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The cool early morning air becomes harsher with its bite. February can be so cruel.
Arthur is surprised to see him. And Alfred is surprised to see him, too. Alfred’s wearing a military green puffer jacket. And Arthur is wearing a long, dark blue wool coat that sits just a few centimetres shy of his knees. Arthur’s hands are hidden in the comfort of his handmade gloves, olive green and white with little red spots embroidered neatly to form a pattern. And Alfred’s hands are buried deep inside his pockets. Alfred knows that Arthur knows he does not have gloves. And Arthur knows that Alfred knows that Arthur knows that he does not have gloves.
Neither of them speaks, but it’s because neither of them really knows what to say. It’s so fucking cold and their lips are chapped and Alfred’s shivering. He’s shivering a lot. But they don’t say a word for those reasons, though they’re valid reasons enough. They both know that.
And they’re grown men who’ve had exes who aren’t each other. They’ve danced with other men, women, sometimes someone in between, or neither, or everything. They’ve fallen for all different kinds of people, people who aren’t each other. They know the rules. It’s a standard, really. You aren’t obliged to converse with your ex. Sometimes it’s encouraged. Block that asshole, he can go fuck himself, never liked him anyway. Whatever. The works.
But Alfred’s sitting at the bench where they first met, and Arthur had every intention of sitting there, too. Not for sentimental reasons, though. Of course not.
(But that’s them. They lie. They lied to each other, a lot.)
“Uh, hi.” Alfred breaks the ice, and he snickers because there’s snow everywhere and he’s the one breaking the ice. He wants to point it out, but he doesn’t, because deep down he knows Arthur knows why he’s laughing. “What’re you doing here?”
Fair enough. Arthur has been residing in Brighton, which is decidedly not in the United States of America. But Boston is a far cry from Los Angeles, too, where Alfred’s supposed to be. Arthur returns the question: “I could say the same thing for you.”
Alfred’s grin becomes more sheepish. He’s been caught, and he knows it. Arthur imagines that Alfred would be raising his hands in defeat by now, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have gloves on. Arthur sighs and, against his better judgement, dusts the snow off the empty space next to Alfred, who makes space for him. Alfred didn’t even ask. But he would’ve, eventually.
There’s a respectable distance between them, and neither of them know it, but they’re thinking about how there used to be no space between them at all. Neither of them are speaking, still. They merely stare at the snow in front of them.
“How have you been?” Alfred’s the first to break the ice – again. “You look good.”
Arthur huffs out a chuckle at Alfred’s hasty addition. “So do you.”
(Neither of them has truly given each other a proper gander. But they assume they look good, because they both acknowledge it as a fact, even three years post-breakup. They acknowledged it the first time they met, they acknowledged it throughout their seven years of togetherness, and they acknowledged it the day they walked away from each other.)
“Got business here in Boston?” Alfred continues. This time, he actually looks at Arthur, and he smiles because he’s right – Arthur looks good. Thirty-four looks good on him. He’s got wrinkles and fine lines, but it all suits him. He’s so pale, he’s so handsome. Arthur isn’t looking at Alfred, though, but it’s okay.
“Something like that.” Arthur leaves it vague and somehow, somehow Alfred’s okay with it. It used to annoy him. And, okay, maybe it’s still annoying now. But it’s Arthur. Arthur was vague like that before. Alfred imagines it’s a hard habit to kick. That, or because he’s Arthur’s ex-boyfriend and he isn’t owed an explanation. “And you, Alfred?”
This time, Arthur looks at Alfred and Alfred’s looking away as he thinks. This time, Arthur frowns deeply because he’s right, Alfred looks good. He looks wonderful and he’s freezing and Arthur can see his nose is starting to run, but he still looks good and Arthur doesn’t feel disgust at all. He should, but doesn’t. Can’t, really.
Alfred makes a vague noise. ‘Meh’. Alfred used to text him that all the time. How was work? Meh . How was the movie? Meh . Are you feeling better? Meh . Why aren’t you answering my fucking calls? Meh . It’s vague and it annoyed Arthur then and it annoys Arthur now, but he doesn’t have the right to complain because he’s just Alfred’s ex.
