncertain, he had added inside the letter envelope, writing it on the flap. Because it was true, because they had taught him more than he had taught, because he had been trusted with shaping the future of a nation and he had done his best: he had taught all those brilliant, innocent, young minds to think for themselves, to fight for their rights, to never keep quiet. When Gellert had asked him about how he felt he had been subtle. Talk to me, he had said, and Albus had answered that it was a relief that he hadn’t had to write to Dippet but to answer to him, that he felt sorry for Minnie, who would have to replace him in DADA and Transfiguration while they found a substitute. And nothing more.
Gellert had held his hand, leaning against him, almost on top of him on the chair now, listening to his words while he played with the rings on his fingers. He seemed to have bitten his tongue not to ask him for more when he stopped speaking. Albus was glad he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have known how to put it into words without worrying him. Saying goodbye to an entire life, working for more than thirty years just to see it all burn down, just for him to be the one that lit the match.
Self-destruction. Public suicide. All for a vision, a vision he hadn’t even had, a vision that Gellert had trusted him with. No, there was no way he could share that with him without sending Gellert into a spiral of doubts. It was a strange kind of grief, grieving one’s past of greatness. He’d never be able to publish an article anymore, to have a life closer to normal. He was waiting for the journals to start tearing him to pieces, to tear them both.
In the catacombs, spells had come easily to everyone’s lips. Despite the warning. Despite all. Spells had come to everyone’s mouths but Gellert’s, and he had been the one to get hurt in consequence.
Albus remembered clearly the moment the ceiling had fallen on all of them: one moment the dead were watching them from the walls and the next they were skin to skin with dirty hollow skulls, broken femurs and sharp rib cages. Whatever happens, we don’t attack, Gellert had said. But if Albus hadn’t done anything, Elphias would have been crushed. He had spoken the spell as an afterthought, as an instinct, just because protecting him was programmed in his brain since they met on a train ride on the first day of school at eleven years old. He would have been crushed or so he had thought at the moment. So he had joined the spell amalgam that ricocheted and he had only realised what he had done a moment too late.
And it had been a catastrophe. He had lit a match and dropped it into a gasoline path.
He had seen the look Gellert had exchanged with Vinda Rosier and the way he had shaken his head slowly, almost trembling. I'm not in control anymore, it meant, I don’t know how this ends now.
“We need to get out,” Queenie had screamed, the sound of the spells against the stone, deafening.
The other side was willing to bury them all alive together, to fall if it meant they fell with them.
“Apparate the moment you can.” Gellert’s voice had been mechanical, he was used to setbacks during missions and he was used to appearing calm as a façade, but he was surrounded by people who knew him.
The sparks of the spells that missed them drizzled on their clothes, burning.
“Gellert.”
“Vinda. Obey.”
She had thrown Albus the dirtiest look and had protected Queenie until she was able to disapparate. Rosier had managed to stay until almost the end, they had been outnumbered by far, had almost not come out alive.
“Be safe,” she said, and the crack resonated in their very bones.
Albus saw a familiar shade of red ricochetting on the walls, hitting the place she had been standing on moments before, and a second spell thrown at them. Gellert dragged them to the ground.
Only at that moment Albus saw Gellert’s hand covered in blood. “Now you,” he was saying but Albus was already shaking his head, Elphias’ spell had hit him, his reddish spell, the colour of rust had ricocheted off the walls and reached him.
It wasn’t the time to fight with Gellert. He pulled him closer, held him tight, and apparated them out of there. They had failed. It would be a long time until someone would be able to creep down the catacombs to search for the invisibility cloak. Gellert had wanted to speak with the last Master of Death, only they would be able to inform him about the consequences of changing Destiny, of avoiding the death of nations. That hope seemed to be lost now.
Before he could even recognise the hotel walls, before he could see where Gellert’s wound was, he had flinched from his touch and locked himself in the bathroom. Albus had now his own hands stained, shiny and with fresh blood on them.
It wasn’t as if he couldn’t let himself in, it was the fact that he had locked the door the muggle way. The message was clear.
