Chapter Text
“Sounds like it’s going to be a long, long night.” Raphael regarded his fingernails. They could use a manicure. He kept them pointy. In his circles, image was everything, and he had a name to live up to. He’d worked hard to become the Devil of the first Hell, after all.
“Sounds like it,” Korrilla agreed, just as another ear-piercing scream came from behind the elegant wooden door. Raphael sighed. He’d hoped to get home early for once. Not because he had anything to do, but because he explicitly did not. Free time was rare to come by in this business.
“Run this week's schedule by me again,” he said, crossing his legs and leaning back in the leather chair. His office on the 6th floor of the Avernus Tower in Baator street was overlooking the Undercity District of Baldur’s Gate, which today lay under clear, sunny skies that betrayed the icy temperatures of the season.
Korrilla nodded and tapped on her tablet. “Today - conversation with Haarlep.” She glanced at the door and cleared her throat. “In progress. Afterwards, miraculously, nothing. Tomorrow - meeting with Sorcerous Sundries’ CEO regarding the breach of contract, eventually followed by a conversation depending on how reasonable he proves to be. Thursday - money collection; we need your presence at two locations where people have trouble keeping up with their payments. Friday - we agreed to-”
“Boss!” The door flung open and Nubaldin stumbled out, face sprinkled with blood. “You’re gonna wanna come in!”
Raphael raised a brow at the rude interruption. “Am I, now? It’s a good thing I have you to tell me what I want.”
“I- Apologies, Boss, I didn’t mean- it’s just that- he’s willing to talk now…”
Raphael’s mood brightened. That was faster than expected. He stood up and shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it to Korrilla who caught it expertly. He strode into the room where his father’s spy was tied to a chair and bleeding profusely.
“Haarlep, dearest,” Raphael smiled. “You’re willing to talk after all, I see?”
The young man raised his head. He wore the same aggravatingly smug expression he always did. Raphael rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his rings.
Two hours later, Haarlep wore no expression at all on account of being dead, and Raphael’s pristine shirt was splattered with blood.
“He talked.”
“Great.” Korrilla said and smiled.
“Not for you, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” she said and smiled no longer.
“I’m going to need you to take care of all my appointments as I will be indisposed for the next few weeks. Haarlep revealed that my old man made a deal with the CEO of Szarr enterprises.” Ever since he’d split away from his father’s family to establish his own, the old man had been trying to prove how incompetent his son was. But Raphael had averted all attempts at takeovers, turned around several cases of defamation, and had risen to the point where his influence in the city rivalled Mephisto’s. If he now ruined his father’s deal with one of the wealthiest men of the city, he would well and truly prove that the apple had fallen far enough to sprout roots and overshadow the tree. Maybe he could even turn it into his own profit, assimilate more families into his own. He'd always been interested in Zariel's office on the 66th floor.
“You already have a plan, I assume?”
Raphael smirked. “I do. Be a dear and buy the coffee shop right outside the office building. I’ll make sure that whatever money my father was hoping to get from that deal will go up in flames. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or am I?”
- - -
Astarion would scratch his ear, were his fingers not busy keeping up with his thoughts. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if he was getting tinnitus now, and if that would affect his productivity, but first and foremost he was thinking about tax fraud. He squinted at the excel sheet he’d gotten from his department and leaned closer to the screen, ruining his posture to make up for his already ruined eyes. Why Cazador was evading taxes with profits like this was beyond Astarion, he only knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t because he paid his employees so generously. Not that Astarion considered himself an employee. He was a slave at best. Forget climbing the corporate ladder, he’d be happy just to get out of the corporate basement. And why the fuck were his ears ringing the whole time- oh. It was his phone. Astarion flinched and scrambled for it; if Cazador was calling and Astarion didn’t pick up, the only hope to escape his wrath was to get abducted by aliens or some shit. When Astarion looked at the screen, he exhaled. It was only Tav. Astarion wedged the phone between cheek and shoulder and continued to type.
“Tavothy, dearest, I’m up to my neck in tax forms. If this is about the fridge again, I might have to block your number for the unforeseeable future.”
Tavothy was his friend of ten years and his roommate of two (read: allowed Astarion to inhabit a room in his flat), and while Astarion appreciated him, he did not appreciate Tav’s tendency to get all the way up in his business.
“This is not about the fridge,” Tav said, “Although I would appreciate it if you didn’t use half the space to thaw your bloody- but no, this isn’t about the fridge. I just got a call from your doctor.”
Astarion’s fingers briefly paused, not because he was dreading news of his doctor, but because he didn’t have one. “Hah?”
