Grey house

The room is on the third floor of a mid-range hotel; the parquet floor is waxed, the earthenware vases painted with blue roses are lined up on the mantelpiece and the carpet is the exact colour of the curtains and sheets, somewhere between azure and ultramarine. Between the sky and the depths.

In an in-between time, that of the fall. That moment, a thousand years old, when the fallen angels are thrown out of Paradise for having disobeyed God.

He hates Muggles, but that doesn't mean he doesn't hang out with them, as Albus claims. It is the time spent with them that has reinforced Gellert's belief that their mere existence is a danger.

He stares at the omnipresent, almost oppressive blue. Reproving.

Gellert wonders who, him or Albus, will suffer more from the shattering fall they are taking. He already knows the answer.

He hangs his jacket on the coat hook before turning to face Albus. He has not yet taken off his coat or his hat. Gellert worries for a brief moment that he will hesitate, put his back up; he knows how much Albus's conscience can influence the desires of his heart. Yet when he meets his gaze, it is surprise that he finds there.

"I thought..."

"What were you thinking, Albus? Nurmengard?"

They say nothing more and an awkward silence envelops them; Albus is tense, glancing around. His gaze lands on the bed in the centre of the room; he reaches it in a few strides and sits on it, as if to defuse its primary purpose. As if, by taking it as a seat, Albus could deceive him and Gellert about what they had come to do in this room. About the nature of the desire that had brought them together in this New York hotel in the middle of the night when the whole world expected them to kill each other. 

"This is not my home," Gellert continues without taking his eyes off him. 

Albus says nothing, his gloved hands resting in his lap, his hat still pulled down over his eyes.

"Nurmengard is not my home."

In a few strides, Gellert is facing him, coming closer until their knees touch and Albus has to bend his neck to support his gaze. With his forefinger he pushes the felt away and it falls with a dull thud to the floor. Albus still says nothing. His fingers brush against his not-yet-grey temples and he closes his eyes at his touch. Gellert tilts his head, observes him, savours the quality of his skin and the silkiness of his beard. He is profoundly different and, at the same time, still the same as that summer. There is still this burning desire to be touched, loved, seen. Gellert can give it to him, he can give it all to him, with the same passion as before. Can Albus do the same? He slides his thumbs down his throat and sees Albus' eyelids twitch, his breathing change tempo. 

It feels good.

"You can never feel at home when a bigger, better home awaits you elsewhere. The problem, of course, is that you are denied access to this home," Gellert continues in a whisper, his eyes unfocused. "That the one in whom it was built threw away the key."

Without warning, Albus opens his eyes, grabs Gellert by the collar and smashes his mouth against his own. It's a hot mess of nose, lips and tongues that he throws himself into. At that moment, Gellert knows he is as pathetic and desperate as he accuses Albus to be. His heart beats too hard in his chest, full of passion and pain as he feels touched again, as he has not been touched for thirty years. Albus's hands sink into his hair to press him closer, to keep him from leaving, as he once did. To hold him back before he returned to Bathilda's, to hold him back before he left Godric's Hollow. As if Gellert could have imagined, for a moment, leaving Albus behind. Giving up his power, his intelligence... his love.

There is no grace in his grunt as he helps Albus to his feet, still less in the frantic fumbling that makes the scarf, the coat, the gloves disappear.

Gellert's hands clutch Albus' shoulders as he feels his skin against his, and to hide his turmoil he buries his face in his neck, licks a strip of skin there, savouring the almost forgotten taste.

“Gellert…”

The jumper, the tie, the shirt... Each of these falling garments is a breakthrough in the wall that Albus has erected between them. Each one is a victory.

They don't stop kissing for a moment, even when Albus' hands are shaking so much that he ends up ripping the buttons off Gellert's shirt because he can't open it properly.

It is destiny. Fate.

His hands rest on the button of Albus' trousers as Gellert's fingers close on the buckle of his belt. It reminds him of two young people, almost children, still, pressed by desire as well as by time. Plans, conjectures, debates, passion... All this knotting together in a maelstrom that could hardly be reduced to twenty-four short hours. Today too, time is against them. But this time has a more bitter taste.

When Gellert kisses Albus, this time nothing comes between them, no ideas, no crowds, no clothes. His hands caress his shoulders, his fine muscled back, his hips where his hot palms rest as he feels his sex brush against his thigh. Gellert doesn't need this to know that Albus wants him, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel pride in stirring up this excitement as quickly as he has in the past.

Albus seems to guess his thoughts and runs his fingers over his lower abdomen; Gellert gasps softly.

"It seems nothing has changed," Albus whispers in his ear.

Gellert doesn't bother to reply and, hands still on his hips, pulls him towards the bed and lies on his body a moment later.

Gellert's real home, the one in Albus, will remain off limits to him, he knows. Unless the fool finally gives up trying to stand up to him. Gellert doesn't believe that either. At this moment, he hopes to be able to slip through a half-open window, a crack under the door, anything that would allow him to take refuge inside, just for a moment. To feel that at last he is home.

Their hands run, crossing each other, while their bodies bend, drunk with caresses. Gellert's mouth leaves Albus's, slides down his neck, over his chest, which he brushes, light as a feather, taking in all that the beloved body has to show him, to let him devour.

