Chapter Text
Affogato was going to murder his boss.
Not literally—he didn’t quite have the constitution for blood, nor the desire to deal with whatever unpleasant bureaucracy followed—but spiritually, metaphorically, and maybe just a little legally in his daydreams.
The moment he stepped off the tram and onto the slick sidewalk, his spine sagged. His blazer felt suffocating, his shoes pinched, and the city air smelled like burnt sugar and exhaust.
His work was on the third floor, nestled inside a cramped, overly beige office full of too many phone lines and not enough escape routes. A perfectly miserable habitat for a man like him; elegant in form, born of a culture deeply rooted in ceremonial aesthetics, and now stuck answering the shrieking requests of an overworked manager.
He survived the day by mentally checking out halfway through the afternoon, coasting through reports with half-hearted precision and tuning out his boss’s passive-aggressive slights like they were elevator music. By the time the sun dipped low and gold, he was already dead behind the eyes, riding that stupid bus home.
Espresso’s apartment wasn’t huge, but it was clean, structured and lived-in. The man probably didn’t need Affogato to scrub the kitchen counters twice a week or wipe down the already-clean bathroom mirror. But it made Affogato feel a little less like a barnacle. A little more like someone who earned his space, however temporarily.
Affogato dropped his bag at the door, loosened his collar, and sighed like a man twice his age.
No one was home.
Espresso was probably still on campus, grading papers or terrorizing freshmen with his dry, academic scorn. Affogato respected it, even if the man was chronically incapable of enjoying a decent cup of tea.
He took the silence as a gift. A rare, sweet moment of solitude.
Like clockwork, he cleaned.
He always did when he came home, when the guilt curled under his ribs like a persistent shadow. He knew he was lucky to be here. His cousin didn’t have to take him in, didn’t have to offer a roof, a bed or running water. And while Affogato rarely admitted guilt aloud, he paid for his presence in chores and politeness. Scrubbing the stovetop felt like penance. Folding Espresso’s laundry was another unspoken “thank you” no one asked for.
He scrubbed the kitchen sink in silence, listening only to the low hum of a fan in another room. He mopped. He wiped. He straightened things that didn’t need straightening.
After sweeping, dusting, and reorganizing the fridge with a quiet elegance, he made his way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. The water scalded at first, but he didn’t move. Let it sting. Let it peel the day off.
What are you doing?
The thought came like a knife. Out of nowhere, just — there. It was not like it was the first time, so he did not always understand why it must stab each time.
When he emerged, towel slung low and hair dripping into the sink, he sat before the mirror. Not to primp, not right away. Just to look. His reflection stared back, damp and thoughtful, eyes clouded by something harder to name.
He didn’t always like sitting still. Stillness meant reflection. And reflection meant remembering.
Steam clung to the walls from his earlier shower, curling at the corners of the mirror like smoke. He leaned in, resting both palms against the sink’s porcelain edge and stared at his reflection.
The boy in the mirror had always been good at getting out. At making do. At twisting situations until they bent enough to let him through. That was what life in the Coffee Village taught you, how to escape while pretending you weren’t running. How to smile when the world forgot you existed.
His eyes, those slitted cat-like pupils framed by heavy lids and violet eyeshadow, were focused somewhere far away.
He could trace his path backwards: the desperation back in the Coffee Village, the flailing economy, the half-whispered resentments from elders about wasted potential. The job he took just to get the permit. The job he left because the boss pinched too hard when no one was looking. Application after application. The borrowed smile.
He had always been smart. And conniving. That had to count for something.
So why did it still feel like he was always two seconds away from slipping?
The mirror said nothing.
A sharp, artificial ping sliced through the air.
He winced. The phone on the counter buzzed again, louder than it needed to be. He’d forgotten to put it on vibrate after getting home. A stupid mistake. He hated the noise. Hated how it made his chest tighten before he even looked.
Muttering a curse, he grabbed it off the counter, ready to throw it onto the bed.
It was a message. From Dark Cacao.
*Would you like to go on a second date with me? If that would be agreeable with you.”
Affogato blinked at the screen. Then let out a slow exhale.
The sudden shift from staring into the bleak void of his life to… a date offer was disorienting. Like falling into a lake and finding the water warm.
He reread it, eyes narrowing in amused disbelief.
There it was again, that strange formality.
‘ If that would be agreeable.’ Who even talked like that?
Still, he tapped out a reply quickly.
*Sure.”
He paused. Looked at it. Then added:
*Why not.”
He stared at the extra words then deleted them, implying typing in:
*Of course.”