“So we’re both here for no reason.” Alfred snorts. Arthur shrugs. He supposes so. Somehow, it’s funny to the two of them and they chuckle. And they look at each other, and they both know they think they look good to each other. They know each other so well. Too well. There’s a static, a spark. Electricity. Chemistry.
It’s familiar.
It’s autumn and there’s a really cute guy sitting on the bench. He looks to be around Alfred’s age. Maybe older. He feels older but he doesn’t look old . Maybe it’s the way he’s dressed, or the way he’s reading a worn copy of some old book. It’s a legit vintage, Alfred can tell. The man is intriguing. He feels like a mystery, and mysteries are already attractive on their own, but this mystery’s handsome and classy and probably intelligent, with his thick eyebrows knitted together as he reads his book thoroughly.
And Alfred doesn’t know it, but Arthur has been reading the same goddamn paragraph for the last two minutes because he can feel the cute guy staring at him from across the walkway. He’s with his friends. He looks popular. The gaggle he’s surrounded by is diverse in age. He’s a natural magnet. He’s intriguing, and he has a lovely smile, and he seems like he must be lovely to speak with.
When their eyes lock, there’s a static, a spark. Electricity. Chemistry.
(Love?)
Whatever it is, Alfred musters the courage and takes the first step.
Alfred doesn’t know what else to talk about. The wind is harsher now. No wonder no one else is around. He shivers. He’s too scared to check if his hands are frostbitten by now. They certainly feel numb.
Arthur wordlessly digs into the pocket of his blue coat. He isn’t looking at Alfred as he places the spare winter gloves down on the space between them. He simply sheds his gloves, muttering a profanity as he realises just how fucking cold it is, and he quickly wears his spare gloves. They aren’t as toasty, but he doesn’t need them as much as Alfred needs the warmth of his original gloves.
Alfred also doesn’t say anything as he picks up Arthur’s discarded ones. His hands are bright red and Arthur’s relieved when Alfred finally wears the gloves. “Thank you.” Alfred’s voice is shaky when he finally does speak. But he’s grateful. He’s really grateful. Arthur can tell. “Thank you so much, Arthur. Holy shit.”
“Honestly, how could you have forgotten those?” Arthur quips, but he’s lighthearted. He’s mostly just relieved. “In a rush?”
“Sort of.” Alfred chuckles. It’s more breath than voice, because he’s cold, but Arthur feels warm. Alfred was sunny when he first saw him – he still is, as far as Arthur can tell. He’s just that kind of guy. Arthur is happy he hasn’t changed much, or at least, it doesn’t seem like he has. But Alfred doesn’t say anything more, nothing else for Arthur to think about, to idealise. He’s not obligated to say more, but Arthur feels disappointed, nonetheless.
The silence creeps in. But it’s always been there.
It’s quiet when Alfred sits next to Arthur. They don’t know each other’s names yet, though. But they have memorised each other’s faces from multiple stolen glances. They’ve stitched together each individual feature in their minds. Arthur is handsome to Alfred, and Alfred is handsome to Arthur.
Alfred doesn’t even know if Arthur’s into men, but Arthur can tell Alfred is. Even though he’s mostly sure, he doesn’t say anything. He continues reading the same paragraph:
We are sun and moon, dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognise each other, to learn to see the other and honour him for what he is: each the other's opposite and complement.
It doesn’t mean much to Arthur. Well, no, it means something, but not much at that moment. All he can think about is this handsome stranger sitting next to him and how he is desperately trying to appear more intelligent than he already is.
Alfred already thinks Arthur is, but Arthur doesn’t know that. He can’t read a stranger as well as he reads his books.
(And he isn’t exactly reading his book at that moment, so. That makes things worse.)
It’s quiet and Alfred wishes he could say something, but Arthur is concentrating on his book. Alfred knows how to respect that. But the silence is uncomfortable but he’s too intimidated to say anything because this stranger looks and feels like a dream, and while Alfred does think himself handsome he knows books take precedence over handsome boys to (possibly straight) intellectuals.
So, they sit in silence.
When Arthur’s phone rings, it’s Alfred who flinches. Arthur isn’t particularly surprised. But Alfred was surprised. Arthur takes his phone out, and Alfred doesn’t know why but for a moment he’s scared of what he’d see. That he’d see a face, a motherfucking red heart emoji next to some cheesy pet name like ‘pookie’ even though it isn't Arthur’s style. The whole seven years they’d spent together, Alfred’s name stayed ‘Alfred Jones’.