He heard water running and then nothing for a while. When he had got tired of reproducing inside his head every second they had lived underground, he knocked on the door.
He had fucked up, he knew he had fucked up. It’s the only way to keep everyone safe. Gellert had warned him, he had even told him, on the other side, everyone would be okay too, he only had to keep his wand inside his pocket. Gellert had known Albus would try to protect his friends if he saw anyone on the other side in danger, even if that someone was Elphias, especially if it was him. His words had been chosen carefully and he had ignored them. Albus could feel his own heart in his throat, making it difficult for him to swallow. Gellert didn’t open the lock but he didn’t cast a spell to avoid him entering either.
“Alohomora,” he mumbled under his breath and saw his own fingers shake around the doorknob.
Gellert was too busy stitching his side with needle and thread to raise his head. Albus regarded the stained towels and the crimson dark water inside the tub as he walked towards him. He was sitting on the floor, half covered by a towel, bloody water around him, and the open wound bleeding profusely.
Sectumsempra, a spell he had collaborated in creating himself, a spell that surged as Elphias’ childish fantasy back in their school years. Albus had been the one who had made sure that the cuts were deep enough, he had made sure it was dark enough. After the novelty had worn off, they had abandoned the idea, not even bothering to create a counterspell, it had been something fun to work on, something they weren’t supposed to use.
It was a miracle that it hadn’t hit Gellert directly, that it had only been deflected towards him. He wouldn’t have had the strength to even drag himself to the bathroom, he probably wouldn’t have been able to apparate without splinching, even if it was Albus the one casting the spell. He probably wasn’t aware of it just yet. Albus kneeled beside him but Gellert continued stitching the reopening cut, he was still bleeding too much. He didn’t want to be helped. But he hadn’t cast him out of the room yet, he probably feared he’d pass out if the wound didn’t stop bleeding. Albus held his wet hair out of his eyes, twisting the blonde locks between his fingers, closing his hand in a fist to avoid them disturbing him. He would die from the guilt, he thought.
Gellert was crying from the pain, his agape lips let out one shuddering breath after the other but his fingers continued stitching skin with skin, the threads already wet with blood, Albus could feel his frustration, the slight tint of fear that made his movements slower, unsure.
“I’ll call her,” he proposed, because if someone could stitch that it would be either Vinda or someone medically trained.
“No.”
“My love.”
“I wish you’d listen when I speak.” And it clearly held the double meaning, his voice too breathy to filter any anger, his sight too blurry with tears to see him.
And Albus stayed next to him for the next hour until he was able to close the wound, clean it again and dress it. He helped with what Gellert allowed, pressing on the wound for it to stop bleeding, holding Gellert tightly as he disinfected it with alcohol, letting him bite down on his shoulder and dig his fingernails into his arm.
The minutes felt like hours, the gash bled too much, puddles of blood around them. Gellert, paler, and paler by the moment, hung on like a lifeline until they were able to bandage it and get out. He helped him sit at the feet of the bed.
Albus made sure the stained towels disappeared and the rest of the blood too, unabling anyone that would enter after them to fathom what had happened in the room. It was fate that Gellert had been able to stay awake for so long, it was chance he hadn’t passed out from the lost blood.
Albus knew he was furious, he just wanted him to show it, to start the fight, to shout. Gellert must already know he regretted his actions, he already knew he was terribly sorry, he already knew how guilty he felt, he must have seen it in his trembling hands, in his short breath, in the way he touched him as if he was porcelain. Now that he was not bleeding to death, he could fight, now the primal survival instinct would be substituted by what he really felt, by what had probably kept him awake and stitching as if it was the only thing he could do.
Gellert’s anger was hot, his temper had always been short and his emotions were always reactive, natural like a volcano or a tempest or a tornado, where did this silence come from? Albus waited for him to speak first because he didn’t even know how to start.
“I need to see Vinda.” Gellert stood up from the bed and limped a little on his way out, colour was coming back to him but his face was still ashen. He seemed to consider saying the words before leaving, hanging for a few seconds in silence with his hand in the air, not touching the knob. “Don’t wait up, I don’t think I’ll sleep here tonight.”
