“I think I love you,” Gellert says.

It’s a hot summers day, the waves lapping against the shore of the island. Albus watches them; the blue almost blinding, presses up against the shore and then receding. He dips his hands in the water, lets it wash over his fingers, burries them back into the hot sand.

They had spent the day peacefully - reading in the morning, kissing later on. Albus smiles to himself as he remembers it - he had been deeply engrossed in his book, something about immortality and death. Gellert has snuck up behind him, wrapped his arms around Albus’ chest and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.

And what else was he supposed to do after that? Pressed up against a tree, the leaves causing shadows across Gellert’s face, his eyes strange and glittering in the sunlight. Albus had dug his fingers into Gellert’s side, held him so tight that they couldn’t be pried apart.

It was only here on the island, away from his brother and sister and everyone else in the village, it was only here when he felt like he was free.

Albus watches the water, the rocks and the sand, thinks about Gellert’s smile and laugh and smirks to himself.