Raphael x Tav: Coffee Shop AU Pt. 2
A/N: Continuing from this, because someone wanted Raphael's POV and I wanted to goof off instead of writing serious things.
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She’s a Barista. How Did it Come to This?
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As a professor of the English language and literature on the whole, Raphael has no small amount of experience when it comes to divining an author’s intent and reading subtext. Years of honing these talents allow him to translate Haarlep’s intended message: ask the barista out.
What he actually says is, “It’s been seven months, old man, is this a joke? Skip dinner and fuck the poor thing sideways.” Which is uncouth, uncivil, and utterly par for the course for the younger man.
“Why are you here?”
Haarlep shrugs. He’s currently sprawled out across the only sofa in the teacher’s lounge, both monopolizing the space and looking too cramped on the loveseat. Korilla rolls her eyes, leaning over his feet to pluck another paper from the pile. The University has afforded him two assistants this semester. Only one is pulling their weight. But Haarlep’s is not without use. Between himself and his assistant, he has never seen:
Such positive class reviews.
So many female students with a vested interest in classical literature.
It’s frankly uncanny.
“You’d be happier for taking my advice.”
“Not everyone is playing ‘catch the venereal' disease, Haarlep,” Korilla mutters. Haarlep shoots her a look. Something unspoken passes between them. In the absence of words (and Korilla’s repentance), Haarlep digs their heel into her thigh before sitting up.
“Oh, take me with you. One evening, Raphael. That's all I need. And you and your sweet barista will be happy little lambs.”
“Aren’t you busy?” Raphael eyes the essays.
Haarlep waves him off. “Unimportant. I hate to see you so solemn, dear. Please.”
And unfortunately, there’s no denying Haarlep anything once they’re in full flow. Gods save them all.
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Fifteen minutes into the drive, he insists on silence. Raphael is always one for a good discussion, but Haarlep is a peculiar breed. He whiplashes from topic to topic with an alacrity most find disorienting and asserts opinions so occasionally outlandish that Raphael wonders if he believes them. The smirk says he doesn’t; half of what they do is for their amusement, the little shit.
“You must like her,” Haarlep mutters. “The cafe might as well be in a different city.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. We’re half an hour from campus.”
“Mmm.”
He doesn’t like that sound one bit. Or the look his assistant is giving him. Raphael grumbles, motioning for the younger man to go ahead of him. The bell on the door chimes when they step inside, and he’s overcome with that feeling of peace.
Tav’s shop smells equal parts coffee shop and bookstore, the slightly spicy scent of old paper lingering on the air. He associates the smell with snowy mornings spent indoors, curled beneath his covers, safe and comfortable. There are seating areas and tables, yes, indicative of any metropolitan cafe. It’s the books he fell in love with. Shelves and shelves of books, of all genres and ages. You were as likely to find a history of naval battles as you were an airport bestseller or romance.
Haarlep pulls a face. “It smells like a library.”
“That will be the books, you troglodyte.”
They accept the gibe gamely enough, stuffing their hands in their pockets. Haarlep scans the place with their frankly unsettling, at times preternatural, gaze, weighing every barista. They linger on Tav. “That one?”
“How…”
“Raphael, you are aware of what attraction looks like, yes? Do you have some cursory awareness? That girl looked at you with the stupidest doe-eyes when you walked in. It made me a little upset. Or nauseous.” He waved a hand. “Hard to say which.”
“Your dramatics are noted, Haarlep. Find a book. I’ll order for us.”
“Oh, good. More reading.”
He is very aware of Haarlep’s eyes on him as he approaches the counter. It pales in comparison to the roiling feeling in his gut. The voice in his head (sounding too much like his father) screams every time he gets close. She’s too young; they’re from different worlds. She won’t look at him. If she’s polite, it’s because she’s paid to be polite, Raphael. Tav smiles at him; the expression lights up the entirety of her face. He thinks, in that moment, that she is one of the most singularly lovely creatures he’s seen.
“Raphael!” She uses his name. Tav leans forward on the counter, beckoning him nearer. Her little friends behind the counter share a look among themselves, snickering. “I took your advice.” She points to a shelf on the left side of the store. He recognizes the book: one of his recommendations. “You were right. I couldn’t put it down. I figured others might enjoy it too. If you have any more suggestions…”
“Of course. Of course! It’s…very nearly my profession!”
“Isn’t that your profession?”
He smirks, dipping into a half bow. “Among other things. You’ll find me a font of philosophy and tired rhetoric. Should it ever strike your fancy.”
“Mmm. You do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He thinks he hears Haarlep groan from across the cafe. Tav is looking at him, and the weight of that stare leaves him parched or hungry. Raphael clears his throat. “May I ask how you found the ending?”
“Why doesn’t she explain it to you,” Shadowheart says, sliding a coffee to him. “Over dinner? Say six?”
Haarlep winds an arm around his waist, resting their chin on his shoulder. “Six is perfect, my beauty. He can’t wait. Italian?”
“Her absolute favorite. Passatempo?”
Haarlep reaches out to shake the she-elf’s hand. “He’s never been. But he’s so eager to try.”
It is, perhaps, the most surreal way he’s ever gotten a date. Tav stares at him in sputtering horror, her face a vibrant red. Raphael saves her, writing his number on one of the cafe’s business cards. He hands it to her. “My number. I look forward to our…”
“...date.” She finishes, so conclusively, so resolutely, that he laughs.
“Yes. Of course.”
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