Gellert wasn’t being cold, it was the disappointment that hurt the most, his voice had been gentle, even soft. Albus nodded, not because he agreed to that but because there was nothing he could say to stop him, he hadn’t the right. And Gellert left.
During the next forty hours he had enough time to tell himself the worst tales his mind could imagine.
Maybe Gellert had already left him behind, moving somewhere else without him, with his plans and his goal to avoid a new war, something too important to be hindered by him. Maybe he had decided Albus was too emotional on the battlefield for him to have him close. Maybe he had realised he couldn’t be with someone that only ended up hurting him again and again and again. Maybe he thought it was better to stop loving him, to walk away and never turn back. He hadn’t even been able to look him in the eyes, his gaze low, some type of grief tensing his features, the curve of his mouth, his brow, his eyelids.
Albus deserved all of it, he was certain, all of the stories were plausible. In truth, he had been the one to hurt him, deep down, even if the spell hadn’t been cast by him. He had been the one to make Gellert bleed, it was because of him he had been hurt, because he had been too reckless and too uncareful and too impulsive. And the cut would leave a scar, Gellert wouldn’t heal it nor try to make it scar beautifully, and Albus would have to see a reminder of his actions again and again. Gellert liked to keep them all, his body was a museum for all the battles he had fought, from the belt from his childhood to the bullets from the Great War, and he wouldn’t let this one out, not when it concerned Albus so profoundly.
Silence wasn’t a friend to him during the hours, but he didn’t think of leaving the room. Where was he to go? He had enough time to try and turn the situation around to blame Gellert for not being more explicit with his warning and to destroy his own argument with the actual facts. That he had fucked up, that he had ruined everything. He didn’t sleep, he wasn’t able to, the bed was too cold and the moment he’d closed his eyes he’d be back inside the catacombs, where the spell would hit its target directly and he couldn’t get Gellert out on time.
Queenie paid him a visit, she said she wanted to check on him but he could see in her eyes the shame and the embarrassment from thinking what she really was thinking. The thing with legilimency and natural legilimens was that they couldn’t really hide much from each other if emotions were loud, and they weren’t both having a good time. In her mind, Albus could glimpse Vinda Rosier’s wrath and her own pity by the situation, the relief on her sister’s face the moment she was about to apparate, the fear and the turmoil this all was bringing to her usually clear bright positive mind. But he didn’t know what she saw, only that it surprised her.
“Oh, he’s not angry,” her features had softened, she must have felt his guilt inside the mess his thoughts had made of him.
“I wish he were,” he answered, it was the truth, he would have preferred his hot temper, the rawness to the silence, to the coldness. Now he knew what it had felt like on the other side when it was him the one walking away from hotel rooms not to write a word for Gellert in months. “How do you leave it all behind, it’s like you have stopped caring for them.”
She smiled uncomfortably, she seemed aware of the way she acted, she had clearly taken a few lessons on detachment.
“Gosh, Dumbledore,” she had picked it up from Rosier, dropping the respect title, “I just,” she took a deep breath, “I just think this is for the, well, let’s call it greater good. It will be worth it in the end.
For my sister, for my friends, they are still walking on muddy waters.” She touched her face, failing to put a lock behind her ear. “They haven’t denied the vision yet because they can’t. I trust they’ll contact me after today, the world is already upside down. What else do they need? I ask myself all the time and maybe it is this. Today.”
He nodded. “Your husband,” he commented as an afterthought, “you forgot him.”
“Yeah. Jacob too.” She seemed embarrassed, red coming easily to her cheeks.
“Thank you, Mrs. Goldstein.” The warmth in his voice seemed to make her smile, discarding their last interaction.
That night Gellert came back to the room past midnight, he seemed to not expect him awake, taking a step back, startled, when he cast a lumos, illuminating the room with an orange glow.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he mirrored. “How is your wound.”
