He stood still as a ghost, staring intently at the cracks and splinters in the wooden door. The handle had become old and rusty, it's shiny surface had chipped off long ago, leaving the ugly metal core on display.
Dusty air filled his lungs, scratching him from every corner. He did not let go until it was suffocating him. Until his breath came out shuddering.
Grindlewald’s hands shook in his robes. Clutching the letter in his pocket, the weight of it too heavy for him. The slight tremble in his hands was still there as he reached for the handle. Twisting it slowly, in successions.
The door opened with a long squeak. The warm air of the room pulled him in with it’s vines. There was no way out now.
His eyes fluttered closed. The room smelt of memories older than time itself. Behind the closed lids wasn’t the darkness he saw, but something a lot worse.
“Hello, Gellert,”
Gellert. Gellert.
Who was that? The name wasn’t his anymore. Was it supposed to sound so grim and wistful? He had stopped being Gellert so long ago. He stopped being Gellert the moment he became Grindlewald.
“Albus,”
His own voice sounded foreign to him. So soft, so gentle. Who was he?
Dumbledore stood centuries apart. Standing in all handsomeness. With confidence on his shoulder and the infamous twinkle in his eyes. It shone brighter than ever behind the sorrow. The eyes did not leave him for a second. They did not see the rats or felt the cold, for all the other things were a mere background. Something to pay no mind.
There was a desire running hot and fast in his veins. The desire to cage him. To make him his and his only. To make Albus see what he was seeing, his vision, his dream—their dream. To erase everything in his heart but himself.
Albus was Gellert’s weakness as he was of Grindlewald’s. He despised the man for abandoning him and their cause, but wept for the part of himself that he lost. He hated him making him complete then breaking away the last piece of him. He hated him for all the time they could’ve had, of all the nights he promised then never setting the sun ever again.
But he loved still. He loved him because of it all.
“Would you like some tea?”
Albus straightned and walked over to the table in front of the fireplace. Gellert’s eyes never left his back. He used to walk with so much confidence, like he was the ruler of the world, like he was invencible. But now, his steps moved hurriedly
Gellert could sight the tremble at the tip of his fingers as he picked up the teapot. He noticed the emotions by the way the tea sloushed in the cups and drops scattered the tray. He observed as he waved his hand a little too much to warm up the liquid.
The teapot was carefully placed on the table, with a little clink of it's own.
Grindlwald carelessly threw his coat on the bed and walked over. He didn’t take his eyes off from Dumbledore’s figure for a single moment. Afraid, that it wasn’t true, that he would dissappear like he himself did.
He sat down and picked up the steaming cup. Even the handle had heated up—he couldn’t feel it.
They sipped in complete silence, very much aware of the other’s presence. Albus placed his cup in the saucer and crossed his legs, looking into the fire as the flames danced in his eyes. “How are you?”
Albus turned around to look a Gellert and his world stopped. There was no hate in the other’s eyes, no dissapointment. Oh how he longed to look at him. Just look at him, without purpose, without intention or the need to pursuade or manupulate.
“Good. How about you?” His voice was soft, gentle. Like the touch of morning frost or the first snow. There was something between them, something fragile that would break if he said too much or too little. “How’s it teaching the future of the wizarding world?”
Albus looked down, a shy smile on his face and something hardend in Gellert’s chest. Everything he did, every little action, every little smile; reminded him of the summer his heart started beating. That posionous curve of his lips that defiled him.
“It’s been intereasting. Children could be very. . .child like,”
“Idiots,” Gellert laughed, a low breathy chuckle. And Albus turned to him. The surprise in his eyes was not hidden. Gellert Gridlewald had never laughed– not the chuckle of cheated victory or the giggle of torment. No, no it was a laugh, maybe of desperation.
The adoration was there, in the professor’s eyes, in his smile, so obvious and painful, like hundred swords peircing your skin. He examined every corner of his face, every crease and every pore made in his absence. He envied time for accompanying him when he wasn’t there, for taking him with it.
His hands slowly reached out to touch him, to feel his presence. Albus met him halfway, just like they did when they made their blood troth. Their fingers interwined, sinking into the other. There was a feeling in his chest, Gellert couldn’t name, he only knew—he felt anchored.
Albus pulled his hand to his lips and placed a kiss on his own. But Gellet felt it. He felt it like his own flesh. The warmth of him and the softness of his lips. He felt the hesitance, the struggle, the desire. Like a shock traveling from his nerves.
Gellert’s eyes fluttered close, he etched the feeling on every part of his skin. Engraved it for centuries to come, to remember for time eternal.
“What about your, apostles?”
Apostles. Followers. Gellert wasn’t the feared psychopath or the dark leader in these four walls. He wasn’t the evil of the world and Albus wasn’t his opposite. They weren’t good and bad or light and dark fighting because they were expected to. They were just two teenagers deeply in love. Here, they were the grey line in between.
