Chapter 4: Coffee

Arthur was running late for their . . . well, at this point there wasn't much point in denying that it was a date. He had been detained at work and the subway had taken longer than he would have liked. Running was not something he would stoop too, but he walked quickly and every few minutes he would glance at his watch with a "tsk." He pushed the door open to the Dunkin Donuts at 5:44.

Alfred was already there, though he couldn't have been waiting long. He was sitting at a table in front of the window with a newspaper and a coffee, munching happily on a donut. He was wearing the bomber jacket again. Arthur walked up to him, slightly breathless. "Good afternoon. You don't read the newspaper in the morning?"

Alfred looked up and smiled, quickly swallowing his mouthful of donut. "Hey Arthur!" He gestured at the other chair. "You want a coffee or something? I was running late this morning so I didn't have a chance," he said, waving the newspaper.

"Ah, right. Uh, no thanks, I'm fine." He sat down and didn't know what to do with his hands. He realised he should probably get a scone or something. "Well, I'll –" He made to stand up again, but Alfred gestured him back down, shaking his head. He dropped the newspaper and stood up.

"What do you want? Donut?"

"Just a pastry, please. Your choice." He smiled at Alfred without thinking about it, and Alfred smiled back, a calmer, more genuine smile than usual. His gaze lingered at Arthur's eyes for a moment, and then he disappeared into the line.

Arthur was left looking at the newspaper. He tried to read the headlines upside down. It looked like Alfred had it open to the sports section. His gaze roved over to the half-eaten donut. Glazed, with sprinkles, he noted. Interesting. He'd taken Alfred as more of a chocolate donut sort of person. He blushed. Arthur, what does it matter whether it's a chocolate donut or not? Someone's preference of donut hardly says anything significant about their character. Alfred was taking too long, so finally he gave up waiting patiently and picked up the newspaper. He flipped to the Artssection and was trying to find something worth reading when someone with a noticeably French accent said:

"Arthur, imagine meeting you here! What a surprise."

Arthur's shoulders stiffened automatically. A well-dressed man with a loose blond ponytail appeared in his field of vision. He put down the newspaper. "Hello, Francis."

"Still alone as ever, I see."

Arthur scowled and met his eyes. "Fuck off."

Alfred appeared behind Francis, carrying a donut and some kind of danish. He stopped and raised his eyebrows at Arthur. Arthur shook his head slightly, but Alfred didn't seem to get the hint.

"Work going well?" Francis asked with a smile.

"Smashingly," Arthur replied sarcastically.

Alfred bumped into Francis' elbow slightly, as if by accident. He dumped the food on the table and met Francis's eyes. "Oh, didn't see you there. I'm Alfred." He smiled and stuck out a hand.

Francis gave Arthur a quick glance and then looked back at Arthur. He returned the smile and took the offered hand. "Francis." He smirked. "I don't suppose you're here with Arthur on business."

"Uh, no," Alfred said, looking vaguely uncertain of what he was supposed to say.

"Ah, well then," he said, turning back to Arthur with a predator-like grin. "Excuse my mistake, mon ami (my friend). I'll be leaving you. Oh, and –" He looked at Alfred. "Be careful; he's not as young as he looks. I don't suppose he's told you that he's 33?" Arthur glared at him and Alfred frowned. "Have fun, you two." He wiggled some fingers at Arthur in a sort of half-wave and left.

"Who was that?" Alfred asked as he retook his seat.

"Francis Bonnefoy." Arthur ripped his danish in half savagely.

"Where do you know him from?"

"Childhood, unfortunately." He chose half of the danish and continued to pick it apart, refusing to meet Alfred's eyes.

"Look, it doesn't bother me." Arthur looked up. "The age thing. I saw it on your driver's license when I paid for the cab anyway." He smiled at Arthur and leaned over the table. "Really. It's no biggie." He paused. "Do you want to know how old I am?" Arthur swallowed but didn't say anything. "I'm 24 – in July."

And it's September at the moment. He didn't laugh at the joke. He looked back down at the danish. His heart felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds. He's only 23. Oh God. He felt a hand on his and looked up again. Alfred's fingers were cool and he was smiling at him, but it was a slight smile. His gaze was earnest and straight-forward. "Arthur. I know we don't know a whole lot about each other, but I like you a lot."

"Thanks," Arthur said, not knowing what else to say.

