Despite the glow of the white crosswalk man, Arthur Kirkland took a moment to briefly glance sideways before crossing 37th West, keeping a wary eye out for rogue taxies and airheaded cyclists. The streets were busy with tourists and businesspeople returning to work from their breaks – Arthur could time the city's traffic flow like clockwork. Most people had finished lunch by two-thirty, which marked the start of Arthur's own scheduled break time – he preferred to eat later, when the lunch rush had slowed and the restaurants were empty. He would prefer, if he were being honest, to eat lunch at his desk, but he'd long since realized it was nearly impossible to do anything in the office except work. For the most part, he enjoyed his job, but he considered forty-five minutes of personal time worth the effort of dodging bicycles and weaving between pedestrians.

He spotted his destination as he turned the corner onto 38th West Street, just short of halfway down the block – the Rosso Pomodoro, a tiny Italian diner tucked away between a dance studio and some sort of fabric store. With its handful of bent chairs and white-cloth tables, it wasn't the most impressive eatery in Manhattan, but that was precisely what Arthur liked about it – the diner attracted mainly locals between the lunch and dinner rush hours, and there were rarely more than a handful of customers in the restaurant anytime Arthur visited.

Keeping carefully to the right to avoid the flood of tourists on the opposite half of the sidewalk, Arthur's expectations were confirmed – there were only three customers outside the restaurant; a dark-haired couple sharing glasses of wine and a single bowl of pasta, and a young blonde man wearing glasses and a bomber jacket sitting alone, perusing a menu. The enamored couple appeared too engrossed with one another to take notice of their surroundings, but the blonde man appeared rather bored, looking up frequently from the menu to watch passersby. He caught Arthur's eye as he skimmed the faces of the tourists and winked; Arthur turned faintly pink and looked away.

As Arthur neared the restaurant, however, a fourth person came storming out of the front doors – Arthur recognized him as one of the two brothers who owned the restaurant. Arthur had only spoken to him a handful of times, preferring to make light conversation with the other, friendlier brother, who was much more cheerful, albeit prone to rambling. The angry Italian waiter approached the blonde man with the menu and began shouting at him, drawing the stares of several bystanders.

"Ciao, hey! You! Are you gonna order anything this time, or are you going to get the fuck out of my chair?"

The blonde man looked casually alarmed. "Hey, Lovino, take it easy, give me a couple more minutes!"

"No!" Lovino barked, grabbing for the menu, which the blonde man quickly pulled out of reach. "You come in here, what, three times this week? All you do is sit here, waste my time, distract Feliciano, take up space! Vattene! Get yourself off!"

The man smiled weakly, looking torn between fear and amusement. "Right here? In the restaurant?"

Lovino's face turned, if possible, even redder. Arthur noticed that a couple of tourists had stopped completely to watch the scene, and one teenage boy in a hooded sweatshirt had pulled out his phone.

"Off! Off my chair! Vaffanculo! Pay or leave, Jones!" Lovino had managed to grab hold of the menu and was now attempting to pull it out of the blonde man's grasp, who was now positively on the edge of laughter.

"Hold on, give me some time, I'm waiting for-"

The man called Jones suddenly locked eyes with Arthur again, who had reached the entrance of the Rosso Pomodoro and was watching the argument with interest.

"There you are, where have you been, I've been waiting here for ages, dude!" Alfred had relinquished his hold on the menu and ducked under Lovino's outstretched hands, taking two long strides in Arthur's direction and catching him by the arm. "Come on, the waiter brought some menus, it's no big deal…"

"I…pardon…?" Arthur sputtered indignantly, but Jones was already leading Arthur towards the table. He reached out and smoothly lifted the menu out of Lovino's hands; Arthur took it from him, disoriented. "We'll start with two waters, if that's alright. Grazie!" He pronounced the last word with an atrocious faux Italian accent, failing to stress the 'e' as a separate syllable.

Lovino opened his mouth once, closed it, and shot Arthur a murderous glare. Arthur glanced sideways at the strange man, who had repositioned himself in his wire chair and was now whistling innocently, and gave Lovino a defeated shrug. Lovino huffed, turned, and left, leaving Arthur sitting alone with the stranger in the bomber jacket.

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," said Arthur, shifting his chair so that he was facing the blonde man. "I don't believe we've met before."

