Ficlet for youse, in lieu of existing. :/
AD/GG. No sex, just talking and kinky undertones. Despite the lack of Tom, this grew out of variously cycling contemplation of Tom's fear of death and comparing his psychology with others.
"Are you," Albus asks quietly one afternoon, as they walk in the far fields of Godric's Hollow, "afraid of Death?"
"Not particularly," says Gellert, flippant. "I don't see the point."
"It was something in one of the old poems I was reading this morning--that those who seek the Hallows do so out of a fear of Death and should be pitied."
"Ahh, I see where your point lies. But...no, not particularly. Not more than is natural for a living thing. A wall looms to cut off my existence--do I fear what is part of the very fabric of reality?"
"There are those who say it is more like a ragged veil, tantalizingly thin, drawn across." Albus' tone is calm and a little cold; there has, after all, been more death in his past than in Gellert's.
"A fine metaphor, but such rarely alter my sentiments." Gellert flashes a very sharp grin. "The inherent logic would seem to be that those who wish to master Death do so because they are afraid of it and what it can do to themselves or their own, yes? And that those who do not overly fear it would leave well enough alone?"
"That would seem to be the case, yes."
"Hmm."
They walk on. Gellert kicks stones with his pointed German shoes; Albus is chewing on a blade of grass.
"But," Gellert says after a long while, and touches his friend's elbow, halting his step and drawing him close. "But, Albus--" and he grabs a thick handful of Albus' hair, no warning, and tugs, sending him stumbling to his knees in the dirt. Gellert smiles, murmurs, "I don't need to be afraid of something in order to master it."
There's naked, tender shock on Albus' face, at least for a moment, and the grass slips unheeded from his lips. Gellert strokes his cheek, gently, even as he holds his head tight by the hair, and slowly slips off his glasses and watches his eyes unfocus.
"I'm not particularly afraid of you, either," he whispers, standing closer, until Albus is plastered up against his legs. "But what about you, fellow-seeker? Do you fear Death?"
"As the moth fears the flame," Albus breathes.
"Are you," Albus asks quietly one afternoon, as they walk in the far fields of Godric's Hollow, "afraid of Death?"
"Not particularly," says Gellert, flippant. "I don't see the point."
"It was something in one of the old poems I was reading this morning--that those who seek the Hallows do so out of a fear of Death and should be pitied."
"Ahh, I see where your point lies. But...no, not particularly. Not more than is natural for a living thing. A wall looms to cut off my existence--do I fear what is part of the very fabric of reality?"
"There are those who say it is more like a ragged veil, tantalizingly thin, drawn across." Albus' tone is calm and a little cold; there has, after all, been more death in his past than in Gellert's.
"A fine metaphor, but such rarely alter my sentiments." Gellert flashes a very sharp grin. "The inherent logic would seem to be that those who wish to master Death do so because they are afraid of it and what it can do to themselves or their own, yes? And that those who do not overly fear it would leave well enough alone?"
"That would seem to be the case, yes."
"Hmm."
They walk on. Gellert kicks stones with his pointed German shoes; Albus is chewing on a blade of grass.
"But," Gellert says after a long while, and touches his friend's elbow, halting his step and drawing him close. "But, Albus--" and he grabs a thick handful of Albus' hair, no warning, and tugs, sending him stumbling to his knees in the dirt. Gellert smiles, murmurs, "I don't need to be afraid of something in order to master it."
There's naked, tender shock on Albus' face, at least for a moment, and the grass slips unheeded from his lips. Gellert strokes his cheek, gently, even as he holds his head tight by the hair, and slowly slips off his glasses and watches his eyes unfocus.
"I'm not particularly afraid of you, either," he whispers, standing closer, until Albus is plastered up against his legs. "But what about you, fellow-seeker? Do you fear Death?"
"As the moth fears the flame," Albus breathes.