Fudō Street glimmered under neon like someone had lacquered the whole city in cheap whiskey. The bar’s windows were fogged from humidity and the after-midnight crowd, but Tomogi Sanogawa pushed through them with the swagger of a man who didn’t know what “last call” meant.

The moment he sat, his head fell back and he laughed at nothing in particular—one of those full-body, reckless laughs that made strangers turn and smile. He always carried that small gravitational pull, the kind a frontman needed. His black shirt was half unbuttoned, his eyeliner smudged from rehearsal, and his hair was a small rebellion against order.

Aoto Kamado slid onto the stool beside him, quieter but no less present. He had the soft, sharp beauty of someone who hadn’t realized he was beautiful—glossy hair tied loosely, eyeliner faded into a gentle shadow, the kind of androgyny that made half the bar stare and the other half pretend they weren’t.

Tomogi tapped his empty glass like it was a metronome. “We got one night before the big one, Aoto. One night before the audition.”

“It’s a gig, not an audition,” Aoto corrected softly. “Just one set for the Shibuya host club. For one man. Who happens to own five more clubs. And three bars. And a talent pipeline. And a—”

“Exactly,” Tomogi cut in, waving down the bartender. “This is the kind of guy who can give us a home base. A residency. A step out of the tiny-venue trenches.”

Aoto watched him with something warm and worried bleeding together. “We should probably rest. We have practice tomorrow, and the others—”

Tomogi slung an arm over Aoto’s shoulder before he could finish. “Aoto… live a little. Celebrating is part of preparation.”

“You made that up.”

“It’s still true.”

The bartender dropped off two drinks. Tomogi drained his. Aoto stared at Tomogi’s throat as he tilted his head back, the line of muscle moving under skin. He looked away—too late.

Tomogi laughed. “Caught you watching.”

Aoto coughed into his drink. “Coincidence.”

“Sure it was.”

The night blurred into the kind of gentle chaos that young musicians mistake for destiny: too many drinks, too much confidence, and the sense that tomorrow would sort itself out.

By the time they realized they’d missed the last train, it didn’t matter. They wandered through Setagaya’s quiet streets, shoulder to shoulder, sometimes bumping into each other and pretending it was the sidewalk’s fault.

Their apartment smelled like cables, old ramen, and ambition. Tomogi kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic flop. “I’m dead. This is my grave.”

Aoto sat beside him. “We need to run the whole Shibuya setlist tomorrow. From the intro scream to the final chord.”

“I’ll do it,” Tomogi mumbled, “if the couch stops spinning.”

Aoto chuckled and let his head fall back against the cushions. “Just sleep it off.”

They didn’t mean to fall asleep on each other. It just happened—Tomogi’s head sliding into the crook of Aoto’s neck, Aoto’s arm ending up across Tomogi’s chest. The kind of accident neither of them would dare manufacture, but neither pushed away.

---

Morning sunlight arrived with a sledgehammer’s grace.

Aoto blinked awake to find Tomogi pressed against him, hair tickling his jaw, one hand resting near his ribs like a question Aoto wasn’t ready to answer.

The wall clock glowed aggressively.

Aoto’s stomach dropped. “Tomogi—wake up! It’s eleven!”

Tomogi shot up. “What? Did we—did we sleep together?”

Aoto’s face burned. “No. I mean—yes. But not like—look, we don’t have time. Practice starts at noon. Here.”

Tomogi groaned, gripping his head. “The others are gonna kill us.”

Aoto surveyed the apartment. It looked like a music store had exploded in the middle of a trash fire. “If they can walk inside, we’ll be lucky.”

They leapt into motion. Tomogi gathered stray clothes and cables, Aoto straightened amps and stacked pedals. Their shoulders brushed repeatedly—each time sending a pulse of static through the air.

At one point Tomogi squeezed past him to grab his guitar, chest brushing Aoto’s back for half a second too long. They both froze. The moment stretched, warm and fragile.

Then Aoto resumed straightening mic stands like his heart wasn’t pounding.

By the time the floor reappeared and the amps were arranged in a passable semicircle, Aoto heard footsteps on the stairs.

Tomogi looked at him, breathless. “This is it. Today decides tonight. And tonight decides everything after.”

Aoto nodded. “Yeah. No pressure.”

The door rattled once.

Kota’s voice drifted through. “Guys? Open up. We brought breakfast and attitudes.”

Aoto exhaled.

Tomogi grinned.

The door slid open, and the rest of Di$iPliN spilled inside, loud and alive and completely unaware of the fragile moment they’d interrupted.