Chapter Text
I rubbed my stinging eyes, the letters on the computer screen blurring into the glaring white of the background. My eyes flicked to the corner of my screen: 6:13 A.M., the digits mocking me. This report was due at 9 A.M. for Mr. Szarr's shareholder meeting this morning. I pressed my hand hard against my eyelids, green and white stars flashing against the blind dark. I had been at this all night, as Cazador only trusted me to complete this work for such an important meeting.
I leaned back in my chair with a deep huff. Unfortunately everything was the most important meeting ever, and I had been languishing as a senior associate for years. Cazador seemed hell bent on making my life shit, saying that was how he worked up the ladder and that I'd be made a partner "soon." I'd leave, but I was too burnt out to find something new, and I had to pay my loans somehow. On the occasions that I had stood up for myself and criticized a deadline or gods forbid threatened to walk, Cazador threatened “never find work again,” thundering red-faced across his massive desk and shaking his bony ring-encrusted fist at me. So without a definite offer, I was absolutely stuck.
I ran my fingers up my forehead to roughly comb through the snarls in my hair. There was no way I was making it back to my apartment to clean myself up before work.
I needed a fucking coffee.
I pushed myself out of my seat, my joints cracking and popping from sudden movement after being locked in place for hours, and trudged out of my office to the elevator.
Szarr Corporate Law Group was in a glitzy high-rise in the central business district. The sun hadn't risen yet, though the sky was already tinged an indigo-violet. The humid chill of the early morning air seeped through the fabric of my clothes, though I invited the brisk air to clear my head. I shoved my hands into my trouser pockets, my fingers still cold and clammy from typing for hours. The city was quiet, a few buses rumbling through the bluish gloom of the streets. There weren't too many places open this early, though four blocks away there was an independent café that served the nearby Baldur’s Gate University.
The new construction high-rises and business facades quickly transitioned to the historic district with its aged brick and cobbled alleyways. Gray Harbor Coffee House was in a former factory space which had been converted to commercial retail within the last half century. The large steel framed window set into the façade glimmered in the warm street light.
The door closed behind me with a jingle. I was hit with a wave of rich, caramelized coffee. The café was full of warm-toned wood and cast iron fixtures, honey-colored lamp light washing across the bar. A soft jazzy melody filtered through the drone of a bean grinder.
"What can I get started for ya?" I heard someone say from behind a machine as I walked up to the counter. I leaned across to peer into the coffee bar, finding a dark-haired young woman in all black twisting the filter handle into the front of the espresso machine.
"Dead-eye please, 16 ounce." I answered smoothly, standing back up straight to lean on the counter.
"That bad, huh? I'll give you my shots here I was gonna use," She chuckled, running the coffee grinder again. "Dark roast okay? Light hasn't finished brewing yet."
She bustled and clattered around behind the bar, the machine humming and groaning as it dripped fresh espresso. She slipped out from behind the machine, pressing a lid onto my drink. My eyes traced up her exposed forearms, which were decorated with various black and gray tattoos, before flickering up to her. Choppy bangs and shaggy locks framed a pretty face, and a delicate silver ring hung between her nostrils.
"Four, please," She said with a smile as she set the cup before me. She looked down to tap my order into a tablet. "You look like you need it."
I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, slipping my card out to tap the small card reader on the counter.
"No rest for the wicked." I replied politely, pulling out a gold piece to throw in her tip jar. I slid my wallet back into my pocket and grabbed the drink in a swift motion. That report wasn't going to finish itself.
"Thanks, good luck with your day." She called behind me as I turned to hurry back to the office. I raised my spare hand in a slight wave as I shouldered the door open, the cool morning air enveloping me once more. I took a sip of the coffee, the mixture thick, tart, and robust against my tongue.
That became a sort of routine. Mr. Szarr had me working late most nights of the week, and while I was able to make it home to toss and turn for a few hours, I got something from the café most mornings bright and early in order to meet my deadlines.
She was there those mornings too. Of course, it was simply a means to an end, I needed those 270 milligrams of caffeine to function in the morning. If it meant spending an extra 25 gold or so a week, so be it. It was simply a daily transaction to keep me afloat (at least until someone in the office brewed another pot of coffee). Money was meaningless if one didn't spend it.
In his “training,” Cazador required near constant work from me. I’d come in (officially) at 7 A.M., do research, write reports, manage our client portfolios, manage the team of mid-levels and juniors beneath me, and (officially) leave at 8 P.M.. The money was great, it kept me well dressed and in a nice apartment, though I spent very little time there. If I did get home to sleep, I found myself stuck in a cycle of fitful sleep: waking up with my heart pounding out of my chest, staring at the ceiling wondering “how did I get here?”, attempting to jerk myself off into a state of artificial relaxation, pass out, rinse and repeat. On particularly rough nights, I’d turn to the bottle to knock me out. I was trapped in a situation of my own making.
But at least every morning, I could get a polite smile from a pretty face.
She seemed young, younger than me at least. Alternative in some sort of way. Not my usual type, evidenced by the chain of clean-cut upper-class circles I had danced in when I had that kind of spare time. She had a ring hanging beneath her nose and a stone pierced in her nostril. She didn’t usually have makeup on at 6 in the morning, but some days her eyes were smudgy with dark liner. She was usually dressed in black, though usually with some degree of her tattoos exposed. Her arms were mostly covered in individual congruent pieces, and when she wore a lower cut top, I could tell she had some symmetrical piece done just under her collar bones.
