fic: albus and gellert and oscar
For a good cause, but I am still going to the bad place.
Title: Albus and Gellert and Oscar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Rating: R
Length: 2K
Summary: 16-year-old Gellert getting it on with 18-year-old Albus. In 1899. Which doubles as a warning, really.
Notes: For a prompt on accentuate the positive: Dumbledore reflects on his friendship (or more) with Oscar Wilde after his death, comparing the difference in the way that the Muggle and Wizarding world treat homosexuals. Bonus if we get to see a bit of young!Dumbledore frolicking through Victorian London. LOL, I should explain: Oscar is my JAM, man. Late 19th century England? ALSO MY JAM. Gay people in that period? MY LIFE. So: Dumbledore was 19 when Oscar died in 1900, putting him at... eleven when Lady Windermere's Fan premiere and Oscar started becoming real hot shit? So this is less friendship-with-Oscar, more "I got some sexy books from Paris in hopes of seducing you, boy next door who wants to take over the world, I hope this works!" It's a 19th century story about gay dudes that doesn't end tragically (for now): thus, accentuating the positive. HERE WE GO. (AO3)
Notes 2: ALSO, YES. I have seen Wilde! Thanks! Stephen Fry does recite lines of Salomé really amazingly.
"Oh no," Gellert sighed when he pushed open the gate to the Dumbledore residence's back garden. "You've brought the books out -- come, Albus, I managed to catch Bathilda in a pleasant mood and with a few 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am's from your respectable mouth, we could get to London today."
Albus hardly seemed to pay him any attention and continued paging through his book quickly, only putting it down after Gellert had sighed again even louder and threw himself down on the blanket next to Albus.
"You might actually like these, actually," Albus said, and actually, he wondered at his own voice and the knowing, assured tone it had taken because this territory was... quite uncharted. No, it had been charted, by ancients and the author of these works (supposedly, hopefully, for why else had he gone to prison?), but not by him, and not with this golden-haired boy with the easy, manic smile.
"All by -- wait, where do I know this name from?" Gellert asked.
"Probably from me," Albus replied. "They aren't sold in proper English bookshops anymore, not even wizarding ones," he mused. "I had to order them from Paris."
"Paris, Albus? Genuine Paris books and they're not even filthy, I swear, what is the point --"
"Are you even listening?" Albus laughed. "The part where they're practically banned in England because their author was sent down two years ago for gross indecency?"
"Now we're getting somewhere," Gellert said as he took one of the books. "Salomé..."
"Based on an old Muggle story about a princess demanding the head of a prophet," Albus said. "But much more... interesting."
"All right, and An Ideal Husband?"
Albus sat up and began sorting the books into piles. "These are the plays -- I'll put the more salacious ones on top."
"Come to me, Salomé," Gellert murmured as Albus continued sorting.
"And these are the poems -- they're not bad, but not very good, either."
"What a relief, I do hate poetry, you know."
"I gathered," Albus chuckled to himself. "And the essays are here, and the novel is here. And one questionable novel is here."
"Questionable?" Gellert asked.
"Later, promise," Albus said.
"As you say," he replied as he flipped through Salomé. "All right, how will you win me over? Why should we lie here in your garden reading books instead of taking a day for the city?"
"Because, Gellert, you may be surprised that there is more to be found in books than goblin wars and treatises on skirmishes between wizarding factions -- how what you want in the city may be brought right here to you."
Gellert moved so he lay on his back, Salomé left carelessly next to his head between him and Albus, and looked up at Albus, full of intrigue and ideas for causing a disturbance.
And today, while his brother and sister were focused on their studies all morning with a family friend down the road, he would find out what Oscar Wilde went to prison for -- whether that love that dare not speak its name was worth two years' hard labor, and whether that love was one in the same with the one he seemed to feel for the grinning boy next to him, who loved to run his fingers through his hair and unbutton his vest to play with the clip of his suspenders at his waist, and would occasionally catch Albus's attention with the tip of a finger running along Albus's jaw, drawing their glances together, the contact causing everything in the world to still for that moment.
"He wrote one novel," Albus began, "And it starts with a list of axioms for artists. Here are the good ones: There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all."
Gellert considered it for a moment, looking past Albus at some point in the distance, his mouth almost rolling the words around in his mouth. Eventually, he looked to Albus and laughed.