(But his contact photo in Arthur’s phone was the two of them. It was a picture they’d taken in bed, three days after becoming official, a blurry one with Alfred kissing Arthur’s cheek. It was messy and it was raw and it made their hearts flutter every time they encountered it.)
It’s an alarm, not a phone call. It’s 6:30 a.m. now. That explains a lot, and in spite of himself, Alfred chuckles, then he laughs. Arthur looks at him curiously. He’s smiling, though. “What?” Arthur asks.
“Since when did you start waking up before alarms?” Alfred’s words are halted, squeezed through chuckles and amusement. Arthur’s face becomes pink with embarrassment, but he smiles a bit, too. He’s trying not to smile, Alfred can tell, but he just is, and Alfred thinks about all the times Arthur had tried fighting the urge to smile at Alfred whenever he was supposed to be angry with him.
“I’m pushing forty, Alfred. Is that even a question?” Arthur answers. Alfred laughs more. It’s a little excessive, but Arthur sort of likes it. He and Alfred have very different palates when it comes to comedy, so it feels nice. Especially when it isn’t Alfred laughing at Arthur, but with him.
Alfred keeps laughing. It really is excessive. But Arthur finds it charming. Irritatingly so.
And Arthur isn’t laughing, but Alfred could see Arthur smiling.
And it’s supposed to feel like how things used to be. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like it, but not really.
Things are never really the same.
“Uh, hi.” Alfred is the one to break the ice, and he snickers a bit because it’s autumn and the ice is yet to come in. Arthur doesn’t understand why this handsome stranger is snickering, but he’s got nice teeth and nice lips and he smiles with his eyes, which are extremely beautiful and blue.
Arthur pretends he isn’t too intrigued, but he sets his book down anyway, because he’s courteous. Alfred appreciates it, and Arthur sees that he does. “Yes?” Arthur’s suddenly so aware of his accent. “Need anything?”
Alfred wants to be smart and say, ‘yeah, your number’. But he can tell that this man is a classy man, because he’s English, so Alfred doesn’t say unclassy shit like that. “Oh, uhh.” Real classy. “Cool accent.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur is a little disappointed. He almost picks his book up again.
But Alfred notices that and he feels that push and he blurts out–
“Are you doing anything later?”
Arthur blinks, because it feels like deja vu. Except, though the weather was cold, it wasn’t nearly as dreary and biting as this one.
And this question is conversational, not investigative. Alfred isn’t asking to see if he has an inning; he’s asking because it’s small talk.
And Arthur’s heart aches, but it isn’t weeping. He looks at Alfred.
“Oh.” Arthur looks at Alfred. He’s surprised, to say the least, but he’s been warned by his friends that Americans tend to be more straightforward. They should have warned him that they would be handsome, too, but then again, this is the most handsome bloke Arthur has seen in so very long – American or no.
Arthur could give his itinerary away, for all he cares. But instead, he smirks, and he likes the way Alfred looks disarmed but more intrigued, too. “And your name is?”
Alfred flusters. Embarrassment is only the secondary reason behind it – Arthur is so, so handsome, and his voice is really sexy, and his smirk is worth melting over. Still, Alfred forces a grin. He feels ignited.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me you’re free later.”
“I’m meeting with my partner.”
Alfred’s smiling. He has been smiling. It’s easy and natural and he’s just Mr. Smiles, and smiling at Arthur is easy, but at that moment, he feels like a phoney. He’s still smiling, but his cheeks feel like twitching and it’s starting to hurt and most importantly he doesn’t understand why it hurts and why it feels so fresh and new and painful and why Arthur would tell him that as if they hadn’t walked away from each other three years ago .
“Oh.”
When Arthur hears Alfred say that, he almost regrets telling him. It’s pure emotion, he tries to rationalise, it’s because he feels sympathy because such a simple sound carried what sounded like pain but Arthur doesn’t want to be presumptuous but also it definitely sounded loaded with hurt and he knows Alfred and he wishes he didn’t still know Alfred, but he did . He knows Alfred, and he knows himself, and he knows that they’re sharing that same confusion, carrying the same question, wondering why the feelings are still so vivid in spite of all these years.