The skin is different , he thinks as he kisses his belly, following the auburn line that leads him ever lower, it's harder and, paradoxically, softer, too. It has freckles, scars, moles that I've never seen. Which weren't there last time . He kisses the iliac crest, rubs his teeth on it, earning a groan and hands in his hair. Even his taste is different. He's not a boy anymore, and neither am I, for that matter. Yet he is still the only one I want.

Gellert straightens up, places his elbows on the mattress on either side of Albus' head, panting, his nose a breath away from his. 

His eyes are blue. Blue. Blue.

He can't think of anything else, for a moment, and Albus seems to hear his distress. He places a hand on his cheek.

"Come home."

It's not an absolution. Not a request. Not a forgiveness, either.

It is a fleeting invitation, a key left in the lock, almost inadvertently.

He will taste the cold outside again, come up against a double locked door.

Tomorrow. 

Soon. 

In a minute.

But even if it only lasts for a moment, Gellert crosses the threshold of his house and feels, for the first time in thirty years, warmth on his skin.

"It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time," Albus murmurs, staring at him.

The sheets are soft around their naked skin, and outside the night is quiet. Gellert is relaxed, almost sleepy; having sex tends to have that effect on him.

He lazily slides an arm under his head and returns Albus' gaze. He is handsome. He always has been. Yet it strikes him right in the heart. Gellert would like to reach out a hand to him, wrap it around his waist to get closer, closer, feel his warm skin against his own. He doesn't dare; now that the desire has subsided, Gellert fears that the fragile balance Albus has found between his morality and his love is seriously out of whack. And not to tip the scales in the right direction.

"What's that?" he asks, seeing that Albus doesn't seem ready to elaborate.

"To be here. That the pact is broken and yet this moment can exist."

"It is proof that I was telling the truth as well as proof that you were lying to yourself," Gellert replies. "I never considered myself your enemy, never intended to become one. It was not the pact that prevented me from doing so, but my will."

"You sent Credence."

"Because I wanted to hurt you. I succeeded, by the way. Abelforth hates you more than ever."

Here we go again , Gellert thinks fatalistically. He will stand up, say it was a mistake. Will try to convince me to stop, to abandon my plans. To do what? He's never told me. His reasoning never goes that far. Would he leave with me, to a new life where nobody would know us? Would he put me back in prison? Would he let them kill me? What does it matter? He will stand up, say it was a mistake. He won't accept it. He won't be able to look at me, naked in that bed, won't be able to look at his own body without feeling shame. He will stand up, say it was a mistake. He will refuse to do it again, to see me again, unless he is forced to by his friends or the international community. He will try to stop me, will want to fight to the end. I don't want that, Albus. I never have. 

“You always had such contempt for Abelforth... for Ariana..."

"I pitied Ariana," Gellert corrects him.

"You did not pity Credence?"

"I won't say I regret what I did, if that's what you're waiting for. Abelforth, Ariana, Credence... I know what they mean to you," Gellert resumes, not sure why he does so. "But what they did to you , Albus. All of them. I would have preferred that you grow up far from them, that I find you untouched by a burden that even now keeps you from living when it should not be yours."

Albus smiles softly, with a sad fragility. He knows that Gellert is right. He won't admit it.

"They are my family," he replies simply.

As if that were enough.

"They loved you poorly."

"And you, badly."

Albus, on his side, his arms tight around his waist. He waits. Curious to see what Gellert will say to him; he refuses to comment on the substance of what he says. His love for Albus is glorious, and he will not go back on that, no matter what label they want to put on it. Gellert knows.

"Just a matter of semantics. Once again, you're playing with words." 

"Perhaps they didn't love me as much as they should have, but that's because they were unable to understand me . You saw it at once, you loved me for what I really was. And that love was harmful from day one, Gellert."

"Is that what you think? That I loved you badly?"

Gellert is not hurt, merely curious. Love is still love, how could anyone call it harmful? The pallid, shriveled thing the Dumbledores felt for Albus, perhaps. But certainly not his.

"I…"

A noise against the window startles them; there is a grey owl out there.

Gellert understands immediately that it's over. He doesn't know how to name it, because what just happened between him and Albus has no words to describe, but it's over. The world rushes back into the cocoon they've woven over the last few hours.

In an instant they are standing, back to back. They pull on their clothes, layer by layer, wall by wall, and Gellert's heart sinks when he has to fix his shirt with a flick of his wand.

Everything fades away .

Over his shoulder, he glances at Albus, who is holding his hat in one hand and reading the note delivered by the owl with the other. Gellert turns his head away as he sees him raise his own.

"I must go."

Don't go. Not now. Not in a thousand years. What kind of man will you be to me when you get out of here?

"I know."

Albus opens the door. He's waiting.

"Gellert…"

He doesn't want to let him finish his sentence. It terrifies him to imagine what Albus might want to say to him at a time like this. Gellert faces him and comes to meet him, takes his hand in his own. He presses the broken blood pact into it.

"Keep it."

Albus shakes his head, looking determined.

"I want you to have it. It matters a lot to me."

Gellert is surprised. He doesn't know what it means. He'll have to figure it out. The vial returns to the palm of his hand.

"So I'll keep it. Until the next time."

"Until the next time," Albus nods before disappearing down the stairs.

Until the next fight.

Until the next kiss.

This hope gives Gellert some courage when loneliness pulls its heavy cloak over him.