He tilted his head to the side, “Turns out, some people carry that idiocy to adulthood with them,”
Albus chuckled, a small, short sound. It’s been too long since Gellert heard it, far too long. He bathed in the cheers and praises of his crowd but he drowned in the laughs of his lover.
“Then I reckon you must have some facinating stories to tell,“
His lips twitched. Stories. Folktales. They are nothing more than a prespective. A half-hearted truth from someone who have lived only a part of it. Seen from the crowd. Or painted them in the color wished. A man could taint the purest of stories just by his words. And Gellert lived with forever blood on his hands.
“Not as much as you, why don’t you recite how child like children could be?”
He turned to the fire and gently stroked the hand in his, like a phoniex’s feather. As if he had forgotten the sins they committed. It was as if, with each stroke of his fingers, he could wash away every drop of blood it held.
Albus spoke. Stories of conventionality and routine. The words held no meaning or purpose but the voice washed him with comfort. They were like stones rolling off his tongue, and he, the neffler collecting them. In that cold, dormant heart of his, there was only one flicker of fire that he couldn’t dowse even if he wanted to.
Gellert’s voice came out on it’s own. Like a river that only flows to meet the sea. He closed his eyes and talked about everything he could. Every tea he tasted and every bread he ate.
When there was not much to say, he looked towards his friend, and was all at once hit with everything he never thought about. Albus was looking at him with in daze, a lazy smile on his lips. He wasn’t listning to him, not really. He was looking at Gellert like they were back along the lake in that summer morning.
Gellert could feel the ripples of lake and the grass between his fingers. The boy was looking at him with the purest of look and kindest of smile. He was once again back.
Gellert Grindelwald knew he would lose all his purpose if he indulged himself in Albus. He knew that he would burn down the world not for anything but this man in front of him.
And he didn't mind it.
That day, the sun hid behind the window, it gave them one last night of existence as nothing but two beating hearts. But as the moon climbed the top of the sky, and it looked down at laughed at them, Gellert stopped his heart.
He clutched the parchment in his coat once again, trying to absorb any essence left of it.
Even the villain deserve a day's rest.
Gellert kissed his life with the smallest speck of goodness left in him. He savoured the sweetness and beauty of him. And listened to the sound calmness.
Grindelwald closed the door behind him and the fire keeping him warm was doused out.
Imagine a cook-off between Sebastian and Gordan Ramsey where one is all calm and collected doing ballet with his food and the other is torturing the lamb while cursing his opponent about how THE MEAT ISN'T YOUR FKING WHORE YOU BLACK CLOUD EMO ARSEHOLE
“Paper lined the floor. Scrolls and scrolls of them covering every inch of the mat. No, no, no. It wasn't right. Every pair of eyes he had painted looked back at him with disappointment.
“He was covered in ink. His pristine white robes, which never brushed any impurity, were stained. The feet, which carried him flawlessly around the world, barely causing a ripple, begged him to give up. The fingers, which played the gentle melody of someone's heart, were numb.
“He had woken up to this nightmare of forgetting his face. Time running its course and the law of nature being followed. He couldn't remember the colour his eyes took when they shone with mischieve, where his dimples formed when he laughed, or how his hair flowed with the wind.
None of them were right.
The brush slipped from his trembling fingers, paint splattering like blood. Those eyes which didn't shed a single tear under the most ruthless welt were spilling his woes.
wait hold up- what??????? Jake Gillian is a COP??? AND A SECRET SPY AT THAT?? TF?? DID I DIE OR SMTHING?? THIS IS SUPOSED TO BE A BIG RELEVATION HOW IS THERE NO FKING NOISE??? HELLO????
I have seen a lot of debate about the existence of Greek gods and I just realised something.
We know of Alexander the Great, and he definitely existed, he always paid visits to the grave of Achilles and Patroclues with Hapthestian, that mean the grave existed then shouldn't that mean that they also existed.
On a side note, he can only know it was Achilles and Patroclues grave if their name was written there, so that means somehow Patroclues name was written beside Achilles (in you face Phyrrus!)
Before you ask, I am trying very hard not to cry right now because of these 3000 year old gay bitches so no I am not alright
So everyone remembers this iconic scean and the feels it gave us. There's pure longing and heartbreak on their faces.
Albus and Gellert were in love since they were boys, since world domination was only a idea in their minds for betterment of the wizarding world. They were similar, so similar. One soul in two bodies. They had the same personality, and breathed the same air. Their heart pumped the same blood and beat in the same rhythm.
But here they realized—it doesn't anymore. Now, there aren't what they used to be. They are still so similar but couldn't be any more different. They are still very much in love, but they aren't one.