Gellert walked closer to his side of the bed. He lowered his eyes again, avoiding Albus’ gaze. “Better.” He lifted his shirt to show him, the gash was still fresh, purplish bruises had formed around it, from his ribs to his hip bone in a diagonal line, but the stitches held the wound close, it didn’t seem to have bled much more after that day. “I've never seen anything like it, that spell. I didn’t realise at first sight, there was something dark hidden in it.”
I know, he wanted to say, I know, I created it. I know, I have been twisting and turning possible counterspells since you left and nothing comes up, I can’t think of anything to make it better, I can’t fix it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. But it would be useless, it'd only feed the fire.
“I don’t know if I’d be here tonight if it had hit me directly.” Was he pushing him to confess? Did he even know? And if he did, how? He was probably thinking out loud, he was probably just trying to make conversation.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
They stayed in silence for a bit, Gellert sat on the bed, too far from him for Albus to even consider reaching.
“Karkarov wrote. He's behind some track that points towards the stone but he needs someone that would recognise it.”
Albus waited for him to continue. There was something else, something that made Gellert turn the rings around his fingers and regard his own hands with an intensity that he had never granted them before.
“And,” he provided when Gellert stayed quiet for too long.
“Vinda and I have been speaking about it. She thinks I should send you away. It would be just for a few weeks, Hungary, I’d join you when I finish here.” A pause. “It’s kind of close to where I was born, the family vault and all th–.”
“And you?”
Gellert licked his lips. “What?”
“What do you think.”
He took a deep breath, shrugging, he pulled the sheets up. “I think I should ask if you have opium with you.”
He didn’t know yet, he was too distracted by the pain.
Albus got out of bed and walked to Gellert’s side, offering him a vial with tiny yellowy stones in it he took out of his bag. Gellert took it carefully between his fingers, not touching his, and opened it.
“That’s enough. Have you eaten anything?”
Gellert nodded, bringing two stones to his lips. He chewed and swallowed, scrunching his nose at the taste, spicy, bitter. Albus sat next to him and waited for his eyes to start being covered by the white thread of destiny, erratic and mechanical, the forms and patrons broke and mended themselves in strange ways because of the drug. Then he went to his side of the bed and turned the light off, Gellert didn’t even want him close, sleeping at the edge of the bed as if there was an abyss between them.
For the next week and a half that was the routine. Gellert left in the morning and arrived late at night, leaving him for the entire day to work alone on their projects. When he got inside the bed making no noise, he’d find Albus awake and ask for opium. By the second time he asked, Albus had already thought of a way to infuse it so that he didn't have to eat it directly, to avoid the disgusting aftertaste. He found it clever, almost smiled when Albus pulled out the tea bag. And then they’d stay in silence. Too far from each other, with only cold sheets for warmth.
He imagined Gellert was having nightmares too, only he preferred them to the pain. Maybe he was too blinded, maybe the nightmares had spared him. Albus, on the other hand, opted to stay awake in the dark, if Morpheus took pity on him, he’d manage to sleep for a few hours until his own heartbeat woke him up, a rush of anxiety, of inexplicable adrenaline running through his veins. During the day, he didn’t even try anymore.
On the seventh night, he thought he was dying. The rational part of him saying it was impossible was muffled by his own fear, he felt he was outside his own body, as if he wasn’t himself anymore, as if he had no control over his movements, over his thoughts, over his mind, over his trembling hands. Would have Gellert thought about breaking the blood pact? Maybe he had. That way, if Albus did something wrong again, it wouldn't have to affect him so directly. Albus had considered during a time, why wouldn't Gellert do it too now that it was convenient that nothing would wrong their plans?
Gellert found him in the dim bathroom, gripping the sink and watching the water run, filling it, about to overflow. He put his chin on his shoulder, finding his eyes in the mirror, and reached for the tap to turn it off.
“Something’s wrong with my heart,” he murmured out of breath, turning his head to him.
There was a pain in his chest that spread like venom, numbed his limbs, and made him shake and tremble and feel feverish, hot, and cold at the same time. Gellert raised a hand and put it on his chest, pushed to separate him from the sink, to turn them face to face. The contact felt like fire, he felt the scar on his palm again his heart.