"Sounds wonderful. I like him already. You have my attention! By all means, go on!"
Albus smiled to himself and scanned through the lines for another good one, but found they were very art-based and not particularly relevant to the two of them, as much artists as they were housepainters (read: none at all.) He flipped into the novel proper and found a line he had marked.
"Something particularly relevant to our discussions: Conscience and cowardice are really the same things."
"Oh good, someone sees what I'm going on about," Gellert said, nudging Albus in the ribs.
"Remember this book is meant to shock, not define your life entirely," Albus laughed.
"Too late. When you're done, I'll go get my blade and you can carve all of these on my skin."
"Interesting use of the tea hour, I'll grant you that. Oh, and for those times when you feel like arguing with either Bathilda or myself, just remember: It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue."
Gellert laughed and raised his arm to shield his eyes from the sun. "All right, these are… cute, but you built this man up quite a lot. Shock me, Albus." Gellert moved a little closer and smiled as he said, "Go on. Shock me, thrill me, cause a scandal."
…he did, in a way, ask for it.
"I had hoped you might say that," Albus said, and he leaned in closer, eyes on the lines he had marked in his book as he read, his face sinking closer to Gellert's face. "The only way to get rid of a temptation," Albus enunciated carefully, in a much quieter voice than before, "is to yield to it."
Gellert smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Actually, before that is much more interesting," Albus began. "We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. "
Albus looked away from the book and his mouth raised ever so slightly on one side to see Gellert enraptured -- then noticed Gellert's hand had stopped playing with the clasp of his suspender and was resting on Albus's shoulder blade.
"I think I missed some of that," Gellert said, his eyes focused not on Albus's eyes. "What was that -- about the body?
Albus shifted slightly and (boldly, so he thought) placed the book on Gellert's chest, one hand holding it open, one his other hand in Gellert's hair. He looked into his face briefly and saw no panic, no fear, no disgust -- just interest, comfort, excitement, urging onward.
So he did.
"The body sins once, and has done with its sin," Albus said carefully, moving his hand in Gellert's hair, traveling slowly down one side and resting at the base of his neck, his eyes (somehow) focused on the words in the book, reading them over carefully, as he had done aloud in his room a hundred times before this moment, making sure every movement of his tongue was slow and considered, that his voice made his intentions absolutely clear. "For action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then, but the recollection of a pleasure --"
"Don't read that last part," Gellert interrupted. "Who needs regret, honestly?"
"Honestly," Albus agreed. The hand in Gellert's hair returned to the book -- Albus noted with a small twist in his stomach that Gellert had leaned his head into Albus's hand, and made a noise when his hand left -- and turned to another folded corner in the book. "I want to make Romeo jealous," Albus began, and his hand moved back to Gellert's neck, this time a finger lingering on the back of his neck for a moment before the length of his long hand rested on Gellert's collarbone, gently rubbing and feeling the bone beneath the skin, how real this finally was. "I want a breath of our passion to stir the dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain."
"Look at me," Gellert said, his voice so unlike him, rasping almost, gasping. Albus realized the skin beneath his hand had grown hot but his hand had grown cold, and Gellert grabbed at Albus's hand with both his own. "The play I was reading. That was a line. Thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth."
"You saw --"
"I saw you had underlined it about six times and used three different ink colors on that page, yes," Gellert laughed dryly as he brought Albus's fingers nearer and nearer to his mouth. "You know the words, Albus," Gellert said, his voice nearly a moan, eyes heavily lidded as he looked at Albus from the ground through his lashes. "You know them."
"Any in particular?" Albus laughed nervously, and Gellert nearly dropped his hands but Albus held on.
"I will kiss it now," Albus said, taking Gellert's hands and gently biting on his fingertips. "I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I --"
"My mouth," Gellert interrupted. "Albus," he said quickly, and he surged up, a hand raising to the back of Albus's neck and pulling him in for a hungry kiss, open and needing, pulling Albus down with him and letting Albus's arms wrap around his body, one supporting his neck, one down between their bodies, unclasping one side of the suspenders and letting his hand slide inside and grasp at Gellert's hip, his thigh, everything.
