At Kazama Haru's suggestion, the six of them piled straight into the van the agency had arranged and headed for the izakaya where he'd previously hashed things out with the Ryujin-kai enforcer, Hirayama Naoya.
Even with the razor-edged tension of that earlier negotiation, the flavors of the place had lodged themselves stubbornly in his memory. The quality of the yakitori — plump, juicy meat charred just right — and the assortment of sweet-and-spicy tare glazes brushed across each skewer were, without exaggeration, first-class.
The moment they pushed open the sliding wooden door and were hit by the thick perfume of grilled fat, soy, and faintly sour sake steam curling through the lantern light, every one of the girls' eyes sparkled in unison.
For a joint mostly frequented by rumpled salaryman ojisans, brimming with that earthy, lived-in shitamachi energy, most of them were setting foot in such an establishment for the very first time.
Sakiko and Mutsumi, in particular, being proper ojou-sama types, drank in the surroundings with the same wide-eyed novelty they'd shown their first time in a karaoke box, examining the cramped booths and smoke-stained ceiling with unabashed curiosity.
Even Nyamu — who'd been pouting the whole ride, whining about why they weren't going to some fancy French place in Ginza and complaining that Kazama Haru had "roughly zero romantic sense, mou~" — now wore an expression of unmistakable, if grudging, satisfaction.
That griping had been playful theater from the start. Born and raised in the countryside, she'd never been the type to turn her nose up at somewhere so refreshingly unpretentious. Standing under the flickering red chōchin now, listening to the half-tipsy hollers of the ojisans and the sizzle of the grill, the leftover adrenaline from their smash-hit performance began to settle warm in her chest.
"Yosh, let's take that one."
Kazama Haru pointed to a corner table that had just emptied.
That corner sat in a blind spot from the other patrons' angle — a strange little pocket of security, and one that would let the group talk without straining their voices. Don't be fooled by the fact that most of the clientele were mustached, sake-flushed ojisans; there was always the chance one of them was secretly a hardcore idol otaku.
Unlike the other members, who could still tuck their features behind masks and cross-body scarves and go unrecognized, the reigning national idol Misumi Uika had a fanbase wide enough that a single dropped sunglasses could go viral by midnight. To let her unmask and actually enjoy the meal in peace, Kazama Haru had picked their seat with deliberate care.
The one miscalculation, he realized as he lowered himself onto the bench, was that the table was designed for five, not six. Even with their petite frames, wedging one extra body in made the space feel absurdly tight — thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.
Nyamu on his left and Sakiko on his right were pressed against him in a way that couldn't be ignored, the soft give of their arms molded flush along his own. Faint, layered fragrances kept drifting up into his senses — Nyamu's sweet, sugary body mist tangled with the sandalwood note Sakiko always wore, undercut by the warm-skin smell of two girls fresh off a concert stage.
Nn... it wasn't unpleasant. Not even a little. But it was, admittedly, a sharp detour from the relaxed, low-stakes dinner he'd envisioned.
Nyamu, beside him, seemed utterly unbothered by the closeness. Her eyes sparkled as she flipped through the laminated, oil-spotted menu, circling item after item with her fingertip.
"All the carbs I usually skip through 'cause of the calories — tonight I'm eating every single one until I explode, ne!"
"How about a little sake to go with it?" Yahata Umiri suggested, a small smile curving her lips. Normally militant about clean eating, even she wanted to fully cut loose tonight.
Because of her drunk of a father, Sakiko had always carried an instinctive, gut-level flinch toward alcohol. But watching everyone else glow with that pre-drink anticipation, she didn't want to be the one to kill the mood.
"Come to think of it, I've never tasted sake at all. Tonight might as well be my first, desuwa."
As she spoke, Sakiko snuck a sidelong glance at Kazama Haru, who was thumb-typing something into his phone. A mischievous little plot bloomed quietly in her chest.
Later... I'll get Haru-kun tipsy on purpose. His drunk face has to be criminally cute. I'll snap a photo when he isn't looking. Blackmail material, ufufu.
"Sumimaseeen, sorry for the wait!"
The waitress's chirp cut through the din, and the table filled fast — glistening yakitori skewers sizzling under their sweet tare, karaage still hissing faintly from the fryer, thick miso soup steaming in dark lacquer bowls, the whole spread hitting the nose in a wave of soy-charcoal-ginger heat.
