Chapter Text
Your favorite cafe closed a couple of months ago, and you’ve been devastated since. How can you not be? You have to look for one that’s just as cozy, open past three in the afternoon, and has pastries and coffee just as delicious as the one you frequented. And to rub salt in the wound, as you’re reminiscing on the simply delectable croissants, you are caught in the rain without an umbrella, like a dummy. Thankfully, you aren’t in the middle of nowhere, finding shelter in a cafe that you’ve been passing by every day. You never dared to step inside before, having been so distraught over your favorite place’s closure. Your mourning prevented you from checking it out, feeling as if you would be cheating on a relationship that had sailed away long ago. But today is the day, since you aren’t given any other choice. Well, you do have the choice of braving that downpour outside. But for some reason, you aren’t too excited over the prospect of getting soaked through to the bone. And besides, the place itself seems nice: warm, and homey.
You are greeted with a chime, and a pleasant, sing-song voice of a woman you can’t quite make out behind the counter. Smooth, jazzy music, and a pleasant aroma of coffee accompany your sopping wet shivers as you slowly make your way to the counter. You scrutinize every detail: the pastries behind the glass display, the decor, even a couple of other unfortunate patrons in the same predicament. You still feel like a cheating spouse, betraying your partner who had long passed; but coming in, and not ordering anything is worse than the unfounded way-too-personal feeling towards the place you’ll never visit again. As you come up to the register, you are greeted by that girl with a sing-song voice, and as you can now see, a very bright smile. You can’t help but smile back, feeling welcomed, and warm inside. You can even ignore your drenched shirt, and the feeling of betrayal. Her raven hair is carefully tied back in a high ponytail, her chocolate brown eyes look at you with the warmth that matches her smile, and her light brown apron only complements her features. It’s as if a warm cup of coffee you are craving materialized right in front of you. A gentle blush peppers your face as she asks you for your order. You stare at her for a moment, still stunned; as her words register in your mind, you stumble, trying to form a sentence. The woman chuckles while you’re looking for the right word. You can only muster up a couple of “um”s, and a singular “I’m still looking…”, trying really hard to look around at the various baked goods, and pastries. She hums a soft “Take you time”, and walks away to finish putting the rest of the pastries for the day on display. Just before she turns away, you catch her name, embroidered on the apron. Mary. You aren’t too sure what to do with this information, since you aren’t the type to call a barista by their name before they formally introduce themselves… But it’s good to know. Probably. You stare up at their drink menu, and consider if your months away from any cafes made you a socially inept weirdo who is unable to interact with people. You already know what you’re going to order. You always know what to order at a bakery to figure out if it’s worth coming back to. Coffee with an espresso base, and an almond croissant. If they mess up almond paste, they aren’t worth your time. It is an iron-clad method for anyone not allergic to nuts. If you are, a regular croissant should suffice, as well. You feel as if the thought is imposed on you, rather than being something that would naturally come up when you’re alone. You brush that feeling away.
You take a long, deep breath, and look around some more. You suppose, since you already volunteered yourself to be “still looking”, you’ll do just that. There’s a plethora of pastries to choose from, as you begin to lazily follow the length of the display shelves. There is, of course, quite a wide selection of various croissants, and other flaky pastries on one side. On the other, among macarons and bon-bons, there are cake slices, and pastries with tiny handwritten signs. Leche Asada, Opéra, Brazo de Reina, Pavlova, Fraisier, Milhojas, various mousse cakes, and tarts. “They know their stuff,” you whisper. You begin to contemplate grabbing more than just a croissant, and a coffee. You don’t want to admit, but being surrounded by all these made-in-house sweet treats is beginning to give you a choice paralysis. Especially, since you’ve been depriving yourself of the joys of local bakeries after your previous heartbreak. Well, that, and the fact that you haven’t eaten all day. You want to taste everything, but you also know how corny it is to answer “Everything!” to someone asking what you want to order. So, for now, you are stuck in this self-imposed limbo of indecision. You’ll get there. Eventually.
Your trance-like state is interrupted by a man’s silky voice that startles you awake. You frantically look around, thinking that he might be talking to someone else. At the confirmation that you are, in fact, the only one staring holes through the pastries, you look up. You are met with a man, maybe a smidge younger than Mary. Yet, as you look at him, it’s as if you’re looking at her spitting image, only with shorter hair, and lower voice. He has a similar pleasant smile, and gaze, with a hint of mischief that Mary’s eyes lack. Or a hint you missed behind the stuttering mess you made of yourself. And well, this gentleman doesn’t help you fix that mess as you swallow an attempt to suppress another blush creeping up your face. You might not be returning to this place not because you don’t like it here, but because you’re going to make such a fool of yourself that you’ll have to go into witness protection just to avoid the embarrassment.
“You seem like you have some questions, lindo.”
Good lord. You blink slowly, trying to collect your thoughts. You cannot afford fumbling any harder than you have already. You need to FOCUS. You’re here for pastries, and coffee. You need to warm up. And you need to do some reconnaissance on the potential replacement for your long lost cafe love. You are a socially apt person. Your face is red because you’re just moments away from running a fever due to the rain. Not because you’re suddenly visually assaulted by the most beautiful baristas around. It’s their job to be nice to you. FOCUS.
“Um, yes… Your fraisier cake–do you put Kirsch in it?” You finally muster up a question. You don’t particularly care whether or not the strawberry shortcake has that tiny brush of cherry liqueur. But you can’t just stand there, mouth agape, staring at the handsome gentleman trying to help you.