It was over quickly, due very much to their insistent effort: there was an acute awareness that even with the Dumbledore house's high hedges and gate, they were technically in public, and so Albus settled between Gellert's legs, which had lifted of their own accord, and their hips began moving against each other furiously through their clothes. Albus broke the kiss to gasp and breathe, and he shut his eyes tightly from the overwhelming sensation, and began to let out a yell before Gellert took his mouth again, their moans and profanities trapped in their throats.
Gellert's hands tightened on Albus, running down his back and then gripping onto his shoulders as he moved once, twice, and then clung on, gasping, to Albus.
Albus could feel Gellert breathing near his ear, and heard him whisper, quietly but louder than Albus had ever heard anything before, "Go on, keep going, come on, come on," and offered no resistance as Albus buried his face in Gellert's shoulder and stifled another yell or moan, ripped out of him by the warmth between them, every breath into the curve of Gellert's neck louder and needier, nearly incredulous at what they had just done.
Incredulous but ecstatic, renewed, brand new -- perhaps aware of everything, everything, for the first time in their lives.
"You've ruined me," came Gellert's voice in Albus's ear. "Completely, utterly," and Albus's heart nearly stopped, if it could have stopped (which it had no intention of doing.) "How will just my hand do ever again?"
Albus closed his eyes and laughed against Gellert's neck, still terrified of moving and ending this moment.
"And here I thought a quiet summer of contemplation and reading in the country would be dull," Gellert added. "You have made a reader of me, Albus."
"Let's -- let's go upstairs and clean up," Albus said, knowing very well they could clean up there, but it was really the inside and upstairs that intrigued him more.
"Yes," Gellert said as they separated and attempted to right their clothes for the brief trip to Albus's room when they may not be such a problem anymore. "Take me upstairs, and then take me upstairs."
Albus rolled his eyes for Gellert, but before they entered the house, he turned around and risked a lingering kiss on Gellert's mouth.
"What was that for," Gellert asked, and Albus pulled away slightly to note how his eyes were still closed, and perhaps he was as deeply in this as Albus was. Perhaps.
"A line I forgot," Albus explained, leaning in to Gellert's face again. "The curves of your lips rewrite history."
"And what does that mean?" Gellert asked.
"The hell if I know," Albus laughed. "We should figure it out together."
Title: Albus and Gellert and Oscar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Rating: R
Length: 2K
Summary: 16-year-old Gellert getting it on with 18-year-old Albus. In 1899. Which doubles as a warning, really.
Notes: For a prompt on accentuate the positive: Dumbledore reflects on his friendship (or more) with Oscar Wilde after his death, comparing the difference in the way that the Muggle and Wizarding world treat homosexuals. Bonus if we get to see a bit of young!Dumbledore frolicking through Victorian London. LOL, I should explain: Oscar is my JAM, man. Late 19th century England? ALSO MY JAM. Gay people in that period? MY LIFE. So: Dumbledore was 19 when Oscar died in 1900, putting him at... eleven when Lady Windermere's Fan premiere and Oscar started becoming real hot shit? So this is less friendship-with-Oscar, more "I got some sexy books from Paris in hopes of seducing you, boy next door who wants to take over the world, I hope this works!" It's a 19th century story about gay dudes that doesn't end tragically (for now): thus, accentuating the positive. HERE WE GO. (AO3)
Notes 2: ALSO, YES. I have seen Wilde! Thanks! Stephen Fry does recite lines of Salomé really amazingly.
"Oh no," Gellert sighed when he pushed open the gate to the Dumbledore residence's back garden. "You've brought the books out -- come, Albus, I managed to catch Bathilda in a pleasant mood and with a few 'yes ma'am' and 'no ma'am's from your respectable mouth, we could get to London today."
Albus hardly seemed to pay him any attention and continued paging through his book quickly, only putting it down after Gellert had sighed again even louder and threw himself down on the blanket next to Albus.
"You might actually like these, actually," Albus said, and actually, he wondered at his own voice and the knowing, assured tone it had taken because this territory was... quite uncharted. No, it had been charted, by ancients and the author of these works (supposedly, hopefully, for why else had he gone to prison?), but not by him, and not with this golden-haired boy with the easy, manic smile.
"All by -- wait, where do I know this name from?" Gellert asked.
"Probably from me," Albus replied. "They aren't sold in proper English bookshops anymore, not even wizarding ones," he mused. "I had to order them from Paris."