“He said that if you don’t get a proper night’s sleep soon, your dark circles are going to become permanent and no one is ever going to love you.”
Astarion rolled his eyes, which definitely did not have that dark of circles under them, and said: “I don’t have dark circles.”
“Yeah, thanks to colour corrector, concealer, blender, powder, fucking- I don’t know, oils and acrylics and whatever else you stole from Shadowheart’s art supplies.”
“Tavothy, you’re a jack-of-all-trades except for when fashion and make-up are concerned, please don’t- wait a second, someone else is calling.”
“Astarion, I’m begging you, you’re working yourself to the bone! Even Gale said-”
But Astarion didn’t learn what Gale (who, by the way, lost all rights to impart wisdoms when he's fallen for Baldur’s Gate Miss Toxic-winner of every year), had to say. He saw that the other person calling was Cazador and immediately hung up on Tav.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Astarion. How kind of you to pick up. I’m sorry for interrupting your little conversation.”
Astarion froze up. Instinctively, his eyes flickered up to the corner of the room.
“It’s not up there,” Cazador’s smooth voice said, and Astarion could basically see his cruel smile. “But I did install a camera. And I was right to do so, apparently, if my employee is taking personal calls while on the clock.”
“Sorry, Sir, I just picked up to tell them I was busy.”
“We both know that’s not true. But I’m willing to overlook this transgression if you have the forms done by tomorrow morning.”
Astarion swallowed. “Of course, Sir.”
-
It was well past midnight when Astarion was done checking and double-checking the forms. He printed them and placed the envelope unsealed on Cazador’s desk even though his boss wouldn’t bother looking over them. Astarion never made mistakes. The consequences weren’t worth it. He trudged out of the office and towards the elevators. His stomach growled to remind him that he had yet again ignored it for the better part of the night. He glanced at the clock as he walked towards the large entrance doors. Almost 1am. The stores were closed, so it looked like dinner - breakfast? Midnight snack? - would be another energy bar from the gas station he passed on the way home. Maybe he'd treat himself to a different flavour.
He sharply sucked in the air when he stepped out of the building and was violently reminded of how freezing Baldur’s Gate got during winter. He blew warm breath into his hands before he pushed them in the pockets of his coat and turned in the direction of home.
Then he realised it. Something was different tonight.
It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten off work this late, but it was the first time the building across the street was brightly lit. It was a coffee shop, one of those stylish ones where people went more for the aesthetics than because it served good coffee. Astarion had never been; pretentiousness tended to be expensive. But now, he paused. Thought. Pretentious people pretend they are good people. Better than everyone else. And what better way to prove that than by helping out a poor, freezing, starving man in search of food? Oh, Astarion was not above playing the pity card if that meant he got something out of it. He stood on the other side of the street and squinted through the windows. Pretentious indeed. Small tables with lace doilies and dainty vases, vintage chairs, flowerpots. But not a single person in sight. Slowly, he crossed the road. Even more pretentious from up close, with a truly horrific antique pink colour scheme. This wasn’t a coffee shop, this was a café. Astarion leaned closer to the window. No one behind the counter. He placed a hand on the door handle and pushed experimentally. It opened and warm air gushed outside. Astarion hesitated. On the one hand, the door was unlocked, the lights were on, and there was a sign that said ‘Open! Please come in!’. On the other, he wasn’t too keen on getting charged with breaking and entering. It was quiet inside. No movements, either. Fuck it. Astarion didn’t believe in destiny, but this felt awfully close to it. The door fell closed behind him. It was wonderfully warm.
“Hello?” He called. At the very least he didn’t want anyone to think he'd snuck in. No answer. Fantastic. Astarion had, thanks to Shadowheart's atrocious taste, seen horror movies that started exactly like this. Any moment now the door would lock itself and some kind of devilish entity would suck out his soul or whatever.
“May I help you?” A low voice, almost threatening with how calm it was. What did he say? Horror movie. Astarion slowly turned around. He’d charmed his way through worse people than devilish entities.
The man behind him didn’t look all that devilish, and not just for the backdrop of grandma’s living room. He did look like the second worst thing though: a businessman. Around 40 or 50, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, tall, broad shoulders, dressed in a button-up with the sleeves rolled up and a dark red vest. A cigarette between his fingers, a thick watch around his wrist, slacks and perfectly polished shoes. Regarded Astarion with a raised eyebrow that said, what is the working class doing in my establishment?
Well, your establishment looks like nasty Auntie Ethel from next door chose the decorations, Astarion mentally replied with a look around, then put on his best fake-smile.
“Just got off my shift and saw the lights on. Thought I might as well treat myself to a late-night snack.”
