It was with good reason that Albus felt a bit wary of the way Gellert looked at him. This was what came of acting rashly, impulsively, of being sure about anything when it came to the matter of Gellert. He'd left himself no convenient avenue of escape without yielding these sorts of concessions, had eliminated entirely the option of politely excusing himself without eliciting too much of Gellert's curiosity or interest. It would have been best, he concluded, for Gellert to have simply not been made aware of his presence in this place. This history, or future, would have been easy enough to conceal. By 1904, Gellert had yet to make a statement on record regarding him, and Albus had maintained a mirrored silence. Both for rather different reasons, no doubt.
"I suspect life is never more interesting than when one is young enough to know everything," Albus said, all too content to evade the issue entirely. And he told himself that he only chose Wilde because he hoped the reference would snag Gellert's attention, to function as a distraction, and not some veiled indication. It was simply too difficult to tell entirely what he as doing, or what he thought he was doing-- whether he was obscuring himself, or leaving Gellert clues. Because even in the back of his mind, he knew than this was not the time to leave, to withdraw, lest it appear as though he wanted to leave the moment Gellert began to pry into their past. And future. But to stay, to keep on, he'd have to find a way to lie, ways he wasn't entirely sure were best, ways he might be unable to talk his way out of, later. With Gellert, Albus preferred the greatest possible flexibility.
Albus had never more appreciated the division of the Channel between England and the continent, and never more had he missed the insular layers of formal dress. "Again, forgive me for my lacklustre introduction," Albus said, his inflection slipping into the recogniseable intonation of an impending farewell. "I'm afraid I interrupted myself in the middle of an errand."