Archive of Our Own

Joseph flashes him a lazy grin and reclines even further in his lecture chair, the groan of the seat creaking through the drone of the lecture - of what, Joseph has already forgotten. The professor coughs pointedly, flashes Joseph a glare, and repeats his sentence with pointed venom.

“As you all well know”  he crosses his arms, “the focus of this semester is primarily on a political analysis of the European perspective in World War II. I understand that many of you are here for liberal arts credit fulfillment-” here he drives his eyes into Joseph “-but for those of you who are interested in pursuing some kind of research in poli sci, this will be an invaluable introduction. Right now, as we’re focusing on the Italian perspective,“ Joseph decides to cut him out of his daydream, closing his eyes and burrowing his head in his arms as he sprawls across the desk.

He would rather be anywhere but here. Unlucky that the first friend he made in the University just happened to be the model honor student, he muses, blinking open a blurry eye to look at Smokey, who’s scribbling notes, paying rapt attention.

The prof continues on for a good few minutes, and Joseph plays with the edge of his un-opened notebook, scrolls on his phone listlessly. Finally, the professor stops talking and dims the lights, a familiar tune starting to trumpet through the speakers. Joseph grins, puts his phone aside and closes his eyes again.

“As Mussolini settled into power,” the narrator speaks - no, purrs - over the flashing black white photographs on the screen, “There was a growing urgency for imperial expansion. Italy’s population was rising at a rapid pace, and it was clear,” here he pauses with all the relish and drama of a big screen narrator, “that Italy was outgrowing its small home, and fast.”

Joseph nestles into his scarf, feeling warm and content as he lets the voice wash over him. It’s lilting and clearly Italian, clear but soft, smooth and velvet. It outshines even the crappy surround sound system that the University clearly didn’t bother investing in, although the constant crackle was annoying.

The first time their Professor had played the documentary, Joseph wasn’t paying attention.

But one minute into episode 1, and “World War II is something that certainly needs no introduction”, the narrator begins, and Joseph was done for. He’d always been more of an auditory learner anyway, but he never expected learning to be this - this seductive, his brain supplied for him, and he can feel the tips of his ears burn red.

Ever since then, he’d managed to find class a little more bearable. And sure, if what dragged him to lectures when he really wasn’t feeling it was because he didn’t have the courage to ask the professor for the documentary name, whose business was it but his?

“Id quod plerumque accidit”, the narrator continues, enunciating in crisp latin, “which literally means ‘that which generally happens’, was the proper phrase of bringing these arguments to court, leading to...”

And Joseph, safe in the auditory arms of the mystery narrator, starts to fall asleep.

“-ojo”.

Joseph shifts, grumbling. He’s comfortable and dreaming and whatever that sound is, it’s really really a nnoying.

“-jo.”

And persistent too.

“Jojo!”

A hand shaking him on his shoulder finally jostles him awake, and he sleepily blinks awake as Smokey’s irritated face comes into view.

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for the past minute,” Smokey sighs. “Everyone’s left already. Class ended a few minutes ago.”

Joseph looks, and sure enough, the lecture hall is empty. “Sorry Smokes,” he yawns lazily, “I was pretty out of it.”

“Late night?”

“Nah,” Joseph shoves his notebook in his bag, stands up. “I just fall asleep when he wacks those documentaries on, that’s all.”

“You sure do,” Smokey laughs, “Out like a light every time. Might as well put them to good use, huh.”

“Anyways,” he continues, looking at his watch. “I have an hour before my next class. Wanna grab coffee or something?”

Joseph nods, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “The Starbucks on West End is closed today though,” he points out. “Some wacko vandalized the building.”

“Really? You know what happened?”

“Don’t really know, it was all in Japanese or something.”

Smokey raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, following Joseph out of the hall. “Well, there is this place pretty close to campus. It’s more of a sit-down shop, though.”

“I’m down,” Joseph pulls out his phone. “Do you know the way, or should I get directions?”

“It’s just a bit further down the street past the Starbucks, I think.” Smokey moves out of the way as Joseph holds open the door for a group of girls, smiling politely as they brush past him, laughing.

They walk to the shop in light conversation, both stopping to look at the vandalism of the Starbucks - Joseph whistles in half awe and disbelief - someone has really done a number on the poor windows, giant hacked quarter-squares painted in a horrific purple.

The coffee shop is a modest place, small and unassuming. The outside is painted pale blue, a discrete vintage sign hanging from thin gold chains articulating Air Supplena in delicate script.

A bell twinkles as they step in the shop, and Joseph is washed with the heady scent of coffee and cream, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as the door swings closed behind them.

Then he hears, “Boujourino, what can I do for you gentlemen today,” and forgets how to breathe, because that voice, that voice-

He doesn’t dare open his eyes, frozen to the spot, and after he realizes that it’s gotten to the point where it’s beyond socially acceptable to be standing there like a six foot tall statue, he opens his eyes trepidly and instantly forgets how to breathe all over again.

There’s an angel in the shop, he thinks, stunned, looking at the blond barista behind the counter.

