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Summary
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.)