"—Momoka!"
Rinto ran home at the fastest speed of his life and yanked open the jammed front door.
He didn't even change his shoes, just bolted in from the entryway.
He'd already imagined the worst.
Maybe by the time he got home, the place would be empty—no trace of the twenty-year-old disgrace of a booze-loving rock onee-san who'd lived with him for three months.
Every mark of her life here would be gone: no more underwear and tights tossed all over the bathroom, no more crumpled beer cans left skewed on the table after she finished drinking.
That was an ending he absolutely couldn't accept.
So when Rinto charged into the living room and found Momoka stuffing beer cans into a trash bag, both of them froze.
Especially Momoka.
Guilty as a thief, she flinched, hurriedly hiding the garbage bag behind her—sending the cans on the table clattering onto the floor.
Like a child who'd done something wrong, she gave a dopey grin:
"Yo, yo~! You're home early today—didn't buy groceries... hic! (n -ᗜ- )"
"...You've been drinking."
Relieved, Rinto swept his gaze around the room. There were quite a few empties scattered about.
Momoka loved her booze and handled it badly—but her tolerance was worse.
Usually two or three cans and she'd black out.
But now, never mind the room reeking of alcohol—there had to be a dozen cans on the floor.
Rinto sighed softly:
"You skipped your shift today?"
"...I had Subaru call in for me." She pouted, arguing like a kid.
Rinto pressed on: "And the alcohol? We agreed—no drinking during the day."
"...You're so naggy. I don't need you controlling what I do, right? Besides, I am cleaning up... hic~!"
Another tipsy hiccup. She smelled like she'd just been hauled up out of a wine vat.
They say whether someone has that "booze breath" is largely genetic.
So Momoka—the type who can't drink much, gets drunk fast, and gets mean when drunk—was born a lightweight not cut out for alcohol.
Rinto stepped forward and took the trash bag from her unsteady hands, helping her clean up the wreckage.
She tried to fight him at first.
But with a gentle push she flopped onto the sofa, too woozy to get up.
Rinto gathered all the empties, wiped up the spills—doing all the dirty work without complaint.
Momoka watched it all.
Curled on the sofa, she covered her eyes with her arm:
"Don't mind me... You're a perfectly good high school boy—go enjoy your youth..."
"And anyway, aren't you together with those twins now... go on a date, rent a room, have a blast... Why work yourself this hard, working on your day off..."
Rinto: "If I don't work, I have no money. If I have no money, I can't buy ingredients or cook. Then both of us go hungry."
The man's answer was simple, like it was written into the laws of the universe.
Which only irritated her more.
Momoka rolled onto her side, facing inward:
"That's why—leave me alone! ...I'm not anything to you; I don't even pay you for meals, so why cook for me!"
"And splitting rent for me, helping at my street lives, taking care of me so much... what do you even get out of it?!"
...Rinto fell silent for a moment.
He finished tidying the living room, took the trash out, then came back.
He glanced at the suitcase in the corner and, answering a different question, changed the subject:
"You're leaving Tokyo? Going back to Hokkaido?"
"..." Momoka said nothing.
Rinto went on: "You dropped out of high school and left home, right? You were basically already cut off from your family then. If you go back now, will they accept you?... No, that's not fair. They're family—they probably will."
"But at what price? Will you keep doing music in Hokkaido, or put it down for good? How will you live? Keep scraping by with part-time jobs, or let your family set you up on match dates, hoping to marry some rich guy and be a housewife?"
"Never mind whether you can actually manage a household, but this whole 'bleached-blonde gyaru who dropped out of high school, drifted in Tokyo for three years, then suddenly went home' profile isn't exactly charming. Conservative types will assume your private life is a mess. Not marriage material."
Ah, but—Rinto deliberately switched into a tone like he'd just had a bright idea:
"If not marriage, just finding men should be easy enough. You are fashionable, and you're pretty. You've got the start of a beer belly, sure, but with a little control it'll go back. Slim waist, long legs, nice hips—your chest is on the small side but not flat; the feminine charm's there. If you're willing to go all in, taking work at a nightclub or club, you could probably make—"
"You're so naggy!!"
Momoka grabbed her favorite cushion and smacked it into Rinto's face mid-ramble.
Of course she knew he was saying all this to provoke her.
But it was exactly the ugly reality she herself had gone over a thousand times—the one she didn't want to face.
