Lemon-dipped Afternoon
His fingers taste of lemon.
Had it not been three hours after tea time, this might not have troubled him so much. It was only that he remembers how white fingers felt on his brow before the cold set in, and his brow was still cold from the moment those hands stopped...
His eyelashes had been wet when he finally said it, finally raised his head and looked at him. "I know I'm in love with you."
Al, my Al. Always thinking of something, some way to make things so much more full of-of...my Al.
He remembers those laughing blue eyes sparkling across the table, and Gellert was eating one of the lemon tarts, his fingers sticky with the custard, and his lips covered in flour. Albus had smiled at him, sipping his tea, ignoring the fact that his love confession was lost on Gellert's silence.
Gellert was like that; his mind was a cloud's heart. Drifting, ephemeral, and see-through. Yet, in two places Albus could never see his mind, his brilliance, and he longed for it. When Gellert was merely letters upon a page when they would part ways, when he was debating an issue, and most horribly of all, when he looked at him like that with those thoughtful, but laughing blue eyes, skimming the conversation and bringing it back to a moment; their moment, and Gellert's hands on his face, lips, eyes was cool realisation of an frightening burn in his chest.
"I was reading on Nero's last testament, have you read it? Oh, Al, you must peruse this one. I have so much to tell you..."
He would begin and his mind was open again, and Albus fed from it sweet thought like the lemon custard sticking to those fingers each quiet afternoon.
Sometimes he would taste that custard, and Gellert would bite the crust wickedly.
Sometimes it wasn't the custard he wanted. And his own hands push the tart away as Gellert sets his notes down, and their hands are their lips with each satiny taste.
I love-love-love-please-love-me-I-love-and you're only-love-here-love-when-love-I want to...love you most.
And blue eyes in love with lemon are what he dreams about when Gellert is gone.
He was a fairy tale. Something from a book because it was only when Albus was reading that Gellert was most real for him. Long lists of books and articles owled to him each week. Homework for him the next time they met and Albus would send his in hopes that the material he chose would tell Gellert what he says each time they meet, what he doesn't seem to hear, but makes Gellert touch him anyway...or ask for another lemon tart.
When Gellert said it, it was still Albus' dark eyelashes that were wet. Though it is said in passing.
"Al, you have to see that the underlying theme of this piece is not so much the morals of man, but the possibility of there being so much more to man than secondary social rules. No, I think you do see it. Ha ha, you complete cad! You only want me to talk further on it, don't you? How I love you!"
And his eyes of the same colour as Gellert's widen, and he smiles. Then books are forgotten, but not left alone as he tastes lemon on the tips of those fingers, and as Gellert's fingernails graze his tongue, he thinks of a Muggle treat he once deigned to sample.
"Love you too, Gellert. I wanted to-"
"Al, my most darling Albus. Do kiss me for I must go, and your brother is home."
Lemon is a substance that burns, in the eyes, and open wounds, but in liquid when it is boiled hot, it is a truly vitriolic. And Gellert's lemon hands are scalding when the rain crashes outside, their books lie scattered, but pointy when they dig into Gellert's back and he winces. He knows it is three hours since tea time, but as he tastes those white fingers, which once touched his brow in favour, he wonders what he missed, what Gellert thinks, likes, feels when they breath the same air, and his tongue is wavering over Gellert's lips.
Albus wants to hear his thoughts, but for now, the taste of lemon is really all right.