“See?” He felt like crying, his eyes wet. Had his pain been proven? Was it justified now?
Gellert nodded, letting his hand fall, and took a step closer, slowly putting his arms around him. He spoke against his neck. “You are just nervous, Albus.”
Albus was careful hugging him back, his hands barely brushing his shirt, around his waist, too scared he’d hurt him. Gellert walked him back to the room, pinkies interlocked as they had done in Godric’s Hollow, too wary to hold hands in public, too desperate to not break the contact, and laid next to him. They were face to face, the warmth of his breath on his face, he could almost drink it, feed on it. He should be happy with the new closeness and still, he couldn’t help it.
“Please.”
He only had to brush his hand, Gellert complied before he could even grab it, understanding the unsaid request, come closer. With his head on Albus’ shoulder and his hand on top of his heart, Gellert dragged his thumb up and down setting the rhythm of how his breathing should be; a mirror of his. Albus managed to fall asleep. The hollow pain in the middle of his chest dulled for a few hours, he felt Gellert’s body relax against him after a while, defeated, and he didn’t last awake much longer.
The next day he woke up to an empty bed, Gellert had already left early in the morning. It drove him mad, it left him walking up and down the room for the entire day, unabling him to get anything done, in his mind one thought. This needs to stop, or I'll go mad, I need to make it stop. He’d ask Gellert to go earlier to Hungary, to send him away from there the next day at dawn, he needed to make himself useful somewhere else. If Gellert wanted space, he could give it to him, he just needed something to do, he just needed to not have him close and not be able to reach out. Gellert wouldn’t get rid of him. He’d push him away, he’d put him through hell if he needed to. But he wouldn’t leave him. Gellert just wanted space, time, an excuse to justify to himself to still choose to stay close to Albus. He just hadn’t found it yet, and it was making him crazy.
He heard Gellert sneak into the room late but he didn’t turn on the light. As he slipped inside the bed, he turned slightly to let him know he was awake and Gellert took his place under his arm as if they weren’t fighting, as if the night wasn’t hostile and dark and terrible. They stayed like that, awake and silent in the deepest darkness, curtains closed, no moon in the sky. Albus knew that they were staring despite the blindness they were condemned to, he felt his gaze on him the same way he must feel his, like a physical touch.
Gellert’s breathing deepened after almost an hour, Albus guessed he had fallen asleep and that was the only reason why he dared to kiss his hair softly.
He tensed against him, making Albus realise his mistake. But it was just an instant, Gellert raised his head slightly, their noses brushed, and he could almost taste him. Then, Gellert leaned in slightly and their lips brushed. They could still not acknowledge it, it could still be an accident. But he dissipated the doubts a few seconds later, kissing him again, this time Albus allowed himself to reciprocate. It escalated, in an instant, he matched his drive, his passion.
It always ended up like that with them, it always ended up with their bodies resisting their minds, with their hands speaking for them.
Albus touched his face and he broke the kiss. They panted into each other’s mouths, engulfed in darkness, looking at the other, it was a moment of realisation. But Gellert kissed him a third time, like a tale, like a spell, drawing him in.
It was as if he had been set on fire, he kissed back with equal fervour. Gellert’s hands were undressing him, the same way he was trying to open Gellert’s shirt, knowing he was being way more careful with his bandages than he wanted him to be. It should feel wrong. It should feel different, he shouldn’t want this so much, he shouldn’t want it like that. And still.
A part of him wanted to talk it all through before anything but he forgot about it early enough, blinded by the bliss of skin-to-skin contact, distracted by roughness, by the sweet burn, by Gellert’s messy thrusts as he sank inside him again and again, balancing with his hands on his shoulders to build the rhythm.
Albus crossed his legs behind his back, forcing a closer, deeper contact, he felt him too far away. When he tried to kiss him, Gellert bit him, branding his neck and his clavicles, sucking bruises purposefully.
