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Getou continues to blend the ice and espresso together as Amanai stares at him in horror. He tops it off with whip cream, checking off the name and smiling politely as a customer thanks him. The bell on the door rings as the customer leaves; the sound seems to snap Amanai back to the present.
“What do you mean you’ve never heard of Gojo Satoru?” She demands, slamming down the coffee she had previously been making. It splashes onto the counter.
Getou shrugs, offering her a towel. He can already sense a headache rolling in, the same way dogs can sense incoming thunderstorms. Five minutes until closing. He should’ve just pretended to know who Gojo Satoru is. “Am I suppose to know?”
“Yes!” She snatches the towel and furiously begins cleaning up. Her apparent anger is taken out on the counter, like she can’t believe the audacity Getou has to not know whoever this person is. “He’s a singer!”
“I see,” he says, though he really doesn’t see at all. Mainstream music wasn’t really his thing, so it was hardly a surprise that he didn’t know the name. “I still don’t know him.”
Amanai shakes her head, “But you’ve at least heard some of his songs. Do you know the song Six Eyes?”
Getou did, in fact, recognize that song. Six Eyes had been nearly impossible to avoid, played on radio stations and malls and every other public space in existence. When he’d first heard Six Eyes, he had sort of enjoyed it. But like every half-decent pop song, it had slowly been overplayed until it was beaten to death.
“Six Eyes is okay,” he concedes, because he has a feeling that saying anything that borders criticism would result in Amanai blowing up entirely. It’s nearing the end of an eight hour shift; he does not have the energy for this.
Amanai narrows her eyes at him, searching for a lie. She doesn’t seem to find one, because she’s whipping out her phone the next second. “His dance routines are really good too!” She says. “It’s okay if you’re uncultured and you have bad taste, I’ll teach you. Here a picture—“
Before Getou can say anything in response to being called uncultured — just because he likes music that isn’t pop doesn’t mean he’s uncultured — she’s shoving her phone under her nose.
On the screen is a man who he assumes is Gojo Satoru, frozen in time at the airport. He’s winking directly at the camera, sunglasses perched on the edge of his nose.
Honestly, he might be the most attractive person Getou’s ever seen. Piercing blue eyes and a sharp jawline, with white hair that seems soft as snow. He’s smirking, in a way that implies that the entire world has been made for him, and that he’s not quite human but something more, like his existence is the greatest gift humanity’s ever received. Getou dislikes him instantly.
“He is good looking,” he admits defeatedly.
“Isn’t he?” She beams, swiping through to show him more photos. Gojo with blue hair. Gojo wearing cat ears. Gojo wearing a truly obnoxious sparkling suit that offends Getou’s eyes. He doesn’t ask why she has all these pictures saved. “He’s so cool.”
Getou thinks Gojo seems more arrogant than cool, but he’s not voicing his opinion any time soon. Amanai wouldn’t hesitate to fight him on it. Getou puts the coins away and starts to polish the glass display of desserts. “Right.”
She continues feverishly. “He’s a genius too! He writes and produces all his own songs. I heard that his studio was about to go under but after he debuted, they were able to save the company.”
Gojo must have made a lot of money then. It made sense. Everything about him seemed manufactured, carefully-constructed to be the embodiment of perfection.
“They debuted Haibara after that — look, isn’t he cute?” She shows him a picture of another dark haired idol.
Getou squints at the picture. Haibara seemed significantly nicer than Gojo. The way he smiled at the camera was shy but not unapproachable. Like a baby kitten. Getou can see him becoming very popular in the future.
“Anyways,” she says excitedly, putting her phone away. “I heard they’re doing an interview on near here tomorrow to promote Haibara’s new single. Do you think they’ll stop by here?”
“They might.” Getou doesn’t want to dash her hopes by saying no, but he highly doubts it. In the Sky Cafe, often shortened to just Sky Cafe, was half-hidden in between a bookstore and a flower shop. There were only a few customers that happened to find it. They’d probably go to the much more popular dessert shop just around the corner, which boasted trendy soufflé pancakes and over forty ice cream flavors. “Are you working tomorrow?”
“I have finals,” Amanai sighs. She brightens a second later and points directly at him. “If they do come by, you have to get me an autograph!”
“I’d rather not.”
“I’ll cover your shift on Saturday. I know you want to go to your sisters’ recital.”
Getou pauses. Mimiko and Nanako had asked him to attend their recital two weeks ago. He hadn’t said no because he hadn’t wanted to disappoint them, but trying to trade weekend shifts was notorious for being near impossible.
Amanai smirks, knowing she has him exactly where she wants him. When did she become this manipulative? Getou marvels at the effect Gojo has on people.
“Fine,” he agrees. “But don’t be disappointed if they don’t come.”
She leans back, smug. “Do you know that lightning only hits only 1 in every 500,000 people?”
“What?”
“You never know,” she sings. “All I’m saying is that there’s a better chance of them coming here than being struck by lightning.”
The clock dings, and Amanai grins as she flips the sign from open to closed. “I expect my autograph in two days time, thanks.”
────
Getou decides that a lightning strike would’ve been the nicer option.
“I think Yaga-san’s crying,” Shoko says conversationally. She looks half-dead inside, but Getou can’t tell if it’s because of what’s currently happening. Shoko always looks half-dead inside.