"Paris, Albus? Genuine Paris books and they're not even filthy, I swear, what is the point --"
"Are you even listening?" Albus laughed. "The part where they're practically banned in England because their author was sent down two years ago for gross indecency?"
"Now we're getting somewhere," Gellert said as he took one of the books. "Salomé..."
"Based on an old Muggle story about a princess demanding the head of a prophet," Albus said. "But much more... interesting."
"All right, and An Ideal Husband?"
Albus sat up and began sorting the books into piles. "These are the plays -- I'll put the more salacious ones on top."
"Come to me, Salomé," Gellert murmured as Albus continued sorting.
"And these are the poems -- they're not bad, but not very good, either."
"What a relief, I do hate poetry, you know."
"I gathered," Albus chuckled to himself. "And the essays are here, and the novel is here. And one questionable novel is here."
"Questionable?" Gellert asked.
"Later, promise," Albus said.
"As you say," he replied as he flipped through Salomé. "All right, how will you win me over? Why should we lie here in your garden reading books instead of taking a day for the city?"
"Because, Gellert, you may be surprised that there is more to be found in books than goblin wars and treatises on skirmishes between wizarding factions -- how what you want in the city may be brought right here to you."
Gellert moved so he lay on his back, Salomé left carelessly next to his head between him and Albus, and looked up at Albus, full of intrigue and ideas for causing a disturbance.
And today, while his brother and sister were focused on their studies all morning with a family friend down the road, he would find out what Oscar Wilde went to prison for -- whether that love that dare not speak its name was worth two years' hard labor, and whether that love was one in the same with the one he seemed to feel for the grinning boy next to him, who loved to run his fingers through his hair and unbutton his vest to play with the clip of his suspenders at his waist, and would occasionally catch Albus's attention with the tip of a finger running along Albus's jaw, drawing their glances together, the contact causing everything in the world to still for that moment.
"He wrote one novel," Albus began, "And it starts with a list of axioms for artists. Here are the good ones: There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all."
Gellert considered it for a moment, looking past Albus at some point in the distance, his mouth almost rolling the words around in his mouth. Eventually, he looked to Albus and laughed.
"Sounds wonderful. I like him already. You have my attention! By all means, go on!"
Albus smiled to himself and scanned through the lines for another good one, but found they were very art-based and not particularly relevant to the two of them, as much artists as they were housepainters (read: none at all.) He flipped into the novel proper and found a line he had marked.
"Something particularly relevant to our discussions: Conscience and cowardice are really the same things."
"Oh good, someone sees what I'm going on about," Gellert said, nudging Albus in the ribs.
"Remember this book is meant to shock, not define your life entirely," Albus laughed.
"Too late. When you're done, I'll go get my blade and you can carve all of these on my skin."
"Interesting use of the tea hour, I'll grant you that. Oh, and for those times when you feel like arguing with either Bathilda or myself, just remember: It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue."
Gellert laughed and raised his arm to shield his eyes from the sun. "All right, these are… cute, but you built this man up quite a lot. Shock me, Albus." Gellert moved a little closer and smiled as he said, "Go on. Shock me, thrill me, cause a scandal."
…he did, in a way, ask for it.
"I had hoped you might say that," Albus said, and he leaned in closer, eyes on the lines he had marked in his book as he read, his face sinking closer to Gellert's face. "The only way to get rid of a temptation," Albus enunciated carefully, in a much quieter voice than before, "is to yield to it."
Gellert smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Actually, before that is much more interesting," Albus began. "We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. "
Albus looked away from the book and his mouth raised ever so slightly on one side to see Gellert enraptured -- then noticed Gellert's hand had stopped playing with the clasp of his suspender and was resting on Albus's shoulder blade.
"I think I missed some of that," Gellert said, his eyes focused not on Albus's eyes. "What was that -- about the body?
Albus shifted slightly and (boldly, so he thought) placed the book on Gellert's chest, one hand holding it open, one his other hand in Gellert's hair. He looked into his face briefly and saw no panic, no fear, no disgust -- just interest, comfort, excitement, urging onward.
So he did.