He almost caught a glint of anger. But he was fine with it, he was so very fine with it. He had craved this. Why did it feel like it had been years since the last time they had kissed? He found his hair in the darkness and pulled, bringing him to his mouth, kissing him, deepening the kisses progressively.
His hand lowered to his neck and Gellert moaned loud and clear in his mouth, he swallowed it, his legs shaking and the velvet burning sting starting to hurt in the most pleasurable way. Albus felt him cumming inside of him before he cried out, gasping in his mouth, trying to catch his breath while continuing to kiss him, not wanting to stop yet.
It would have been enough, Albus would have settled for what he had been given, but Gellert sat, straddling him, and reached for his hand in the dark, bringing it to his thighs, asking silently for Albus to open him up. He complied.
As Gellert lowered on him, agonisingly slow, he had to make an effort not to sink inside him in one stabbing thrust. He had felt his body tightening around his fingers and had almost seen white. Now that he was inside him he didn’t know from where he grasped the self-control to let him adjust. He had propped up and he could now hold Gellert’s face between his fingers, to feel the pulse on his neck, wild and quick, to taste his gasps, to bite his exposed throat and lick the sweat on his collarbones.
There was no explanation for how they could guess each other’s movements in such darkness. Blind, they knew each other blind, only touch was needed, only their bodies reacting, moving, dancing for them.
Gellert wanted him to be rougher, he asked for it dragging his nails on his back, using his own strength for Albus to sink harder, deeper, harsher, into him. Albus closed a hand on his right hip bone, adding friction, disrupting his intentions. He tangled his other hand on his hair to let him know he wouldn’t do it when Gellert pulled him closer by the bloodtroth’s chain, it was final.
He wouldn't do it. Gellert was hurt, he didn’t even know if he was bleeding under the bandages, they had been more or less careful, Albus had tried to be gentle, to be cautious, but he wasn’t sure it had been enough. He hoped the wound was still closed, he hoped Gellert would complain if it hurt, but he also knew him too well to know he wouldn’t.
When he tried to open the legilimency connection, to check on him, to feel what he felt, to meet with the rules they had set after their agreement years ago, just after the war, Gellert turned his head and he sucked a bruise on his neck, half bothered by it, half numb by ecstatic pleasure. It was bittersweet. When was the last time they had had sex without their minds connected? Probably 1899, he guessed, it was too long ago. A few scattered times after their first war, before the agreement. And in Paris, when Albus had been under Flamel's wing, in an alley. Did they use it that time in the cemetery?
Gellert seemed to feel the change in his demeanour and held his face between the palms of his hands, kissing him breathlessly, bringing him back to the moment. It brought him to the edge, the increasing pain, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the warmth that surrounded him, asphyxiating and overwhelming and good. He finished inside him, biting his lips to the point of almost drawing blood, already feeling sore from before, not wanting to make any noise.
Then Gellert moved and collapsed on top of him, not bothering to clean himself or lean his weight on the mattress, letting him deal with the decision. They should stand up and go to the bathroom, they should. Albus pulled him closer, hugging him tight around the shoulders as he passed a hand on the bandages, making Gellert flinch against him.
He cast a silent spell, it wouldn’t make the wound scar but it would accelerate the process, he had been working on it for hours on end. Gellert started thrashing against him, recognising the coldness of a useless healing spell but stopped the moment he felt the pain lessening, his lank body relaxing against him.
“How,” he hissed against his skin.
Albus kissed his temple as an answer, still catching his breath, cheeks hot and slightly trembling hands. It was the first time he managed to sleep the entire night since the catacombs. Dreamless and empty sleep, no nightmares and Gellert’s warmth sheltering him, his body like a blanket over him.
Feeling the empty space under his hand, Albus closed his hand in a fist of cold sheets at the crack of dawn, his heart jumping on his chest, his body already standing up.
“I’m here,” Gellert’s voice came from the other side of the room.
He was there. He was alright. He hadn’t left. He had called the moment he had heard him move.
Gellert was putting the tarot cards away, back into his sachet. Albus walked closer and he stood up.
“Look,” he said, lifting his open shirt.