“We do,” he nods, his eyes dropping to your hands, tightly grasping the straps of your bag, before looking back up at your face. You begin to relax. If you can stir the conversation towards a more professional direction, you can ignore the rising heat in your chest.
“There’s also Grand Marnier in our Opéra, if you worry about the liqueur," the man hums softly, giving you another once-over. “But something is telling me that you should grab something warmer.”
With his words, you finally notice the shiver in your hands that you can’t subdue even by white-knuckling your poor bag’s straps. You are freezing. And you failed to notice that behind your ogling of the people behind the counter. Great. You are officially a weirdo. Maybe you may still have a chance to play it cool, and showcase your nonchalance by ordering like a normal person. Back to your checking-if-the-place-is-worth-it agenda, you need to get a cappuccino, and a croissant. That’s it. That is all you need to get. Nothing more, nothing else… You look back at the barista behind the counter. Okay, you might want to get something else. He seems trustworthy enough for you to fall for his upselling. Better word would be handsome, but you aren’t vain like that. You hold the silence for a couple moments longer, your eyes traveling over the pastries once more. Cappuccino, croissant, and a dessert of his recommendation. Yes.
“I suppose, you are right,” you finally break the silence, with a shaky chuckle. From the shivering, of course. “I know what I want to order, but since it’s my first time, I’ll ask you for a recommendation…”
“Nulla,” he introduces himself with a cheeky smile. If you weren’t blushing before, you’d be blushing now. “You may call me Nulla.”
“And I do have a couple of recommendations to choose from.” Oh no, not a couple… How are you supposed to pick just one?
“Our croissants are to die for, if I do say so myself,” he taps the glass, moving smoothly over to the register counter, so he can lean over for a better look at you. You take a couple of steps to follow him. You tilt your head curiously, intent on hearing him out. Even if you weren’t motivated by how handsome he is, you’d still listen. You need to know what you’re working with here to see if the menu is worth braving the absolute humiliation you just put yourself through to come back. After all, you do need to move on from your toxic attachment to the last place you frequented. It’s time to put yourself out there, so to speak.
“Brazo de Reina is pretty cozy for the weather. Especially with coffee…”
Nulla trails off, describing how each dessert is delectable in its own way, seemingly forgetting that he was supposed to recommend just a couple of things to warm you up. You feel the passion in each word, and frankly, you are all too happy to listen to his euphonious speech for hours. You are warmed up just by his voice alone. It’s as if the two of you are acquaintances who haven't seen each other in a while, and only now are able to catch up. You lean on the counter to mirror Nulla, occasionally asking follow-up questions. He is so pleasant on the ear that you forget why he is talking about the pastries in the first place. It’s supposed to be a sales pitch, yet his love for the craft turns it into a passionate discussion of various sweets, and how they’re made.
Well, that is until the two of you are interrupted by the loud slamming of a metal tray with unbaked croissants on the counter that makes the two of you jump. You look behind Nulla, where the ruckus came from, and you see another man–who looks damn near identical to the one in front of you–boring into Nulla’s back, and at you. Nulla rolls his eyes, his gaze not leaving your frame. You give him an awkward smile, and with a sardonic smile, he spins back around to look at the one who so impertinently interrupted your chat. Nulla props himself up by his elbows, leaning back on the counter, his shoulders relaxed. The casual gesture makes the loud one seemingly more upset, as you notice an eye twitch. Oh, you might witness a scene. Maybe even a catfight. You aren’t sure if you’re excited to see what’s going to happen, or worried about Mary potentially having to step in. You don’t know any of these people, yet you already feel protective over them, and their place. Okay, perhaps, you will be returning here, if only to witness if this hostility lends itself somewhere interesting. You aren’t particularly inclined to join the drama, but you’d be lying if you say that juicy workplace drama isn’t something worth witnessing from the bleachers.
“Is the tray too heavy for you to carry, Neo?” He chortles. “Need some help?”
“Can you actually do your job, instead of chatting up customers? We have a bunch of orders for tomorrow,” the man named Neo hisses back. He definitely suppressed some choice words, based on the forced half-smile-half-scowl.
“I will. Once I’m done helping this beautiful person, of course.”
“Maybe try being more efficient,” you see Neo’s fake expression slowly dropping. The two of them definitely do not see eye to eye. Or perhaps it could be sibling bicker. Too early to gauge.
“Duly noted,” Nulla turns on his heels back to look at you with a cheeky smile. “How can I efficiently help you, bombón?”
You blush at the nickname. Neo groans, heading to the back.
“Este culiao…” you hear Neo speak under his breath.
“¡Culiao guapo, sí!” A sassy retort.
“¡Ándate a la conchetumadre!” Neo’s vulgar yell sounds distant, and echoey as he disappears in the back of the kitchen, once more.
“That’s why we keep you in the back of the house!”
Nulla’s smile doesn’t drop as he is arguing with the man. Nor does he turn back the second time. His eyes are solely focused on you, expectantly waiting on your answer to his question. You are sure that he’d be way too good at poker, being able to maintain his composure so well. Or maybe, he gets a kick out of bickering with Neo. Or maybe it’s a two-way thing? Too little information to make assumptions. The only thing you can say for sure is:
“He is… Charming,” you chuckle nervously, still shaken by the abrupt interruption. Looking to the side, where Mary was doing her thing, she is glaring at Nulla. She is, most definitely, waiting for your interaction to be over to give Nulla and Neo a smack to the back of their heads. Their fighting seems so homey that you can’t help but smile.
“Not my first choice of words, but sure,” he chuckles back.
“So, have you decided?”
“I’ll take a cappuccino, pain au chocolat, and Brazo de Reina, please.”
“Coming right up!”