"The body sins once, and has done with its sin," Albus said carefully, moving his hand in Gellert's hair, traveling slowly down one side and resting at the base of his neck, his eyes (somehow) focused on the words in the book, reading them over carefully, as he had done aloud in his room a hundred times before this moment, making sure every movement of his tongue was slow and considered, that his voice made his intentions absolutely clear. "For action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then, but the recollection of a pleasure --"
"Don't read that last part," Gellert interrupted. "Who needs regret, honestly?"
"Honestly," Albus agreed. The hand in Gellert's hair returned to the book -- Albus noted with a small twist in his stomach that Gellert had leaned his head into Albus's hand, and made a noise when his hand left -- and turned to another folded corner in the book. "I want to make Romeo jealous," Albus began, and his hand moved back to Gellert's neck, this time a finger lingering on the back of his neck for a moment before the length of his long hand rested on Gellert's collarbone, gently rubbing and feeling the bone beneath the skin, how real this finally was. "I want a breath of our passion to stir the dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain."
"Look at me," Gellert said, his voice so unlike him, rasping almost, gasping. Albus realized the skin beneath his hand had grown hot but his hand had grown cold, and Gellert grabbed at Albus's hand with both his own. "The play I was reading. That was a line. Thou wouldst not suffer me to kiss thy mouth."
"You saw --"
"I saw you had underlined it about six times and used three different ink colors on that page, yes," Gellert laughed dryly as he brought Albus's fingers nearer and nearer to his mouth. "You know the words, Albus," Gellert said, his voice nearly a moan, eyes heavily lidded as he looked at Albus from the ground through his lashes. "You know them."
"Any in particular?" Albus laughed nervously, and Gellert nearly dropped his hands but Albus held on.
"I will kiss it now," Albus said, taking Gellert's hands and gently biting on his fingertips. "I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit. Yes, I --"
"My mouth," Gellert interrupted. "Albus," he said quickly, and he surged up, a hand raising to the back of Albus's neck and pulling him in for a hungry kiss, open and needing, pulling Albus down with him and letting Albus's arms wrap around his body, one supporting his neck, one down between their bodies, unclasping one side of the suspenders and letting his hand slide inside and grasp at Gellert's hip, his thigh, everything.
It was over quickly, due very much to their insistent effort: there was an acute awareness that even with the Dumbledore house's high hedges and gate, they were technically in public, and so Albus settled between Gellert's legs, which had lifted of their own accord, and their hips began moving against each other furiously through their clothes. Albus broke the kiss to gasp and breathe, and he shut his eyes tightly from the overwhelming sensation, and began to let out a yell before Gellert took his mouth again, their moans and profanities trapped in their throats.
Gellert's hands tightened on Albus, running down his back and then gripping onto his shoulders as he moved once, twice, and then clung on, gasping, to Albus.
Albus could feel Gellert breathing near his ear, and heard him whisper, quietly but louder than Albus had ever heard anything before, "Go on, keep going, come on, come on," and offered no resistance as Albus buried his face in Gellert's shoulder and stifled another yell or moan, ripped out of him by the warmth between them, every breath into the curve of Gellert's neck louder and needier, nearly incredulous at what they had just done.
Incredulous but ecstatic, renewed, brand new -- perhaps aware of everything, everything, for the first time in their lives.
"You've ruined me," came Gellert's voice in Albus's ear. "Completely, utterly," and Albus's heart nearly stopped, if it could have stopped (which it had no intention of doing.) "How will just my hand do ever again?"
Albus closed his eyes and laughed against Gellert's neck, still terrified of moving and ending this moment.
"And here I thought a quiet summer of contemplation and reading in the country would be dull," Gellert added. "You have made a reader of me, Albus."
"Let's -- let's go upstairs and clean up," Albus said, knowing very well they could clean up there, but it was really the inside and upstairs that intrigued him more.
"Yes," Gellert said as they separated and attempted to right their clothes for the brief trip to Albus's room when they may not be such a problem anymore. "Take me upstairs, and then take me upstairs."
Albus rolled his eyes for Gellert, but before they entered the house, he turned around and risked a lingering kiss on Gellert's mouth.
"What was that for," Gellert asked, and Albus pulled away slightly to note how his eyes were still closed, and perhaps he was as deeply in this as Albus was. Perhaps.
"A line I forgot," Albus explained, leaning in to Gellert's face again. "The curves of your lips rewrite history."
"And what does that mean?" Gellert asked.
"The hell if I know," Albus laughed. "We should figure it out together."