He had uncovered the wound, it felt safe to let it breathe now, having miraculously healed during the night. Albus touched it with the tips of his fingers, it looked so much better than before, he smiled proudly. Gellert mirrored him and he wanted to kiss him. He then dragged his fingers up, to the teeth marks and bruises that now adorned his clavicles, his neck, his chest.
“Admiring your oeuvre?” Gellert kissed his palm when he touched his cheek.
He nodded. “You are dressed for travel.”
Gellert pressed his lips in a line, lowering his eyes guiltily. He was only missing his coat and his jacket but the rest was on, he’d need to close his shirt, though. His bag was packed, nothing scattered in the room belonged to him anymore. “Yesterday I was supposed to send you to Karkarov. But I changed my mind, I am going myself. I know Karkarov and I know his tricks, he can be an asshole if he so wishes to, he’ll work better with someone he knows.”
“What.”
“Vinda is in charge now. You can do as you wish until you join me, you know that. Don’t get on her nerves, she’s been sharpening knives thinking of you.”
The last part was supposed to make him laugh, smile at least, but Albus knew his face had dropped, anxiety already rising his pulse. He couldn’t hide the hurt, it was disheartening, this separation, this sudden distance only growing between them.
“For how long.”
“A few weeks. A month at worst. It will also depend on how things progress here in Rome.” A pause. “I’m not trying to punish you, Liebling.”
“Aren’t you?” But he was already pulling Gellert in a hug, kissing his neck, his pulse point, his cheek.
He had asked out of spite, he knew it was necessary, he knew they had been waiting for Karkarov to show signs of life for a while now. If they were lucky, their bruises from that night wouldn't even have time to fade, they'd be yellowish by the next time they saw each other. It wasn't that much time. It really wasn't. They had been separated for months, for years, before. But you weren't on the same side before, was difficult to ignore, now it's supposed to be us, us and them, us together.
Gellert hugged him back tightly. “I promise.”
“Write to me.”
“I’ll try.” And it was a dagger because it was almost impossible to exchange letters in the times that ran, but Gellert had always managed to communicate with him over the years, no matter the impediments, no matter what he had had the entire world trying to get him, he had always risked it, he had always said he would.
Albus slipped the blood pact from his neck to Gellert’s before he could protest. “I will only be able to sleep if I know you are carrying it.”
If Gellert wanted to destroy it this was his opportunity, if he had ever considered it, this was the moment. Albus knew he couldn't keep it, he'd go mad from thinking, he’d try to break it himself.
And Gellert could have accused him of blackmail if the fact that he thought he’d sleep wasn’t already a lie. He kissed his cheek, touched his forehead with his. “Take care.”
Albus waited for him to finish getting dressed and to bring out the portkey, it was a wooden eight-pointed cross. How fitting.
He stood up from the feet of the bed, still naked. But Gellert raised his head and said goodbye touching his index and middle finger to his forehead, not allowing him, or himself, to get closer, to touch him, to kiss him goodbye properly. “See you in a bit.”
“See you in a bit,” Albus answered and saw him disappear.
He proposed himself to be useful, to do everything he could to keep his mind busy until he saw Gellert again. When Vinda Rosier knocked on the door with Queenie behind her, she was shocked that Albus was the one waiting behind it.
“I told you,” Queenie said to her and Vinda looked displeased, as if she tasted something bitter.
“What did I miss,” he asked once the conversation started and he couldn’t pick up anything.
Of course she expected him to be the one who left, Gellert had probably changed his mind at the last second. Albus wondered the exact moment in the night he had decided he’d go himself. Had it been before? Or after? Had it been already in the morning? Had he woken up with the idea inside his head? Had he dreamt? Had he seen anything? Gods. They had barely talked in days, silence filling the empty hours like an illness.
Vinda shook her head. “It’s better if I don’t tell you, I’m doing you a favour.” When he was about to protest, she added. “Believe me, Dumbledore,” and then, to Queenie. “We follow as he instructed.”
“You in charge?”
She nodded, and as if Albus wasn’t there at all. “He’ll be doing something else.”