She was already crying, tears welling like a spring and soaking her collar.
Yet her eyes were still stubborn, fierce as she glared at Rinto:
"How many times do I have to say it—leave me alone! I'm a total failure, society's trash! Do whatever you want with me, just stop caring about me!!"
"..."
Rinto brushed his bangs back where the cushion had mussed them and took out his phone.
He searched for the new tracks Momoka hadn't wanted him to hear. It had been twenty-four hours since she uploaded them yesterday.
Just as he expected, the reception was middling... to be blunt: bad.
The views were only a few thousand, and the comments were almost all negative.
Momoka's few followers mostly couldn't accept the sudden change in style.
The blunt ones said things like "the well's run dry," "she's done," "got dumped by a host, huh," "trying to cash in with a played-out tearjerker." The comment section was a wreck.
Even so, a few diehard fans were battling the trolls, some threads topping a hundred replies.
One diehard's handle was "Yamada of the World"... gee, who could that be.
Rinto thanked that very-not-anonymous Yamada-san in his heart and decided to treat her to a meal next time.
"So it's not your first Waterloo—why can't you take it this time?"
He crouched in front of the unraveling Momoka, looking up at her from lower than her eye level.
She sobbed and hiccuped, face a total raccoon mess.
Sniffling, hair stuck in damp sheets across her cheeks, she muttered:
"I've had enough... No matter how I stick it out, it ends up like this. I should've recognized it long ago..."
"The music I think is good just won't catch fire... Songs I pour everything into, lyrics that wring me dry, works I thought were masterpieces—end up like this... I'm done. I don't want to keep dragging anyone else down..."
Rinto: "You think you're dragging me down? Like you dragged the others in 'Diamond Dust'?"
Momoka froze, choked, unable to answer.
Rinto knew she'd dropped out and come to Tokyo in high school—all four members of Diamond Dust had.
They'd been classmates at the same school. Their very first original song blew up online, an agency came calling, and full of confidence they headed for the capital.
Reckless, even frivolous—sure.
Their parents had all opposed it, of course, but they couldn't stop these fiery girls.
Reality and the market are cruel; what doesn't sell, doesn't sell.
Even after two years of struggling, Diamond Dust was still bottom-tier invisible. The only truly popular song remained that first high-school track.
The agency wanted them to pivot into an idol band—use the four pretty girls as selling points to broaden their market.
For many, that's a dream opportunity; having your looks be marketable is a luxury.
But Momoka was stubborn—ten oxen couldn't drag her.
"I was the one who talked them into coming to Tokyo... I said we'd definitely blow up, live on music, make those old-fashioned parents and teachers eat their words..."
Momoka sniffled, miserable, drenched through.
She thumped her thigh over and over:
"I said we'd be a band for life, always together... But because my songs didn't catch, we couldn't keep going... I couldn't accept the idol pivot at all, so I up and quit, abandoning them...!"
She hammered harder, like she meant to break her own leg.
Rinto caught her fist and held it tight.
Which only made her crack further:
"It's all my fault! Because I'm so useless, I broke our promise—and I was so fucking stubborn! We swore we'd be a band for life, and then over some bullshit musical direction I bailed! I'm the kind of bastard who—"
Rinto: "So you regret refusing the pivot? If you got another chance now, would you put on a floaty skirt and hop around on stage singing songs some pro songwriter tailored for you?"
...With no change of tone, that single line blocked every escape route. Momoka's mouth hung open, numb, wordless.
Only tears kept spilling—like her body meant to drain every last drop as tears.
"...Why."
Hunched shoulders, she asked, small and wounded:
"Why do you say such annoying things? It's like you see right through me, tearing off all my masks... You're just a high schooler, but you're so much more mature than me. You make me feel ashamed over and over—I want to die even more..."
"What do you even want... What's the point of staying with someone like me?"
"If it weren't for you, I'd have given up sooner—gone home and accepted reality... Don't give me hope so irresponsibly, don't make me think there's still someone who likes me..."
Rinto: "Since when did you think I didn't like you?"
Hoo... Rinto exhaled the alcohol in his lungs.
Her stink was so strong it soaked into him.
He looked at her—hair wild, face smeared with tears and snot, a wreck so pathetic it was almost funny:
"I told you already—I'm your fan. Yeah, I only first heard your songs a few months ago, thanks to a proselytizing JK from Kumamoto, but I fell for them in one listen. That girl's an even bigger diehard—she said she got the will to live from your music. That's no small thing."
