Chapter Text
With a deep sigh, Grindelwald finally allows his aching, heavy body to sink into the comfortable cushions of the armchair in his private living room. Almost unconsciously, his tired, mismatched eyes wander over to the small picture frame sitting on the desk a few meters away. One of the only pictures of Albus and him. Of their summer. Of better times.
It’s never been easy to feel at peace with that gaping wound on his heart – and it’s never been harder to be without him than since the day their bond broke. The distrust and apprehension in Albus’ eyes that day still nearly tears him apart every time he remembers it. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that Albus thinks he never loved him. That he used him and played with him and manipulated him, only to then run off and abandon him – although nothing could be further from the truth.
Although nothing is harder than pretending to be fine these days.
He spends so much time, effort and energy on upholding an illusion of control, of composure, confidence and pride, half the time, he’s unable to focus on anything else. His dreams and illusions of Dumbledore coming back to him, joining him and building a life and a world together have long withered and died, buried for good the day he last saw the other half of his soul.
Part of him wishes Albus had killed him that day. Put him out of his misery and rid the world of the scourge that is Gellert Grindelwald and his misguided, distorted ideas of how the world should be. It would be so much easier being dead and waiting for him in the afterlife – if there is such a thing for him. He’s tried to bring it up with Vinda, too, these recurring thoughts about death feeling like the better option – she hadn’t really wanted to hear any of it, though. Waved him off with a few sentences about these feelings going away soon, that he’d forget Albus and why not look for a young, pretty distraction.
He tried. Twice. When the third time came around and he yet again couldn’t get it up because it simply was not Albus, he gave up and found another remedy instead. One that was easier to come by and depended less on his brain cooperating. One that wouldn’t touch his heart as much, either.
With a swift wave of his hand, a disillusionment charm lifts from a small drawer opposite from where he’s sitting still, his belt undone already, the waistband of his trousers pushed barely past his hips, partially exposing a prominent bruise that’s hardly even started to retreat.
“Accio,” he whispers, then regards the slim syringe now perched between his fingers, filled with translucent, burnt amber relief.
Younger versions of him would’ve probably been above such things, too proud and idealistic to stoop as low as using any substance beyond alcohol at all – but the way things stand… time is running out anyway. He sees himself in solitary confinement almost every night when sleep takes over and he can’t suppress his visions anymore, and judging by how seeing that future self almost feels like looking in the mirror right now, there are weeks, maybe months of freedom left.
He half wishes he was a better man.
Stronger.
Braver.
But how can he resist, when there is no hope anymore, and it is so easy to numb his heart like this…?
“I’m sorry, Albus…” he mutters as the needle breaks his skin and enters his femoral vein easily and quickly. He pushes down the plunger and closes his eyes, accepting his weakness as the only thing that would still bring him the illusion of comfort.
“Forgive me.”