“You’re welcome to come back for an early-morning snack,” the man replied, smile equally fake but far more expensive, if the glint of gold in his molar was anything to go by. His voice sounded like he should record nature documentaries, if nature documentaries made a habit of condescending to their listeners. “We have our grand opening tomorrow.”
“Do you, now? I could have sworn this…tasteful little café has been here for years,” Astarion said, forgetting his initial plan of being pitiful in favour of his usual MO, which was being obnoxious towards the rich.
“Perceptive indeed.” He took a drag of his cigarette, apparently uncaring of the stench of smoke that filled the room. “However, from tomorrow on, it will operate under a new leadership.”
Of course. Rich businessman buys quaint indie café to milk it for profit. It made sense, considering the top quality location. “As, by the way, you could have inferred from the quite prominent sign outside, had you deigned to read it. Maybe that perception could still use some work, hm?”
“I see,” Astarion said. “Well, apologies for my intrusion, then. I’ll make sure to stop by if I ever want overpriced coffee.”
The man didn’t look nearly as annoyed as Astarion would have liked. He looked more amused, even, which in turn annoyed Astarion.
“Do make sure. I’d be ever so happy to serve you.”
Capitalist bastard. Astarion grimaced a smile and turned towards the exit.
“Should you find yourself wanting free coffee, there’s a chance tomorrow.”
Astarion left without replying. As if he’d ever set foot in this dusty pink hell ever again.
-
Two hours overtime. The sun had gone down already, of course, and Astarion had yet again missed the opportunity to get some vitamin D (“How about you get some vitamin D through other means?” Tav asked, so giddy about the punchline he was about to deliver that he bounced on his feet. “I don’t need dick, Tavothy,” Astarion replied dryly and Tav pouted). He yawned and packed his things, threw Leon, who was still pouring over emails, a pitying smile and closed the door behind him. Of course Cazador hadn’t commented on the tax forms, but he hadn’t complained either, so it was a win in Astarion’s book. Having sat the entire day, he decided on some exercise and trudged down the stairs one step at a time. Past the 11th floor, he suddenly felt the tiredness settling in. It was Friday evening, which meant camp night, which meant pizza and bad movies with the gang.
He was greeted by a stiff breeze when he stepped out of the building and pulled his coat tighter around himself. Across the street, warm light poured out of decorated windows. House of Hope; a distastefully tacky name, and Astarion scoffed at it. He’d consciously marched past it this morning, even though the bright “Grand opening! First cup of coffee for free!” had lured him in like a devil with a tempting contract. But Astarion would never sell his soul. Mostly because it was currently in the possession of Cazador. Through the windows, he glimpsed that the café was largely empty. 10 minutes until closing time. First cup of coffee for free exclamation mark. Astarion sniffed. Smelled like betrayed principles. Just one coffee. Some caffeine to keep him awake during camp night. In, get coffee, out. He didn’t run the danger of encountering the nasty businessman from yesterday anyway; as if someone like that stuck around for the actual work. He was likely back in his loft, enjoying the view from his heated infinity pool while drinking wine spiked with the tears of his suffering employees. Astarion yawned again.
Alright, one cup.
For free.
He wouldn’t be feeding into the asshole’s pocket. Decisively, he strode across the street. Today, a melodious bell jingled above the door when he entered. The smell of coffee wafted through grandma’s living room and at a table in the corner sat a couple who fed each other a large piece of cake. Astarion scrunched up his nose – definitely the last time he would ever come here. The underpaid and underappreciated barista behind the till turned around and – fucking hells. Of course, it would have been way too easy to give Astarion a damn break. The overpaid and self-serving bastard from yesterday smiled at him, today without a cigarette in hand but with a pristine apron over his dress shirt.
“Well. Aren’t you here quite early?”
Astarion hated him so much. He still stepped up to the counter because the only thing worse than ordering was going back outside like a pouty pre-schooler (something Astarion had been called repeatedly by Tav, notably when he refused to eat Tav’s cooking because it looked like Tav had made it specifically to get some healthy nutrients into Astarion’s body).
“Would you like an overpriced coffee?” The man, whose name tag identified him as Raphael, asked. Astarion considered saying yes out of spite, and then maybe throwing the coffee into that smug face, but decided against it. In, get coffee, out.
“I’ll take the free one, thank you so much,” he pressed out between clenched teeth. The couple in the corner got up, waved goodbye, and left. Raphael’s clearly fabricated smile shifted into a smirk and he leaned on the counter.
“I’m ever so happy to serve you today. Any special wishes?”
Astarion raised a brow. “As I gathered from the sign outside, it's the plain coffee that is free.”