“Unfortunately, I’m occupied.” Arthur snorts. He isn’t lying. He has people to meet, important people, but Arthur wishes he doesn’t have to.
And for a moment, there’s a flicker of worry that this handsome stranger would walk away from him. But it’s the twenty-first century and they have cell phones, and Arthur feels immense relief when Alfred takes his phone out.
“What about tomorrow?”
“Cool.” Alfred nods. It’s stiff, robotic, forced. But he’s still smiling. It’s unnerving. Arthur never did like whenever Alfred did that, whenever he’d smile widely but his eyes would be telling a different story. Sometimes it would be anger, sometimes it would be sadness, sometimes it would be straight up nothing and Alfred wouldn’t tell him what it all meant because he’s got a massive fucking ego and he probably– definitely –still does.
Meh. Fucking meh.
“I’m assuming you’ve got a partner of your own, too.”
Arthur’s not smiling, not as much as Alfred is. Arthur isn’t the kind to grin, anyway, so it isn’t anything new. But Alfred could detect it in his voice, that hint of…something. Arthur always pulled that shit back when they were still together. He was secretive, sometimes, maybe not with his actual secrets, but his actual emotions – not until he was drunk, and Alfred liked drinking but he never did enjoy getting as shitfaced as Arthur did. Arthur would withdraw during arguments and refuse to speak to Alfred until he was drunk and they’d sort of resolve it and sort of be okay until being just okay with each other would get too exhausting and they’d bury the hatchet.
“Oh! Yeah. Yeah, he’s– we’re great.”
“That’s good. That’s– that’s great, Alfred. I’m happy for you.”
“Hey, same here.”
Tomorrow sounds great, but Arthur doesn’t tell Alfred that. Not yet. And Alfred’s number sounds even greater as Alfred dictates it to him. Arthur’s trying his hardest not to look overly excited as he adds him to his contacts. He finally learns that his name is Alfred, and Alfred finally learns that his name is Arthur, whose number is now in his phone.
“Just…give me a call when you wanna hang out.” The excitement in Alfred’s voice is thinly veiled, and he can’t really keep his grin at its minimum, either. Arthur finds it endearing.
“So, uh…this was actually really cool.”
“Strangely, it was. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Arthur holds out his hand, for a handshake. He’s forgotten that he’s lent Alfred his gloves for a moment. Perhaps he should ask for them back, but those gloves have always been a size bigger than his actual hands and his fiancee’s hands are smaller than his, so it seems it had been made for neither of them. Marianne would not question it; Arthur has knitted and crocheted her plenty of gloves her size. She probably doesn’t even remember they exist.
And Alfred is acutely aware that he’s still wearing Arthur’s gloves. His boyfriend would ask questions, too, but Kiku’s a wonderful guy and he’d understand and Alfred would be honest with him.
You know, if he even asks.
Arthur and Alfred clasp their hands together and shake firmly. Un-romantically. Platonically. It’s quite corporate and plain but those memories are not.
For what it’s worth, Alfred still loves Arthur, and Arthur still loves Alfred.
“Call me anytime, Arthur!”
Arthur is amused. “What if I call you in a decade?”
“Well, shit, that’s chill. I wouldn’t just change my number like that. And maybe I’ll be the one to reach out. What do you say?”
“We should hang out again sometime, huh? Could be a double date.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. We’ll let you know when we’re around the area.”
“Cool! I actually think you and Kiku’d get on great.”
“Oh, is that so? Then I look forward to our next meeting.”
“Awesome! Just– call me, I guess?”
“I’ll be sure to. You can bug me when you need to, as well.”
“Great, thanks! See ya around, Arthur!”
“Likewise, Alfred.”
“I say that…that works for me. I’ll likely be here within the decade, anyway. Maybe by then I’ll find a free spot for you, Alfred.”
“Same number?”
“Same number.”
“Cool. I’ll hold you to that! See ya around, Arthur!”
“Likewise…Alfred.”
Alfred and Arthur go their separate ways, and steal a final glance. They smile.
Alfred and Arthur go their separate ways.
Neither looks back.
And the numbers in their phones have always remained the same, and they know that.
Neither calls.