"Oh, you're English! That's neat. I guess you're right; I'll start, then! I'm Alfred, Alfred Jones," said the man, extending his hand across the table, but Arthur did not take it. Alfred left his hand in the air for a moment before apparently concluding that Arthur had no intention of mirroring him; there was an awkward pause before he continued, "and you are?"

"Arthur." He pushed his chair back with a squeak and put his hands on the table, preparing to stand. "Well, it was nice meeting you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be going-"

"Wait!" protested Alfred, standing up quickly and intercepting Arthur on his way to the street. "Aw, come on, please! If you leave, that mean Italian guy's just going to come back and yell and me again."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be loitering, then," Arthur pointed out. Alfred looked slightly embarrassed; he removed his glasses from his face and began cleaning them vigorously, not quite meeting Arthur's eye.

"Ah, don't be like that, Arthur," he said, frowning. He held the glasses up to the light to inspect them. "Hey, look, you don't even have to talk to me! It'll be like I'm not even there. Just until your friend gets here or whatever. Please?"

"I'm not meeting anyone here," Arthur grumbled. "I'm here on my break."

"On your break?" asked Alfred excitedly, putting his glasses back on and meeting Arthur's eye again. "That's perfect, then! You'd be sitting alone anyway, what's the difference?"

Arthur opened his mouth to explain what exactly the difference was, but before he could say a word, Feliciano, Lovino's redheaded twin brother, appeared, holding a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Bevenuti! Ciao! Can I help you?" Feliciano lifted the pencil expectantly, before recognizing Arthur. "Arthur! Come stai, how are you? I haven't seen you for a while, where have you been, hmm?"

"At work," said Arthur, sitting back in the chair in defeat. He picked up the menu again and perused it while Feliciano turned to Alfred. "Ahh, who's this then? A friend of yours? I believe I've seen him around!"

Arthur snorted derisively behind the menu, while Alfred beamed. "We just met today, actually.

"Ah! Nuovi amici! Wonderful, I remember you, we've spoken before, correct? What is your name again?"

"Alfred," said Arthur, behind his menu, before Alfred could reply. "Alfred Jones, isn't that right?"

"Good, good! Allora, would you like anything?

An empty table, thought Arthur, but when he looked up over his menu, he saw Alfred watching at him hopefully, and he sighed and ordered a basket of breadsticks instead.

After Feliciano had left, Arthur picked up the menu again and checked the specials section. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alfred looking at him from across the table. Rolling his eyes, he lowered the menu. "Aren't you going to order anything, then?"

"Oh, no", said Alfred, cheerfully. "I don't actually have any money. I'm just here for the atmosphere."

Arthur rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the menu again, grumbling to himself. There was silence for a couple of minutes –

"So how do you know the waiter so well? Are you two friends? Do you come here a lot?"

"I thought you said we could sit here in silence," said Arthur pointedly, without looking up this time.

"I said you could sit here in silence," Alfred protested. "but I'm probably still going to ask you stuff, even if you don't answer me."

Arthur considered taking him up on the offer, but the thought of attempting to ignore the cheerful American during his only break of the day seemed almost worse than just biting the bullet and making conversation. "I come here every few days for lunch."

"Why's that?"

"Because the food is inexpensive," replied Arthur, nonchalantly turning a page in the menu. "And I appreciate a European restaurant owned by actual Europeans." He vividly recalled his first night out at an 'authentic English bar', where it had quickly become apparent that the Union Jack hung ostentatiously in the window was a beacon for every 21-year-old American college girl with a freshly minted photo ID.

"That's it?" Alfred leaned back in his chair, blowing a wayward lock of blonde hair out of his eyes. "That's pretty boring."

"Were you expecting something in particular?" asked Arthur sardonically.

"I don't know," mused Alfred. "I always think English people have really exciting lives."

"Ah, you've discovered my true purpose. I'm actually here on behalf of the MIA, scouting only the best Italian restaurants the city can offer. 007, at your service."

Alfred laughed. "Funny, too! I like you. Are you always this sarcastic?"

"Only on weekdays." Arthur closed the menu and leaned sideways in the chair, waving at Feliciano through the window, who was taking the order of a young Indian woman and her two children inside. Feliciano waved back and held up two fingers.