“I can make an exception for my very first customer.”
Astarion opened his mouth to refute him, closed it, and was unhappy with himself and the world as a whole. “Amnish coffee with extra whiskey,” he said because it was the most expensive kind he could think of.
“Gladly,” Raphael smirked as if he’d read Astarion’s intention, and pushed away from the counter.
There was a question burning in the back of Astarion’s throat and he swallowed heavily against it. But as he watched Raphael busy himself with the coffee machine - slouched posture, one hand in his pocket, looking at the machine like it was one of his poorly-treated employees - it scratched its way up again. Why the fuck was what was clearly a businessman whose apron wasn’t even tied properly, working behind the counter of a café straight out of a hashtag aesthetics instagram post? His expensive gold rings clacked against the machine as he worked and his shirt stretched over his back and those revealed forearms were, frankly, outrageously distracting. Astarion bit the inside of his cheek. No. Rich asshole. Off limits. Wyll would admonish him for yet again forgetting his standards over a pretty face. Speaking of which, Raphael’s face was not at all what Astarion would call pretty. Smarmy, perhaps. Slimy. Sleazy. S-trangely compelling with that aged elegance he had going for him and- Nope. Absolutely not.
“One Amnish coffee, triple whiskey because you look like you could use it.” When Raphael pushed the mug over the counter, Astarion smelled hints of smoke underneath expensive cologne and noticed that Raphael had strangely manicured fingernails. They were pointy, almost like claws, and what the fuck? When one tapped against the mug, Astarion realised he’d been staring. He quickly grabbed the coffee. It looked okay. Black coffee with whipped cream on top. Astarion had definitely seen fancier drinks. Especially because the cream had been beaten too long and was curdling slightly, and there was a trail down the mug where liquid had sloshed over. But it was coffee, and it was alcohol, and it was exactly what Astarion needed. He took a big gulp, involuntarily closing his eyes when the drink ran down his throat and warmed him from the inside out. It was good, if only for a lack of reference.
“And where do you work that forces you to stay so late?”
“Across the street,” Astarion replied because the whiskey part had taken away enough of his annoyance to dignify Raphael with an answer. And maybe he imagined it, but he did consider his perception to be at least decent, and he could have sworn that Raphael briefly paused and narrowed his eyes.
“Is that so? Szarr Enterprises? And how do you like your job?”
Now it was on Astarion to narrow his eyes. “And you care because…?”
The moment passed and Raphael was back to his smug self. He took the whiskey he’d used for Astarion’s coffee and poured himself a generous glass. “Just making small talk. Isn’t that what people do in places like this?”
That sounded like he’d never been in a place like this (read in Raphael's nature-documentary-voice: lower-class hovel) before, which was not that unlikely considering his get-up, and it made Astarion’s curiosity near unbearable. Time for another Fuck it.
“Alright. Then how about you tell me something first. For example why someone like you-”
Astarion’s ringtone interrupted him. He glanced at the dainty vintage clock behind Raphael. Half past eight, which meant Astarion was thirty minutes late for pizza and just in time for another of Tav’s reprimands. He glared at Raphael, who was clearly at fault, and turned away to pick up. He realised just in time that the name on the screen did not read Tavothy.
“Yes? Sir?” he said, barely managing to shift his tone from oh-my-god-Tavothy-it's-only-been-30-minutes to yes-sir-whatever-you-need.
“Astarion. I’m afraid I need to disturb your Friday evening because I just got a call from a shareholder-” Astarion scrambled for his bag, searching for pen and paper when he heard a tapping sound. He glanced up and Raphael smirked back, a notebook and a fountain pen lying on the wooden countertop. Astarion didn’t bother with pride and quickly scribbled down what Cazador wanted him to do because his boss hated repeating himself.
“I hope that is not a problem for you,” Cazador finished his demand with the most insincere thing he’d said all week.
“Of course not,” Astarion lied back. “I’ll get right to it.” He pocketed his phone, tore the page from the notebook, downed his coffee, and made for the door.
“Need one to go?”
He paused. Glared over his shoulder. “I’m not paying anything for your bean juice.”
Raphael chuckled. “Are you sure? You might regret it when you’re still sitting at your desk in three hours.”
“No.”
“Very well. Then I’ll see you around.”
“You most certainly will not.”
Raphael merely smiled infuriatingly.
On his way back across the street, Astarion texted Tav that he couldn’t make it today, then turned off his phone. Four hours later, he sat at his desk and regretted not having gotten another coffee.
