Summary: Albus is all too familiar with the consequences of falling.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of JK Rowling.
Falling
He fell for Gellert in the space between heartbeats, it was that fast. And, just as quick, in a flash of light, a fall to the floor, it was over. Albus was left alone, winded and wide-eyed.
Guilt dogged his heels for years, shame rising in the quiet, masochistic moments to burn his cheeks and bring tears to his eyes, and Albus swore to himself, never again, as young fools do.
He didn't fall for Tom, not in the true sense of the word. It wasn't like gravity, knocking the ground out from beneath him, like it was the first time. It was more of an infection; an illness creeping beneath his skin, sending him into a roaring fever and leaving his head reeling. It took years, and Albus was oblivious, utterly blind to the disease eating at him from within. Only when it was far too late was he able to recognise it for the fatal error it was, and by then, Tom was gone.
The third time was the worst, by far. Albus would never have thought it could happen again, that he could be so very foolish, and as such he didn't see it coming. It began with vitriolic hate bred of disgust, like the worst times often are. The boy, for that was what he was when it began, was foolish and weak, seduced by darkness and his Slytherin fellows. Albus doubted then that he had ever known anyone so selfish. It was ten years, ten years of watching the boy, steering him with a forceful touch, coaxing the very Slytherin out of him. But Albus, as always, was the fool; it took his breath away, the day he first saw bravery burn upon the pale, sharply-angled face. The boy was utterly unique, although by now he was a man; quiet and dry and brilliant and unexpected, and Albus was caught off guard, blind-sighted, and it was like gravity, again. An orbital pull, inexorable and unyielding, and Albus lost himself, utterly.
Death, when it began to loom over his shoulder, become almost a relief. The boy would never, ever understand how much it broke his heart to ask the boy to end him. The boy was sickened, resentful; and Albus diverted his eyes to hide the guilt, and the grief. Albus embraced death, in the end, knowing he had done all he could to set the ends in place, and he was reminded, close to the end, that happiness would always elude him. The silver incarnation soared across the grounds of his beloved school, and Albus felt that same, century-old foolish shame, and he turned away to hide his tears.
Albus begged, in the end. His heart lay shattered and splintered somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and in that windy, moonlit moment, he was not at all afraid of death. He was terrified of life, by then; of continuing to breathe and think and feel, with the knowledge that he had branded the boy, marked his life as surely as the skull and snake upon his arm, damaging the boy's brilliant soul beyond repair. He begged, and for once he did not lower his gaze; instead he held his eyes steady and looked into that white face, remiss of all its usual inscrutability and etched only in agony and revulsion. Albus did not look away, not even when the green light flashed.