There was something fascinating about her. There was a definite possibility I had classically conditioned myself to seeing her face and immediately getting a pleasant buzz of caffeine to my system. She was something different, new and intriguing, like a new cocktail on a bar's offerings list. And completely separate from the world I found myself stuck in.
Every subsequent week, our script evolved:
“Dead-eye, please.”
“It’s going to be quite warm this week, have you ever thought about trying cold-brew?”
“The largest cold-brew you can legally sell, please.”
“Something new? How exciting.”
“Red-eye, please.”
“Must be a high-energy morning for you today.”
“Dead-eye, if you could.”
“If you can tell me how much caffeine is in here before I’m done making it, I’ll give you my discount.”
“Good morning.”
“The usual?”
For some reason, our exchanges filled me with some sort of energy. It didn’t matter if Cazador berated me for not closing a deal as fast as he wanted, or if I busted my ass to finish something “extremely urgent” for him in a single day only for it to rot on his desk for the rest of the week. It didn’t matter if I had to take an hour-long conference call while also marking documents for the call after it, or if a client wouldn’t stop emailing me to ask if I’d reviewed the 250 page document he sent me only 5, 10, 15 minutes ago. In the café, I was just a tired man paying for his drink and having a polite conversation with a young lady.
It was like a stage production; I was playing a role and she had a part too. We delivered our lines neatly, following the director's notes for emotion and feeling, and at the end of the scene, we returned to our separate dressing rooms.
“You know,” She mused, looking up from the tablet she was plugging my order into, “I see you more often than some of my friends and I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Astarion.” I said, pulling my wallet out to pay. The sun was rising earlier now, streaming through the windows and illuminating her skin in a golden glow. Her hair was in a messy ponytail today, her bangs slightly mussed.
“Ah, little star, like the Minotaur,” She arched a dark brow at me, her eyes warm brown in the soft light, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And your name is?” I tapped my card on her machine languidly, holding her gaze with my own. The sound of an acoustic guitar strumming played softly on the overhead speakers.
“It’s Tav.” She held my drink out to me, shiny dark fingernails curled around the cup. I took the cup from her, our fingertips brushing against each other.
“It’s nice to officially meet you.” I brought the cup up to my lips. The coffee was strong and sharp as it danced across my taste buds.
“What do you do that causes you to drink this much coffee?” She cocked her head at me, her ponytail bobbing behind her. The air went cold, the stage floor cracked menacingly underneath me.
“Ah, I’m an attorney, just very busy.” I averted my gaze, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable, like the safe bubble of the shop was being threatened with a sharp needle. My skin felt hot and clammy.
“You seem like you work very hard,” There was something unspoken, like she wanted to say too hard instead. “Why else would you be here right after I open?”
“What can I say? It keeps me out of trouble,” I deflected with a shrug, taking another sip of my drink to do something with my hands. We were off script, I had to redirect the scene. “It’s definitely a part of the lifestyle.”
“Huh,” She narrowed her eyes in a dubious expression, “well, try to take care of yourself. I can’t lose a regular.”
She looked down to a case of pastries at her right, before sweeping her gaze back to me with a conspiratory smile. “Want something from the case? My coworkers forgot to expire it last night.”
“You’re offering me expired food?” I raised an eyebrow at her, earning a sarcastic roll of her eyes.
“It's a day-and-a-half old, we only sell fresh every morning, so employees normally take home the ‘old’ stuff,” She explained with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I’m going to throw it out anyways. Do you want something or not?”
I looked at the case skeptically. Normally, I didn’t end up eating until lunch when I had something delivered. As if the thought of food awoke it, my stomach clenched traitorously. It was just food, I supposed.
“I’ll take a croissant off your hands, I suppose.” My spare hand went to rub the back of my neck. A pleased little smile stretched across her face, and she quickly bagged up the pastry, handing it to me with a wink.
“Our little secret,” She said playfully. “I won’t hold you up anymore, I’m sure you have a million fires to put out.”
I clutched at the wax paper bag, feeling a bit sheepish. This young woman wasn’t just a nameless individual who made my coffee nearly everyday, she had been observing and forming an opinion about me this entire time. She wasn't an actress playing a role in my untitled mental stage production. She was an actual person and I was a man with many, many, many problems.
The stage floor splintered beneath me, and I plummeted back to reality. The once secure and comfortable air of the shop deflated, forcing me back into the cold and miserable truth of my life. It felt too personal, too close. I was weak. She must think me incapable of taking care of myself.
“Thank you.” I enunciated carefully, unable to meet her gaze. “Have a good one.” I turned on my heel, pushing out of the café without looking back.
The air was unseasonably warm, despite it being early spring. Shame dripped into my stomach, heat creeping up my neck and face. I turned to look at my reflection in the windows of the buildings along my walk. A haggard looking man, with deep dark circles set into a pale face which very rarely saw the sun. As I brought my cup to my lips to take a sip, my hand shook with my deepening anxiety, spilling coffee across my shirt. I cursed audibly, pulling the burning fabric off my skin clumsily, my fingers still grasping the bagged pastry. Frustration bubbled up within me. As I passed a trash bin along my path, ignoring the nauseous curl of my gut, I threw the bag in with all my might.