- - -
Raphael couldn’t deny that there was something oddly calming about making coffee. He’d spent the past 28 years climbing the ranks of Baldur’s Gate’s underworld while sustaining a respectable image in the overworld. Blackmail, coercion, scheming, manipulating, and threatening on one side and placating, socialising, scheming, manipulating, and threatening on the other. He liked it, thrived in the chaos he created around himself while he remained in his bubble of order. He especially liked seeing the mighty fall, those who had always deemed him a bad copy of his father.
But.
Operating a coffee shop had its advantages. Not just because there hadn’t been a single assassination attempt in a week, but also because listening in on the meaningless conversations of ordinary people brought him great joy. It was like watching theatre by a playwright who learned his craft from bad romance novels. Oh, Raphael did hope some of these customers turned into regulars. Especially the two women who had declared this their secret meeting place away from the disapproving gazes of their families. Raphael was strangely invested in their tragic love story.
There was one thing that bothered him, however. His first customer had yet to return.
Initially, he’d merely been amused by him; at least until he’d learned where he worked. Raphael had been prepared to make slow progress with his goal of ruining Szarr Enterprises – inquire which of his customers happened to work there, then slowly get to know them, manipulate them into trusting him, and finally use whatever chance he got to meddle in Szarr’s business. But to strike gold on his very first night…well, it only proved once again that Raphael was meant for greatness. Unfortunately, the man seemed to be of the stubborn and proud sort, so after proclaiming he would not be paying for Raphael’s ‘bean juice’ six nights ago, he hadn’t shown up again. There had been other employees from Szarr Enterprises, of course, but Raphael wasn’t interested in them any longer. The man was perfect. Clearly unhappy and unable to change it. Raphael wanted him and no one else, and once he had set his eyes on something, he wouldn’t settle for the second best. No, he would get what he wanted.
Tomorrow.
Today, he spent his day practising milk-frothing while listening to two grown women discussing how to be together even though they came from vastly different worlds. Humans were hilarious.
- - -
“Promise me, Astarion,” Tav said, feet still firmly planted on the door mat. “No excuses. If he tries to make you stay longer, just tell him you have an urgent appointment.”
Astarion sighed dramatically. “Tavothy, light of my life - did I ever tell you I prefer the dark? - I will do my best, but not all of us can enjoy the merits of self-employment. If he says I have to work, I have to work.”
Tav pouted. “But he always tells you to work. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to have you do this much overtime.”
“Illegal? Cazador? No way, really?” Astarion asked, eyes widened and mouth agape. “Not the man who’s been in the news several times for malpractices! Say it isn’t so!”
Tav hit his chest. “Shut up. Honestly though, you should get out of there. He’s even worse than the people Karlach works for.”
“Of course he is. Karlach works for the mafia, dear. Those are some honest, good-hearted gangsters. Cazador is a capitalist.” Astarion tried to nudge his friend to the side. “And now let me pass, dear, or I’m going to be late, and then I’ll definitely won’t make it tonight.”
“Ugh, fine,” Tav said. “I’m helping out at Gale’s today. You want me to get you a nice book or something?”
“No offence, Tav, but your boyfriend’s bookstore has got to be the worst one in the entire city. All he has is academic books. And don’t go pretending you understand any of that stuff.”
Tav huffed and finally moved out of the way. “I don’t need to. Gale understands enough for the both of us. You should hear him talk about-”
Astarion pushed past Tav and gave him a pat on the head. “I did. At least until I fell asleep. I get being drawn to smart people, but that’s not for me, Tavothy. Otherwise why would I live with you?”
He laughed as Tav’s indignantly yelled complaints followed him down the staircase. Astarion would definitely make it to camp night. Leon still owed him and Astarion had gotten him to promise to cover his overtime tonight.
He was in a comparatively good mood as he walked to work, and it was improved when, two corners before the office building, he met his best friend in the city. Astarion smiled. “Hello, Your Majesty. You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
The sphinx cat looked up at him as if to say The cold cannot harm me, foolish mortal, then approached gingerly as if this was the first time they’d met. Astarion knelt down, rubbed the cat’s back as per their usual morning ritual, and paid his toll in a few of the treats he’d taken to carrying around. His Majesty, gracious as ever, followed him to the next corner, then meowed, turned on the spot, and went to do whatever it was royalty did each day while Astarion, as a member of the common rabble, continued to toil on his Lord’s fields. When he approached the office building, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the promise of hope and fell on the sign standing in front of the café. Today, it even got a small laugh out of him.
Bean juice. One cup for free.
