Cucumber sandwiches were among on of the few British preferences to which Albus was not beholden. Cold curried chicken sandwiches, however, proved far more interesting. He had, however, only consumed a couple small portions before moving on to the grapes wrapped in marzipan.
"It was a busy summer," Albus supposed, by way of something of an apology.
He enjoyed Cassandra's company, very much, and he regretted that so often he was kept from spending more time with her. Gellert's more frequent interactions with her stemmed from necessity; Albus was rarely the target of much violence. However skeptical, a part of Albus hoped the troubled few who pursued the path of anarchy realised what a terrible blunder it would be to kill him. The backlash in Gellert's favour would be devastating, and he'd have no one left to mitigate him, in Gellert's solitary iron grip, their world would eventually crack and shatter. Gellert was simply too much for the world. It was a thought that crossed Albus's mind with fondness.
Albus leaned back on on hand, glad to be outside after so much time spent indoors, on paperwork, and treaties, and necessary plans. His shoes and socks were still on, but his tie had been pulled free and the top button of his collar undone. Fetching though Gellert's more military ensembles could be, Albus was quite content to have a much less restricted wardrobe.
"How have you been?" he asked, the question careful enough to be a little less than casual, given the state of things since Gellert had come disturbingly close to death. It was difficult to exactly begrudge Gellert's disposition over the matter, though he didn't much enjoy seeing Cassandra unduly treated for the shortcoming of being human and fallible.