"...But it's only that one song."
Momoka sniffled:
"The only song I'm known for is Empty Box... Just like the comments say, it was a fluke. I don't have any talent... I just got lucky and made that one..."
Rinto: "But I like all of them, precisely. Every track you made feels like a masterpiece to me. If they don't catch fire, it's because this audience isn't it. In that sense, yeah, Empty Box was a miracle—it happened to meet people with taste who helped carry it. What the later songs lacked was publicity, that's all."
It sounded so gachi (hardcore-fan) it made even Rinto cringe.
But it was his truth. He couldn't change it.
He liked Momoka's music. He believed that someday she could live off it. That was all.
"...Just—just that?"
Momoka's tears finally stopped, but her nose was even more clogged.
Her voice was muffled, sounding even more like a child:
"So you're just taking care of me this much... just because you like my music... because you're my diehard fan? ...Is it just that?"
She asked it twice; she really cared about the answer.
Finally, it had come to this... Rinto couldn't keep hiding anymore.
He knew he already had someone with whom he'd reached a special relationship.
If he said the next line, there'd be no turning back.
But he had already decided—he wouldn't leave regrets.
"Momoka. What I'm about to say is disgusting, and it's something I thought I'd take to my grave. So listen closely."
Momoka blinked, even more confused, waiting for him to continue.
Rinto drew a deep breath and said honestly:
"The truth is... these three months we've lived together, I've been using you as... material."
"......Huh?"
The twenty-year-old boozehound onee-san stared for a long time, only managing a weird noise.
She hiccupped again, clutching her head:
"I'm too drunk, I must be hallucinating... What did you just say?"
Rinto: "I said I've been using you as material. Basically every day, sometimes two or three times."
Oh, how pure. How noble.
Momoka blinked dumbly, babbling:
"Material... you mean that? Like the single-player thing—where you can't help it, but afterward you feel empty, makes you want to die more...?"
Rinto: "Uh... I never felt like dying. Felt pretty normal to me. But hey, the way you said that—you sound pretty experienced yourself?"
That counter jab cut her off at the knees.
Whether her face was beet-red from booze or shame, Rinto didn't care—he went on, confessing recklessly:
"If you ask me whether I like you, of course I do. I've always said your face and body are right in my strike zone, perfect material. But is it just physical love? I don't think so."
"Yeah, you're troublesome and sensitive, coarse and foul-mouthed, and when real things happen you're a coward—the whole buggy trash system rolled into one. But I've honestly enjoyed these days living with you; what comes to mind is always your smile."
"I want you to laugh, to eat your fill. I want you always by my side, to see you every day... If I have to give that feeling a name, it's love. That's right, Momoka—I love you."
...This has to be the most bullshit confession in the world, Momoka thought.
A woman moved by such a confession is either an idiot—
—or a brain-rotted romantic, the kind who'd fall over backward at a crook of a finger.
Which one was she... Momoka didn't want to admit.
Maybe both—and maybe the kind who wanted to push him down herself.
"Mmph—"
Rinto was ambushed—the drunken woman pounced on him!
Momoka seized his lips, teeth knocking painfully against his in a fierce, predatory kiss.
It hurt, it was messy, reeking of booze and tears—
And snot, too. Disgusting. God, this woman was gross.
"...Me too."
Momoka choked out, hiccuping again.
It sprayed right on Rinto's face—zero care for feminine dignity.
She started crying again, tears dripping onto him.
Through it all, she kept going:
"Me too... I've been using you as material!"
"Since the first week we started living together, I couldn't stop thinking about you, you bastard! I even suspected you were drugging the food! Why else would I think this high-school brat—no, this eighteen-year-old punk—is so cool, so manly... Every day I fantasize about being held by you, like some idiot love-brain, like a monkey in heat..."
Rinto: "Wow, Momoka-san, your confession's grosser than mine. At least say you love—"
"Shut it!"
His quip was cut off—this drunken man-eater clamped down on him again.
They rolled across the floor, the sixty-year-old rickety house creaking in protest.
And for the rest of the night, until dawn, the noise in that shabby house didn't stop once.
Thankfully, there were no neighbors nearby—no noise complaints to worry about.