"Well, I could have picked a worse lunch date, I guess. Can I have some of your breadsticks?"

"Help yourself," said Arthur dryly, as Feliciano returned to the table, holding a basket of bread and some olive oil, which immediately diverted Alfred's attention. He began taking bites of breadstick at an almost alarming rate. Arthur turned to address Feliciano, who winked and mouthed "carino." Arthur gritted his teeth and pointedly looked away.

After Feliciano had left, Arthur snuck a look at his watch. He only had twenty minutes left to eat and pay. Alfred's intrusion probably hadn't lost him much time, but he felt as though he'd wasted a lot of his break nonetheless. Alfred was now halfway through his third breadstick; Arthur reached carefully into the basket and pried one away for himself. Alfred grinned again.

"These breadsticks are really good. I wonder where they get them?"

"I'm sure they make everything here in the restaurant. They've very accomplished chefs." Alfred reached across the table to dip the bread in the olive oil, apparently deep in thought. Arthur suddenly caught sight of some strange marks on Alfred's left forearm, which had become visible when the sleeve of his jacket had slid up. Alfred noticed his line of sight and hastily pushed the sleeve back into place. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"So what is it you do, exactly, Alfred?" he asked. "Not many people have lunch so late in the day."

"Well," said Alfred, dipping the same, half-chewed breadstick in the oil again. Arthur noticed that the tips of his fingers seemed slightly burnt. His lip curled as he carefully pushed the bowl of oil away, deciding to take the rest of his breadsticks dry. "I wasn't really having lunch, technically. What do you do for a living? Why are you having lunch so late?"

"I asked you first," said Arthur. Alfred frowned.

"Aw, don't be like that, Artie," he said, taking his glasses off and cleaning them again. Arthur wondered if it was a nervous habit. He pursed his lips and waited for Alfred to speak again; after a few moments, Alfred took the hint. "All right, fine, I'm not working at the moment. Geez, you're tough."

"Why not? Are you in college?" Arthur pressed.

"Not…I mean, I was," said Alfred, sighing. "It's kind of a long story."

"Another time, then," said Arthur, glancing at his watch. He would probably have to take his dish back to work with him. How had he lost so much of his break? He hadn't spent that long talking to Alfred, had he? Perhaps ordering the breadsticks had slowed him down; he had never bothered to order an appetizer before.

The breadsticks he'd only eaten one of, he thought, ruefully. Alfred had eaten most of the basket singlehandedly. He was awfully hungry for somebody killing time at a restaurant. What a freeloader.

"'Another time'?" Alfred quoted, raising an eyebrow. Arthur realized the implication of his response too late. "Does this mean you're gonna buy me more breadsticks?"

Arthur groaned; Alfred laughed. "Maybe even a pizza?" he added hopefully

Feliciano returned to the table; Arthur's respect for the man rose considerably when he noticed that his meal had been accompanied with a plastic container and the bill. He slipped a gratuitous tip into the folder and stood; Alfred looked surprised.

"Leaving already?

"Yes, unfortunately, my allotted time for talking with strange tourists in Italian diners has expired. My schedule is quite full, I'm afraid."

Alfred gave an exaggerated gasp and placed his hand on his chest dramatically. "But Arthur, I'm a native New Yorker! Can't you tell?"

"You're not serious," said Arthur, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and tipping his pasta into the container.

"Born and raised," said Alfred proudly, reaching over with his fork and spearing a meatball from Arthur's box. "I live with some friends close by."

"You have friends?"

"Ha, ha. Where does this sarcasm of yours go on weekends?"

"Sometimes it goes out for drinks with friends," replied Arthur, scraping the last of the pasta into the box and checking his watch again.

Alfred laughed. "And what about you? What do you do on weekends?" His cocky grin made Arthur groan internally.

"That's my business."

"Maybe I can find out sometime," said Alfred cheerfully. Arthur snorted.

"Finish those breadsticks, Alfred. I don't like my money going to waste. Have a good afternoon, Feliciano," he added, passing the waiter as he returned to pick up the check. Feliciano waved. "Goodbye, signore!" he called after Arthur, happily, before striking up conversation with Alfred, who seemed excited at the prospect of having a proper conversation with somebody as talkative as himself.

Arthur put his free hand in his front pants pocket, turned the corner, and left.