There was a line in front of the door and Astarion saw two of his co-workers risking being late just to get a free coffee. Which was valid, but Astarion was not about to betray his principles, especially not when he imagined the barista from the hells’ smug expression upon witnessing that betrayal of principles. And so he merely threw a glance at the illuminated windows, which promptly landed on said hellish barista, still in business attire and apron. Didn't he have employees? Maybe this was some sort of publicity stunt. Show how down to earth and hardworking a CEO can be. Astarion briefly imagined Cazador doing something like this and snorted.
Today promised to be a bearable day.
Which was why in hindsight, he should have known.
Of course Leon hadn’t been allowed to cover for him. When Cazador had caught wind of it, he’d ordered Astarion to the 20th floor where he had to listen to a half-hour lecture about why Cazador did not allow pushing one’s work onto someone else. By the time he was out of the building, he felt like a zombie. Or a vampire starved of blood, considering how hungry he was. His eyes, almost automatically, trailed to the glowing sign across the road that promised hope. The lights were still on even though it was well after closing time. Maybe Raphael was doing inventory. Astarion stared at it, feeling slightly detached from himself. For a few moments he stood there, until his fingers ached with the cold and the words House of Hope were burned into his retinas. Then he crossed the road and, without much thought, pushed open the door. The smell of coffee wasn’t strong enough to overshadow slightly bitter afternotes and at first Astarion thought something was burning. Then the wooden door behind the counter opened and Raphael stepped outside with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d discarded the apron and was now even more out of place amongst the pinks and the ruffles. When he smirked and took the cigarette between two fingers, he looked more like a mafia boss collecting protection money from a poor café owner.
“And here I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you around anymore,” he said with that self-satisfied look in his eyes. “But apparently all it takes is the promise of free coffee to lure you in.”
“And why wouldn’t I use someone’s bad business acumen to my advantage? Not sure which business school you got your diploma from, but I’d wager it wasn’t particularly good. Constantly handing out stuff for free usually doesn’t yield much profit,” Astarion snapped.
“Bad day?” Raphael asked and looked almost happy about it, but at least he put the cigarette back between his lips and turned to operate the monstrosity of a coffee machine.
Astarion rubbed his eyes, then dragged a hand through his hair. “No, I had a great time sitting in front of a screen for ten hours.”
“That sounds rather miserable.” His words were mumbled thanks to the cigarette.
“How incredibly insightful. Maybe the business degree was good for something after all.”
Raphael turned with a freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand and poured in a generous amount of whiskey while he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “And what makes you think I went to business school? I am but a humble barista.”
“Please. Look at your clothes. Your wristwatch. Your fucking-” Astarion gestured up and down at him. “I know what the rich look like.”
Raphael chuckled and placed the mug in front of Astarion. This time, the cream wasn’t curdled. “I’m rich, yes. But I’m no businessman. Not in the traditional sense, at least.”
Astarion took a swig, remembered too late the main part was still hot coffee, and coughed. “And what’s a rich guy doing running a café?”
Raphael looked at him for a long moment. Considering. Then, a false smile. “I wanted to try something new.” Liar. Not that Astarion had expected anything else. “And what is a humble employee doing working these ridiculous hours?”
Astarion grunted noncommittally. 9:13 said the clock. His phone was on silent, but Tav had probably called already. He felt bad, but wasn’t in the mood for social interactions. At least not with people he cared about and didn’t want to disappoint.
“You know, Raphael.” He might not be able to insult the one he actually wanted to, but Raphael was the next best thing. “There are people in this world that can’t just go and open a café because they feel like it. Some have to work for those who do the café opening. I bet you have countless people like that. Who’s back at the office taking care of things so you can be here?”
Raphael blinked, a faint hint of surprise on his face. Astarion scoffed, “That’s what I thought,” and emptied the mug, hot coffee and sharp whiskey burning down his throat.
“And why are you doing all the shit?” Raphael leaned against the wall and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “Why not quit? Try your luck elsewhere or live a self-sustained life?”
“Amazing!” Astarion scoffed. “Why didn’t I think of that! It was always that easy, thank you for the free consulting.”
Raphael laughed. Loud and slightly condescending. Shook a cigarette from the pack and wedged it between his lips. His fingers were long and elegant, with those strangely pointed manicured nails. Hadn’t seen a day of honest work in their lives, probably. Again he looked at Astarion like he wanted to say something and then decided against it.
“What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because it looks like you’re going to be a regular.”
“Certainly not.” Astarion shouldered his bag. “Twice has been more than enough.”
“Of course,” Raphael said and the last thing Astarion saw before he marched out of the door was how he took a deep drag of his cigarette while looking way too happy with himself.