This morning, Jujutsu Recording Company had announced that Gojo Satoru and Haibara would be stopping by Sky cafe. Yaga, their manager, had been delighted at the influx of customers in the beginning. Clearly, his opinion had changed.
Someone online had made it a game for fans to try to guess what Gojo was going to order. Getou has spent the entire morning making the most insane and complicated drinks, doing latte art of the infinity sign on top of cappuccinos, and putting diabetes in a cup. Getou is this close to committing mass murder.
When the aforementioned idols had come in, it had lead to a cacophony of screams so loud that Getou is sure he will never recover. He might have to start learning Japanese Sign Language.
“Excuse me?”
Getou takes a deep breath, reminds himself that patience is a virtue, and turns, putting on his patented customer-service smile. “What can I get for you?”
From across the counter, Gojo Satoru smiles widely. It’s unfair that he’s even better looking in person, to find out that even Photoshop can’t do him justice. Getou is tall, but even he has to look up at Gojo.
“I’m not sure,” Gojo says sweetly, leaning forward. Standing beside him, the dark haired idol shoots Getou an apologetic look. Haibara, if Getou remembers correctly. “What would you recommend?”
“Our iced lattes are popular,” Getou says, hoping that his murderous intent doesn’t shine through his voice. “Our cappuccinos are good as well.”
“Great!” Satoru flourishes the menu and hands Getou a black credit card. “I will have a strawberry frappuccino with five pumps of syrup, extra caramel, extra strawberry, chocolate chips, and extra whip cream!”
Getou’s eye twitches. Why even ask for his opinion if he was just going to order this monstrosity?
“I’ll take an iced Americano please,” Haibara says, much more politely.
“That’ll be 1110.50 Yen,” Getou says, punching in the numbers and scribbling their names on the cup, purposefully spelling Gojo’s name wrong. “Shoko’ll make your drinks just around the corner— “
“Ah!” Gojo interrupts, slamming a hand down. He squints at Getou’s name tag. “Suguru-kun, you’ll make our drinks won’t you?”
“Sorry?” Getou asks incredulously. Surely, Gojo didn’t just call him Suguru-kun.
“Yeah Suguru-kun,” Shoko butts in, eyes glinting wickedly. She’s clearly having fun from his suffering. “I’ll take over the counter. You can go make Gojo’s drinks.”
Shoko and Gojo exchange a glance, and they both grin at each other, communicating in some telepathic wavelength that Getou does not have privy too. He’s not sure he wants to know in the first place. But there’s no arguing with Shoko when she gets like this, so he allows her to take over the cash register as he steps over to make the drinks.
Getou reluctantly creates the abomination that Gojo ordered. He can feel Gojo’s eyes — annoying blue, infuriatingly pretty — on him as he fills the cups with whip cream.
Haibara is off interacting with the fans when Gojo speaks again. “So Suguru-kun—“
“Just Suguru,” Getou says, because he has a feeling he won’t be able to change Gojo’s strange insistence to call him by his first name, but maybe he’d be persuaded to drop the suffix.
“Suguru,” Gojo repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue. The way he says it makes Getou feel like a mouse, trapped underneath cat claws. “You’re actually a secret fan aren’t you? I bet you’re delighted that I’m here — don’t worry, I’ll write out an autograph just for you after all this.”
Getou looks up at Gojo — at the fringes of his hair sliding onto his forehead, at the rosiness of his smooth cheeks, at the mischief that curves around his beautiful face, sharp and challenging — and thinks it’s a shame that his personality is so much worse than his looks. “Here’s your order,” he says, pointedly bypassing the bait Gojo has dangled in front of him.
Gojo takes it from him, deliberately brushing their fingers as he does so. Getou will die before he admits something in his chest flutters at the feeling.
He puts a straw through the lid and takes a long sip. “Can’t you make it any sweeter?”
The butterfly in his chest shrivels up instantly, and is replaced by a flood of irritation. “Did you know?” Getou says pleasantly, smile saccharine sweet. “Most poisons taste like sugar.”
Getou revels in the flicker of surprise that crosses Gojo’s face, his idol persona cracking ever so slightly. As someone who works a minimum wage job, it’s the little victories that keep him going.
It only lasts a moment, however, because Gojo bounces back twice as fast, looking absolutely delighted. “Was that a threat?”
“Yes.”
“You’d get caught.”
“I wouldn’t,” Getou says. “I’d give you just enough to have a heart attack. Who could blame me if I, an innocent bystander, tried to help by giving CPR but ended up making it tragically fatal?”
Gojo gives a shit-eating grin. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just asked.”
Getou will not look down. Getou will not—
He betrays himself by letting his eyes flicker across the seam of Gojo lips, which only makes the idol grin wider.
“You’re holding up the line,” Getou responds, blatantly ignoring the flush that’s crawling up his cheeks.
“Until next time then, Suguru,” Gojo says, flashing him a breathtaking smile.
After he leaves, Getou finds out the next five orders are exactly the same as Gojo’s. Gojo might be good-looking, but Getou imagines that Gojo would look even better with his head on a stick.
After work, Shoko hands him a card. “Satoru told me to give this to you.”
Since when were they on first name terms? Getou thinks as he takes it. “What is it?”
“His number and autograph,” Shoko says, amused. “Didn’t know he was your type.”
“I didn’t either,” Getou says honestly, before wondering if Amanai’s claims that he had bad taste weren’t so far off after all.