Because whatever else, he had a job to do.
A mission, if he wanted to get poetic about it.
This had to be worth something — the dinners, the effort, the smiling. If the universe wouldn’t give him a hand, he’d dig his own fingers in and take what he could.
He was about to toss the phone back on the table when a second message arrived.
A second message followed before he could set the phone down.
*What sort of ring would you want, if you were to get married? I was curious.”
“What the hell?” he muttered to the empty room, dragging a hand down his face. He sat back, curling one leg underneath him as he read the message again.
Not a red flag — not quite.
Just… weird. Weirdly specific.
Was this flirting? Or was he just one of those strange, old-school men who asked personal questions like he was conducting an interview? It was so like him. Asking something weird and loaded like that out of nowhere, as if they were already deep into some romance novel instead of fumbling through stiff small talk and awkward glances.
Affogato set the phone down, rubbing his temples.
He wasn’t going to let this man throw him off. He had a plan. He had to have a plan. If he let himself be thrown by every weird text or proposal of sentiment, he’d never last. He couldn’t afford to get spooked. Not now. He had a mission: survival.
He typed up his reply,
*Something shiny maybe not sure how rings and diamonds work.”
Affogato wondered to himself if he sounded like the ignorant village protagonists in those stupid television series that attract a prince because they're stupid about basic things.
Dark Cacao’s reply came in,
*Noted.”
Affogato stared at the screen for a beat longer, a faint smirk pulling at his lips.
Weirdo.
But at least an interesting one.
And besides,
Dark Cacao wasn’t bad company. Stiff? Yes. Traditional to the point of comedy? Absolutely. But he listened. He didn’t leer. He didn’t pry. There was something weirdly calm about being around someone so serious. Like sitting beside a mountain that didn’t care if you ever reached the summit.
Affogato stood from the chair and went to his room to change, already piecing together what he’d wear for the next meeting. He’d make it worth something. He always did.
.
.
.
The second date arrived three days later.
This time, Dark Cacao picked him up.
Affogato had been expecting a car service or something distant and proper like last time. But no — the man himself showed up at the curb, stepping out of a dark luxury vehicle and walking to open the passenger door himself.
Affogato rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache.
Of course he opens the door. The gallant, scowling warlord.
But he didn’t say anything. Just smiled like a prince and slid in, legs crossed delicately as he buckled the seatbelt.
Dark Cacao closed the door behind him and circled back around.
The car smelled faintly of leather and cedar. Of course it did.
“How was your day?” Dark Cacao had asked as they drove to merge with the traffic.
Affogato stared out the window. His voice was cool when he responded, “Nothing different than what I said over text,” He didn't take his eyes off the trees that stared back at him, “yours?”
“Productive,” Dark Cacao said, “no complications.”
Affogato snorted softly. What a life.
“So mysterious,” Affogato drawled, turning to look out the window. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were part of some conspiracy.”
“You don’t know better.”
Affogato blinked. He turned back toward him sharply, only to find Dark Cacao’s face perfectly unreadable, save for the faintest flicker of humor behind those heavy-lidded eyes.
“You’re joking,” Affogato said flatly.
A pause.
“Am I?”
Affogato stared for a beat. Then snorted, shaking his head.
“Never do that again.”
.
.
When they pulled into the restaurant’s lot, Affogato noticed something different. The sign wasn’t flashy. The building was sleek but quiet. Inside, the lighting was low, every table dressed in soft linens and flickering candles.
And more importantly, nearly every table was a couple.
Oh.
He didn’t say anything, but his brow twitched.
Alright then. So that’s what this is. Definitely moodier. Definitely deliberate.
They were seated quickly, at a private booth near a window.
Conversation moved gently as they ordered, Dark Cacao choosing something heavy and wine-paired; Affogato picking at the menu before settling on whatever was expensive but small enough to finish quickly.
They made small talk as they waited for their food, they spoke of work, the weather… what he thought of the latest architectural changes in the city.
And then, as the first course arrived, Dark Cacao set his utensils down. His posture shifted subtly— not rigid, but attentive.
“Affogato,” he began, voice gruff but not unkind. “I’ve been considering something.”
Affogato arched a brow.
He knew this tone. The, let me be clear, kind of tone.
“That so?”
Dark Cacao nodded once.
“I understand your generation isn’t bound by the same customs as mine. You approach relationships differently. Informally. Casually. But I’ve never done anything halfway.”
He took a slow sip of wine.
“And if I’m to continue seeing you, I’d prefer to do it with full intention. Properly.”