-
Astarion spent his weekends catching up on all those things he had no time for during the week. Sleep, most of all. TV-shows (the new season of Squids from Space was amazing). Friend-time. Today, the friend in question was Shadowheart. She and Astarion were on the same wavelength when it came to their views on employers, and as someone who’d made it out of a toxic work environment, Shadowheart was the person who understood him most. She never told him to “do something against him” or “just quit”. Instead, her jaw hardened when Astarion told another work story, and she looked like she’d love to go and do something against Cazador herself. Astarion appreciated her very much. Usually. Right now, he was tempted to take all that appreciation, wrap it up in a bag, and drown it in a river.
“You could challenge him to a duel,” Lae’zel proclaimed. “Challenge his power. One on one. And when you emerge victorious, you will claim his, uhm…” she snapped her fingers and looked at Shadowheart for help. “Zhak vo’n’astik?”
“Place of power,” Shadowheart provided helpfully. She’d been learning Gith while Lae’zel learned Common, the two of them in a fierce competition of who could master the other’s language faster, because everything had to be a competition with them.
“Lae’zel, darling, this would be comparable to a farmer challenging the queen of your homeland.”
“Back in K’liir, we’d never let something like this stand,” Lae’zel said, unfazed. “Hrath-Cha told me the stories. He is a traitor to his profession.” She nodded to Shadowheart, who she called Lightbearer. Back when they’d still been enemies with benefits, it had been an insult. Now it was an endearment.
“Yes, but back in K’liir you also solved playground arguments by one on one duels,” Shadowheart slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her in. Lae’zel bristled; she didn’t like being reminded that she was smaller, but still settled against Shadowheart’s side.
“And it always worked.”
“If you’ve pulled me away from my well-deserved day of rest just to talk about work, then I’m going to politely excuse myself.”
“We didn’t,” Shadowheart said quickly, “sorry. In fact, we thought we might distract you.”
He raised his eyebrow at her. “By making me third wheel?”
“By making you help me choose an outfit for an interview.”
Astarion stared at her.
“Yeah, I’m joining the workforce again. Hopefully,” she laughed awkwardly. “It looks like therapy does actually work. Wyll is going to be so annoying about it. But I feel ready to start new.”
“Darling, that’s fantastic!” Shadowheart had been chief physician at Shar hospital, doing almost as much unpaid overtime as Astarion. She'd been forced to quit due to burn out and depression and her path to recovery had been arduous. Even more impressive then, that she took this big step. “ So, an interview outfit, huh? Now it makes sense why you asked me to come along.”
He smirked and they both glanced at Lae’zel. It was great that, despite having come to Baldur’s Gate a decade ago, she still stayed true to her culture. It also meant that she ran around in leathers adorned with metal accents.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just that your sense of fashion is rather…well.”
“Chk! Merely because your own society has no sense of culture and history doesn’t mean the rest of the world is like that.”
Shadowheart chuckled. “I love your style, zhak vo…uh…fyndu?”
Lae’zel grinned. “Almost.”
“Well, I’d love to help, darling. And I know just the place to go.”
-
Astarion was tired as he trudged down the sunset-coloured street toward the apartment. No matter how much he loved his friends, he was still wearing a mask in front of them, pretending things were a lot better than they actually were. He had helped Shadowheart choose a fierce outfit for her interview at Selûne Aid and had laughed along at Lae’zel’s clothing suggestions, but on the back of his tongue, he still tasted the unpleasant bitterness of envy. The two of them had decided to end the day in the movie theatre to celebrate the occasion, and Astarion had grinned and denied their invitation to come along. He was more than happy with some Squids from Space and self-pity. And there should still be popcorn in Tav’s stash. When he passed by Szarr Enterprises he resolutely looked in the opposite direction. That’s when he saw it. Lit windows. House of Hope. A new sign. And his eyes widened.
A cup of Amnish Coffee on the house! For customers who want to indulge without supporting capitalism.
The words were slightly crooked, as if the writer hadn’t really cared. There was a sudden image before his eyes of Raphael, cigarette between his lips, one hand in his pocket as he scribbled on the sign. It wasn’t an offer to attract customers. It was mockery for Astarion. And before he could stop himself, he was stomping across the street. The doorbell jingled. There was a line in front of the counter; two friends who chatted animatedly, and boy who looked like he was definitely not old enough for Amnish coffee. Astarion paused. Four more people occupied seats and as annoyed as he was, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by causing a scene. He glanced at the counter. Raphael was busy with the coffee machine, giving Astarion the chance to leave unnoticed. Or…
He could get another free drink. Or five. Make sure Raphael made as little profit as possible. Before he could change his mind, Raphael turned around and their eyes met. The typical smug smile. He handed the couple two steaming cups without looking at them. They didn’t mind, returning the rudeness with their own by continuing to chat without thanking him. The teen approached the counter and cleared his throat.