"Nee, Haru-kun~ open up, aaan~"
Before Kazama Haru could even reach for his chopsticks, Nyamu — quick as a cat pouncing on a strip of chikuwa — pinched a golden, crackling piece of karaage between her hashi and, grinning like a mischievous child, brought it straight to his lips.
Feeding play?!
He leaned back on reflex, blindsided by the ambush.
"Yutenji-san. Haru-kun is not a child anymore. Please allow him to eat by himself, desuwa." Sakiko's voice snapped taut instantly, her ojou-sama polish barely masking the urgency underneath.
"Ehh, but I wanna feed him right now~"
Loose-limbed and warm from the atmosphere, Nyamu's voice went syrupy, spoiled-cat coquettish. "We compared before, ne? I'm the older one. Whether it's onee-san taking care of her cute otouto, or a member thanking her hard-working Band Manager for everything he's done these past days — feeding him one measly bite is totally normal, un?"
"Indeed." Yahata Umiri chimed in with unruffled calm, objectively finding Nyamu's logic airtight.
"Uh..."
Kazama Haru scratched his cheek, ears going hot. The ambush had steamrolled straight past his defenses.
He wanted, politely, to decline — but Nyamu's expression made it clear she wasn't retreating from this bite, and under the loaded gazes of every girl at the table, after a beat of hesitation, he could only surrender and part his lips.
"Yoshi yoshi~ our Haru-kun is such a good boy."
Having gotten her bite in, Nyamu — clearly not done playing onee-san — lifted her free hand and began carding her fingers through his hair, humming with satisfaction as she petted him.
Watching Kazama Haru's resigned, half-melting expression, like a cat that had given up struggling in someone's lap, Sakiko's lips parted in stunned indignation. The gut-punch memory of last time — reaching out to dab his sweat only to be intercepted mid-motion — surged back with vindictive clarity.
Zettai ni, this time I refuse to lose ground!
She inhaled slow, gathered every scrap of nerve in her body, picked up her own porcelain spoon with fingers that trembled just slightly, scooped a delicate portion of seafood chawanmushi, blew across it in three careful puffs — fuu, fuu, fuu — and lifted the spoon to hover just under Kazama Haru's chin.
"Haru-kun. I've watched how hard you've worked all this time. Have a bite while it's warm. It's kind on the stomach, desuwa."
"Nn... arigatou."
Since he'd already accepted Nyamu's bite, plain fairness demanded he accept Sakiko's too. Without much hesitation he leaned in, took the spoon between his lips directly from her hand, let the silken egg custard slide down his throat, and turned to give her a soft, grateful smile.
Seeing Haru-kun obediently swallow, and catching that pure, unguarded smile bloom across his face as he thanked her — Sakiko's small, round cheeks flushed a scalding crimson clear up to her ears. A tiny, strangled sound almost slipped out of her throat.
Nani kore. Cheating-tier cute, desuwa!
"E-ehto... if that's the case... I want a headpat like Yutenji-san too."
Mind fully short-circuited, her mouth operating on some rebellious autopilot, Sakiko — as if possessed by a mischievous kami — blurted out an even more outrageous request.
She had, in that moment, forgotten the most elementary rule of decorum — that when one wishes to initiate anything with another person, particularly something as private and charged as prolonged physical contact, one first secures the other's consent.
Her brain simply overheated and blew a fuse. In a movement that landed halfway between a headpat and a full embrace, she scooped Kazama Haru's head into the crook of her arm, cradling him against the soft curve of her chest, and began stroking through his hair with dizzy freedom.
The sensation, on her end, was blissful — like petting an unfairly obedient large dog that had just finished dinner. His hair was surprisingly fine between her fingers, his temple warm against her forearm, and she could feel the faintest exhale from his nose ghost across the delicate underside of her wrist. A small, forbidden shiver ran the length of her spine.
"S-Saki-chan?!"
Feeling the pillowy softness of her arm, the muted thump of a heartbeat somewhere close to his ear, and that light, sandalwood-and-clean-skin fragrance flooding his senses, Kazama Haru — dead-tired body screaming to just collapse there and drift off into unconsciousness — was outvoted by rationality.
The mixed-signal stares of the surrounding girls, plus the increasingly interested glances from a couple of the ojisans two tables over, made him feel like he was seated on a bed of pins. Like a startled rabbit bolting from tall grass, he shot bolt upright.