The guy must be almost as tall as Joseph, and just as muscular, but the similarity ends there. His eyes are a razor sharp, translucent green, framed by symmetrical pebble-shaped marks, mouth curved with an elegant cupid-bow dip. The early afternoon light slips through the plein-air windows, illuminates the dust motes swirling around his hair, catching in his pale blond eyelashes; he’s wearing what looks like a cashmere sweater below the standard-issue apron, striped headband around his head, delicate feather earrings catching and sparking in the light, glossy and colorful, and fuck Joseph has always had a thing for blonds.

Suddenly, he feels a jab in his side and he realizes that he’s been staring for way too long than socially acceptable, and the barista’s face has long since shifted from pleasant to bemused to pissed off.

“S-sorry,” Joseph stutters sheepishly, grabbing onto his bag as if it was a lifeline. “I must’ve spaced out there for a bit.”

“You okay?” Smokey asks, clearly concerned about the flush on his face. “Do you want to sit down or something?”

“I’m good,” Joseph says absentmindedly, still staring at the barista, who’s apparently decided to adopt a new expression: intrigued. “Should we order?”

“Sure.” They move closer to the counter, and Joseph determinedly glues his eyes to the menu, which is written in the same flowing script as the shop name, trying his best to ignore the fluff of blond hair in the corner of his vision.

He reads the menu over and over again without understanding any of the drinks, hyper aware of how loud his heart is hammering in his chest. He’s usually not this timid, not even in romance, but for some reason this first impression is important to him, and god knows he already fucked it up.

He chances a glance at the barista, and finds - to his rapidly growing mortification - the man appraising him with curious eyes.

Up close, his features are more clear than ever, and Joseph can see the red pearls on his feather earrings, can see that the marks under his eyes must be tattoos or birthmarks, and which one is it, he desperately wants to know.

“I’ll take a cappuccino,” Smokey pips next to him.

The barista swivels his gaze to Smokey, smoothly shifts on a smile and presses a few buttons on the register. “Of course,” he says, and Joseph starts at hearing his voice again.

“What about you, Joseph?” Smokey and the barista both turn to him, and he finds himself pinned under the full weight of those green eyes.

“I’ll have a coffee,” he finally chokes out, because honest to god he had no idea what they had on the menu and it was a coffee shop, so they must serve coffee, right? Right?

The barista actually chuckles, and Joseph is in brief awe at that new dimension of sound that he finds himself speechless once again, a state he was getting pretty familiar with.

“Very Italian of you,” the man observes as he prints out the receipt and slides it over to Smokey, who had apparently already paid while Joseph was still fishing for words. “Usually, people just ask for Espresso.”

“...Huh?” Is all Joseph’s brilliant brain can come up with.

“Most people don’t refer to espresso as coffee these days,” the blond says as he turns around, takes out the smallest cup Joseph has ever seen, and starts working the machine. “You’re welcome to sit at a table, you know.” He looks back at Joseph, and god he’s making fun of him. “Unless you want to stand here and block the rest of the queue.”

Sure enough, Joseph whips around and finds himself the focus of a few nasty looks from a line that formed when he wasn’t aware.
He mumbles a hurried apology and quickly locates Smokey, almost tripping over a chair in his haste to get there. He swears he can hear a soft laugh behind him.

“So,” Smokey raises a knowing eyebrow as Joseph shoves his large body in the too-small cafe chair, “The barista, huh?”

“It’s him,” Joseph hisses, leaning closer. “It’s the guy from the documentaries!”

“....What.” Smokey says, flat. “The guy they’ve been interviewing? He’s like, 98 or something.”

“No, no, the narrator!”

Smokey thinks a while, ponders. “But how are you sure? His voice could just be similar.”

“I just think it is,” Joseph mumbles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, which in hindsight was not a good idea because he had severely underestimated the strength of those spindly legs and in the next second finds himself crashing face-first on the ground.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Joseph!”

A blond girl hurries over, wearing the same cafe apron. “Are you alright? Sorry, these chairs are pretty old...”

Joseph groans and shoves his face in his hands. How much worse could it get? Maybe he should just move, he muses. Go back to England with Granny Erina and start a new life as a - a goat farmer or something. Anything was better than this. He hears a chuckle that’s becoming all too familiar, and looks back at the counter to see the barista unabashedly looking at him, eyes crinkled in amusement. Joseph scowls at him halfheartedly but it was probably more funny than intimidating, giving his beet red face.

He spends the next few minutes with his head turtled in his scarf, occasionally grunting in affirmation to let Smokey know he was listening to him.

“Order 13!” The blond girl calls, and Smokey pokes him, hands him the receipt.

“Why do I have to go?” Joseph whines. “Haven’t you seen me suffer enough today?”

Smokey rolls his eyes. “I’m doing you a favor, idiot.”

Joseph groans but gets up anyway, heartbeat accelerating every step he takes towards the counter. The girl hands him a tray with two cups, one with a squatting cushion of cream, the other a nondescript espresso, which comes in the same tiny, tiny cup that the barista was holding earlier. Both of them are heavy and ceramic, curling steam into the air.

As Joseph struggles with the thin gap between the chairs, careful not to embarrass himself further, he wonders if it’s the same cup from before.