Affogato froze, fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Dark Cacao’s eyes were steady. Serious.
Even the wrinkle under one eye seemed to be bracing itself.
“I want to marry you,” he said, plainly. “If you’ll have me.”
Affogato froze, fork paused halfway to his mouth. The restaurant’s warm candlelight flickered softly across the table, catching the cutlery and the stem of his wine glass, but everything else around him seemed to still.
Dark Cacao hadn’t moved. He sat with his usual posture, firm but not stiff, his hands folded loosely on the table, gaze resting firmly on Affogato with the steady weight of someone who meant what they said.
For a long, uncomfortable second, he genuinely thought he had misheard him. Or that the man had gone off-script. That this was some elaborate joke built from old-school formality and emotional constipation.
Marriage?
Now?
Now?
He swallowed the bite of food in his mouth—barely chewed—and lifted his wine glass with practiced grace, even though his fingers were suddenly cold.
“That’s… sudden,” he murmured, forcing a light smile. “I didn’t think men like you rushed into things.”
“I’m not rushing,” Dark Cacao replied without hesitation. “I’ve simply made a decision.”
Affogato’s smile twitched. He took a longer sip of wine this time. “I see. And what makes you so sure this decision is the right one?”
“I think a man should be clear about his intentions.” Dark Cacao’s voice was like gravel pressed into velvet—rough but not harsh. “And I think the best way to show commitment is to give it.”
There it was again, that tone. Formal, direct, old-fashioned in a way that made Affogato feel like he was being fitted for a suit of armor. This man… he really was serious.
Affogato tilted his head slightly, as though trying to read him through candlelight and a veil of disbelief. “I’d think someone like you would need more than two dinners and a glass of wine to decide on something like marriage.”
“I’ve needed less for harder decisions.”
There was no pride in it, just his truth, like he was stating the time or the weather. The way he looked at Affogato now, there was no hesitation, no flirtation. It was all weight. It was gravity.
Affogato leaned back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He hadn’t expected this—not so early, not so directly. He’d gone into this with a plan: charm the man, earn his trust, take the support, and maybe, maybe long-term affection if it proved necessary. But this wasn’t just a door opening. This was Dark Cacao dragging him through it by the hand before he could look twice at the hinges.
Affogato’s lips curved slowly, but not into a smile. He was studying him now, the way a gambler sizes up a silent opponent. “You talk like this isn’t a relationship. Like you’re recruiting me.”
“I suppose I’m doing both,” came the simple reply.
For the first time, Affogato couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out, quiet and sharp-edged. “You’re impossible.”
Dark Cacao didn’t smile, but the hard line of his mouth softened just a touch. “You’re still considering it, aren’t you?”
His mind raced. He needed to keep this going. He needed this connection. But marriage? That was a lot earlier than he’d planned to manipulate anyone into it.
Still, he wasn’t going to backpedal now.
He reached for his wine again, mostly to buy time. He needed to think. Fast. He didn’t dislike the man. In fact, Dark Cacao was probably the most straightforward, clean-cut person he’d ever entertained, so straightforward it bordered on alien. But marriage was a leap. It was commitment. It was a contract. It was—
A golden opportunity, whispered the familiar voice in the back of his head. You wanted out. This could be out. Play the game. You’re already in the ring. Win the match.
He set the glass down with quiet precision. “And if I say no?”
“Then I won’t ask again. But I will keep seeing you, if that’s what you want, I can.. do it the way your generation intends. I can try.”
“You’re serious.”
“I intend to be serious.”
Affogato shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gods, you’re so traditional it’s almost charming. Almost.”
“I know it’s fast for you,” Dark Cacao said, voice softer now, “but I’m not asking for an answer tonight. I just wanted you to know my intentions.”
“It's appreciated,” he replied smoothly. He lifted a bite of his meal and chewed thoughtfully, eyes flicking back to the tall man across the table. “you get points for the effort.
Affogato glanced around the restaurant. Most of the tables were filled with couples. The lighting was deliberate. The soft music in the background sounded like something out of a slow ballroom. He should’ve seen this coming. Everything about the setup reeked of “intentional.” He took another sip of wine, exhaling through his nose as he set it down.
“Well, I’ll give you points for boldness too.”
“I’m not asking for an answer now,” Dark Cacao repeated again, sitting back at last, as though the hardest part had passed. “But I am asking you to think about it.”
“Sure,” Affogato answered, dragging the word out with something between a purr and a sigh. “I’ll think about it." He will.