Disclaimer: Never was
Warnings: Homosexuality, poorly executed angst
Ache
By Cory
It's morning, and it's so impossibly lovely.
Not as lovely as Gellert, though. Albus wants to tell him that, but he's not sure how, so he doesn't. Instead, he lightly glides a nail down the nape of Gellert's bared neck. Gellert twitches and blinks up at him, once more interrupted in his endless musings.
"Yes?" he asks, voice muzzy, but still high-handed. Gellert drums his fingers lightly on the skin over Albus' ribcage.
Albus can't breathe for a moment, because Gellert is so wonderful, with his angled face and curls. "They'll be looking for us, if we don't return soon."
Gellert's eyes narrow for a moment, then he slides his torso of Albus', and he stretches. Albus misses feeling Gellert's hair tickling under his chin. Gellert's hair smells like dead leaves. The fabric of his pants tugs over his lean thighs while he stretches, obviously more for voyeuristic appeal for Albus than to work out any possible tightness from lying across Albus on the riverbank. Albus reaches for their shirts, and brushes off a few leaves shivering in the breeze upon them.
After smoothing out the creases in the cotton, they walk back to Godric's Hollow. Albus can't help but keep glancing at Gellert now and again as they match stride-for-stride, watching Gellert's expression (a hint that the other was thinking deeply once more) and the way his pearly skin dapples through the trees. He wants to touch Gellert, and it doesn't matter where—his hair, his cheek, his knee. But maybe Gellert is still too lovely for that.
--
Decades later
"Sir—Professor Dumbledore? May I ask you something?"
"Obviously, you've just done so. But you may ask me one more thing, however." Albus Dumbledore's face hurts as he smiles.
"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"
"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks," Albus answers without hesitation. He can't smile anymore.
The boy stares blankly at him, almost uncomprehendingly, but obviously so.
"One can never have enough socks. Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People insist on giving me books."
Albus shoos him to bed, then turns to the mirror. He's not quite close enough to get a true look, but he sees faint gold and smells clean skin, washed clothes, and dead leaves.
Albus sighs and goes back to bed, but he can't bring himself to sleep, no matter how tired he feels.