Smokey accepts his mug with a grateful sigh, wrapping his hands around the base. Joseph looks at his own with a grimace - he hated coffee, hated the bitterness of it. Luckily, there’s creamer and sugar on the table, and as he raises the creamer to his cup, he hears a choked sound and turns to see the barista staring at him in horror.

Joseph stares right back as the entire jug empties into the cup.

The espresso rapidly curls white, and some of the milk-coffee mixture spills over the side of the small mug.

“Shit, shit,” Joseph quickly puts down the jug and laps up the spill with a tissue.

“You did not,” he hears him say, and instantly Joseph is aware that he must’ve done something wrong.

“SUZIE,” The barista suddenly roars, “Did you forget the creamer on the floor again?!”

“Sorry, sorry!” The blond girl from before rushes in from the back, wiping her hands on the apron. “It must’ve slipped my mind - “

She darts through the bar and halts at their table, grabbing for the small tray. “Sorry, this wasn’t supposed to be here....” she trails off as she looks at Joseph, the napkins, and the sad cream-espresso concoction, which is now more milk than coffee anything.

“Oh,” she breathes, “Did you mean to do that?”

“No, not really,” Joseph grins, sheepish. “I was just going to put a little bit.”

“I think you might’ve made Caesar upset,” she - Suzie - giggles behind the tray. “He’s pretty uptight when it comes to coffee.”

“Is it illegal to have preferences?” Joseph looks at the barista, who’s apparently? Caesar.

Caesar stares right back, not even trying to hide his scowl.

“You could say something like that,” Suzie laughs, turning back with the tray safe in her hands. “I would offer you another one, but I can’t make it like he can.”

“What’s there to even make,” Joseph grumbles as he sips at his cream, now officially humiliated. Not only had he made a fool of himself, if there was any chance that the blond even found him endearing, it had all gone out the window now.

The espresso is bland, which is perfectly fine by him. He and Smokey spend the next hour on their laptops studying. Well, Smokey was studying, Joseph was watching Youtube.

Caesar ignores them for the rest of the time, alternating between taking orders and wiping down the counter. Suzie flits around the shop, sweeping and picking up trays. She stops by their table, gives Joseph and Smokey a small smile as she picks up their discarded mugs, and Joseph muses that she was every bit his type Caesar was.

2 o’clock rolls around, and Smokey shuts his laptop with a snap. “I’m gonna go to class,” he stands up and pushes his chair in. Joseph nods, stands up with him and sloppily shoves everything in his bag. They head towards the door but he can’t help hesitating, looking at the counter where Caesar is polishing a jar.

“You go ahead Smokes, I’ll catch you later.”

Smokey looks back at Caesar too, then winks and gives Joseph a friendly punch in the arm. “Gettem.”

The only indication that the blond is even aware of his presence is from his tight grip on the cloth, buffing over the same curve on the jar with an increasingly aggressive polish.

“Uh, hey.” Joseph chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “I uh, wanted to say sorry about breaking the chair. And the coffee, and everything.”

The blond stops his polishing, finally looking at him. Joseph gulps, bounces back on his feet.

“I guess it would be too much to expect for someone like you to appreciate good espresso,” he finally responds, smirking.

“Hey!”

Even though the jab is clearly an insult, Joseph feels too relieved that he’s being acknowledged to really bite back.

An awkward silence settles over them as Caesar doesn’t say anything more, twirling the dust cloth in his hands.

“You, uh, have a nice voice.” Joseph finally supplies, instantly regretting it.

Caesar looks surprised for a second before brief understanding flashes over his features, then says lightly, “So I’ve heard,”

“It would be good for documentaries.”

Joseph decided - he’s already crashed and burned, might as well throw himself into a volcano while he’s at it.

“So it seems,” Caesar crosses his arms, playful. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I, I-” He doesn’t know how to prod any more, forgets any semblance of flirtatious banter that he’s ever learned, and promptly gives up what little bravado he has left since he entered the shop. “I’m just going to go,” he mumbles, turning around.

“Wait.”

Joseph whips back around so fast he gives himself a crick in his neck.

Caesar looks at him, soft with amusement.

“Tell me”, he asks, shifting his weight across the varnished bar, clearly wrestling with a smile on his face, looking at Joseph as if he has an interesting new toy, “Do you believe in love?”

“E-Erm,” Joseph stutters, face and ears flushing hotter than he thought possible.

Caesar pulls out a slip from his pocket, reaches his hand over to run his fingers down Joseph’s arm, folding the paper into his hand and closing his fingers around it. His fingers are cool to the touch, and as he shifts closer Joseph can smell the faint hint of fresh soap.

“See you,” Caesar smiles, turning around as if nothing had happened.

Joseph doesn’t remember walking out of the cafe, doesn’t remembering walking back to his dorm, but collapses on his bed in a daze, looking at his hand that is still closed, holding a now crumpled slip of paper.

Caesar Zeppeli

212 - XXX - XXXX

Joseph grins and takes a deep breath, then promptly burrows his face in his pillow and screams.

“Will you shut the fuck up” His neighbor hollers, pounding on the wall separating them, but Joseph doesn’t care.