“One free Amnish Coffee, please. To go.”
Raphael’s body turned toward him first, then he tore his eyes away from Astarion and looked down his nose at the boy. He raised an eyebrow, gave him the most derisive look Astarion had ever seen, and shrugged.
“Sure.”
When the boy scuttled out of the door, barely believing his luck, Raphael leaned forward on the counter and smiled up at Astarion. “And what can I get this young man?”
“You need to ask?”
“Extra whiskey? Looks like you could use it.”
“Sure.” Why keep up a mask when there was no one but this sad excuse of a barista to see it?
Raphael’s smile turned indulgent. “Take a seat. I’ll bring it to you.”
Astarion was too tired for sarcasm. The chair was surprisingly comfortable even though the flower pattern on the cushion was atrocious. He watched Raphael work. He was wearing a black shirt today and black slacks, combined with the usual white apron which now sported a stain just below his chest. His skin was tan, more from heritage than from the sun judging by the even colour. Then again, someone like him probably had a tanning bed. Strong forearms; probably had his own fitness studio as well. Astarion hid a yawn behind his hand and let his eyes wander through the room. Two of the other patrons were done with their coffees and got up. Girls in fashionable vintage clothes, right at home in the café. One of them took a photo of the wall that was covered in old photographs, then snuck one of the only thing that didn’t fit the interior: its owner. They grinned at each other and hurried outside. Astarion could basically read the social media post: omg look at this weird old guy working in a cute café or something like that.
The weird old guy suddenly appeared before his table and placed down two glasses.
“I’m al-” Astarion glared when Raphael sat down opposite of him “-one. Don’t you have work to do?”
Raphael gestured to the empty area in front of the counter. “So. My regular whose name I still don’t know. What brings you-”
“No, no, no,” Astarion interrupted. “If you invite yourself to my table, I’ll be the one asking the questions.”
Raphael raised an eyebrow and reclined in the chair, legs crossed, hands resting atop each other on his knee. “Very well.”
Astarion scoffed at the way he displayed himself, like he was posing for some kind of medieval painting. “What is all this?” he asked and gestured around.
“A café, I’ve been told. I called it a coffee shop at first, but my assistant kindly corrected me.”
“And why exactly is the cover model of Narcissists Monthly working in a café that looks like he stole it from a kindly old grandma?” Strangely enough, this felt good. This was an opportunity to vent his worst self without any consequences.
Raphael didn’t seem insulted in the slightest. “I paid the previous owner good money to buy this establishment.”
“But of course you did,” Astarion grabbed the mug and took a sip of the coffee. The taste was different than last time, warmer somehow, less bitter and more fragrant. “That still doesn’t explain why you did it in the first place.”
“I told you. To take a break.”
“And I don’t buy it.”
“You seem to buy very little in general.” Raphael said amusedly and gestured to the coffee.
“Certainly nothing from people like you.”
“So prejudiced! How do you know I’m not a great humanitarian who simply likes to spend his money to aid the simple folk?” He eyed Astarion over the rim of his own glass like an especially interesting specimen.
“You literally just sold that fifteen year old kid alcohol.”
“Touché. In my defence, he looked insufferable and probably deserves the headache.”
That almost made Astarion smile, and he took another large sip because the day he’d smile at something this devil in human disguise said would be his last.
“But enough about me. How is it that each time you come to my establishment, both the sky and your expression are as dark as the abyss?”
Who in the hells talked like that?
“Well, honest work will do that to your expression. And your daylight.” Astarion didn’t like the way Raphael looked at him, like he could see right through him.
“That’s the most dishonest way I’ve heard someone say the word honest. Almost sounds like you don’t enjoy your job at Szarr Enterprises. What is your job description, anyway?”
There it was again. Raphael seemed oddly interested in Astarion’s job. A businessman who bought a café outside of one of the largest enterprises in the city…and who was now being oh-so-nice to one of the employees. Astarion had watched Dalyria do enough corporate espionage to know where this was going, and he would certainly not let himself get used by Raphael.
He got up and slung his bag over his shoulder. “My friend just messaged me. Or my landlord. Or maybe my poor old grandma who needs me to cook for her-” Actually, those could all be Tav “-take your pick. In any case, I’ve got to leave.”
“And let me guess. I’ll never see you again.” Raphael smirked up at him, but even though Astarion had the height advantage right now, looking down on him somehow didn’t work.
“Exactly.” Astarion fake-smiled and strode towards the door.
“What’s your name?” Raphael called after him.
He paused. Why the fuck not? “Astarion.”
“Then I’ll see you never, Astarion.”