"Do you like me at all?" Alfred was looking at him searchingly.

You can't tell? Arthur thought, genuinely confused about why Alfred was asking him this. Was he really so hard to read? No one had ever asked him that before; every other relationship he had entered into had been built on assumptions with the occasional verification of "I love you" or something similar. Arthur realised the situation was almost funny; here he was, assuming that Alfred was assuming things that he could hardly admit out loud.

"Yes," he said with a slight smile. "I like you."

Alfred grinned and squeezed his hand. "Awesome." He let go and bit into his donut, still smiling happily. For his part, Arthur felt slightly sick. This isn't going to end well, he found himself thinking. None of your relationships have worked out well. None of them. And this seems even less likely to succeed than the rest. You're going to get hurt, and he's going to get hurt, and it's going to be your fault. He looked at Alfred, happily gulping down terrible coffee, sprinkles stuck to his chin. You don't deserve him. (And maybe you deserve happiness at all, was the thought that lurked in the back of his mind.)

"So how was work, really?"

Arthur sighed. "It was fine. Just the usual, you know."

"No fun, yeah. What would your job be if you could just choose?"

Arthur opened his mouth, but closed it again. He thought for a moment. What did he really want to do? He hadn't thought about that for a long, long time. "Read books, I guess," he said finally. "That is, be an English professor or something," he quickly added, blushing.

Alfred didn't bat an eyelash. "Cool. I'd love to be a firefighter, but no luck." He grinned.

Arthur automatically quirked an eyebrow, but then he realised that Alfred might actually be serious. It was hard to tell. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Thanks for not laughing." He laughed. "Not a good idea for someone with my attention span, I know, but can you imagine any job more rewarding?"

"I guess not," Arthur said, surprised that he could actually see Alfred's point.

"It never worked out, though. How come you never ended up being a professor or whatever?"

"I don't know. Being a teacher just never seemed like a good idea, and I didn't want to go to graduate school to study literature."

"Why not?"

There was such honest interest in Alfred's eyes, Arthur felt he had to give him an honest answer. He contemplated what to say. "It was taking too long," he said finally. He looked at Alfred and gave him a slight smile. "I imagine you know what it's like, being impatient to grow up."

Alfred chuckled. "You have no idea."

Arthur tried to hide a true smile. "Oh, I think I do." Alfred looked at him curiously, but he didn't elaborate. "Why did you never become a firefighter?"

"Well, in high school I had a bunch of friends who were really into film and music. We all had these crazy ideas about going into the business, and I ended up going to film school." He saw Arthur's surprised look and his smile became sardonic. "Yeah, and over here too, when I was living near LA to begin with. I figured out that I had no future in film about half way through, but I just loved it too much over here to quit."

"What appealed to you about film?" Arthur asked. The words felt as though they had been pulled from him. All of these little things that didn't fit with his initial impression of Alfred; these were the important things.

"It just feels really cool to create something like that." Arthur nodded, the danish just crumbs on a napkin. The donuts were long gone. Alfred sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "You never gave me your number."

Arthur realised this was true and he flushed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "Oh, right. Here –" He cast about in his pockets, found a pen, and scribbled out his phone number on a clean napkin.

"Thanks," Alfred said with a smile. His fingers brushed Arthur's as he took it. He stuffed it into an inside pocket in his jacket. Arthur glanced at his watch.

"I should be going."

"Okay. Can I take you out to dinner on Friday? My treat."

"No need for that," Arthur said, waving his hand. "I'll pay for myself. But that would be nice. What kind of food do you like?"

"I'm fine with whatever."

Arthur thought for a moment. He hadn't eaten out in ages. "Do you like Indian food? I think there's a nice Indian restaurant near here."

"Yeah, sure. You can call me to tell me were it is." Alfred grinned. "So, I'll pick you up at like, 7?" Arthur stared at him for a moment, face blank. "I do know where you live, remember?"

"Right," Arthur said. "Right. That sounds good."

"Okay, see ya." He stood up, as did Arthur.

"Yes. Goodbye."

They ended up walking out together, which made Arthur feel very awkward. Alfred held the door open for him and gave him a wave before (thankfully) walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Arthur waved back before determinedly not looking back, though he couldn't help a backwards glance over his shoulder as he reached the street corner. Did Alfred own a car? He supposed he had to. But he didn't see any sign of it; Alfred was gone.