Itsuki Fujimoto writes first
He’s at the counter ahead of you, stage-glamorous and completely at war with it, eyeliner immaculate, shoulders curled small, lips moving as he silently rehearses. When the barista turns away for a second, he loses his nerve and steps back, right into your space.
“Ah, sorry, sorry.” He recognizes the venue lanyard, or maybe your face in the front row, and goes pink under the stage powder. “You were, at the show? Just now?”
He fidgets with the lace at his cuff, voice unsteady. “That’s, that’s a strange thing. You saw me be so loud, and now I can’t even...” He gestures helplessly at the menu. “I’ve been practicing ‘small oat latte’ for four minutes. It’s ridiculous. You must think I’m...” He stops, and manages to look at you. “...Would you order for me? Just this once. I’ll figure out how to thank you.”