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Albus has the prettiest blood he has ever seen. He had been fixated on it all night, even as they laid together in the hay, Albus breathless and sweet underneath him, his bloodied hand above his head, blood he no doubt was covered in by now. He had kissed Albus' hand just to taste it, and then caressed Albus' face with his own hand, and before the blood had dried up, it looked almost like rubies against his skin.
But Albus' own blood was prettier, so nice looking that he for a moment wondered how Albus would look like drenched in it.
They had kissed in the rain, once. And if just drops of water had made him look so beautiful, surely, he would be even more so dressed entirely in red?
Albus' voice breaks his thoughts.
“Gellert,” he says softly in that silly accent that always makes his heart flutter in his chest. “You should sleep.”
His eyes are still shut. Not for the first time, he thinks of the fairy tale princesses from the folk tales he grew up with, those forced into eternal slumber in wait for their true love to come and take them.
Of all the places he could have travelled to after his expulsion, of all the people he could have met, how could it have been anything other than fate to meet someone like Albus?
“Sleep, Gellert,” Albus' sweet voice repeats.
Gellert lays down this time. Next to Albus, sleep always comes easy.