Realistic

The practice room was too cold.

Not physically. Sure, the air conditioner might have been set too low, or someone might have forgotten to adjust it… but that wasn’t it. This wasn’t the kind of cold you could fix by changing the temperature or pulling on a jacket.

This was the kind of cold that settled into your bones. The kind that lingered.

The kind that came from silence stretching just a little too long... from words that should have been said, conversations that used to exist.. but didn’t anymore.

Kyomoto Taiga noticed it first. Or maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he had always noticed it. He had just been better at ignoring it before. Better at pretending it wasn’t there.

But now... he was the one who couldn’t.

His gaze drifted across the room without meaning to, like it always did. Like it had learned to do on its own, without his permission.

And it landed on Matsumura Hokuto.

Standing there with his back turned, head slightly lowered, eyes fixed on his phone as if the entire world had been reduced to whatever was on that screen. His thumb scrolled slowly, deliberately; like that was where all his attention belonged.

Detached. Untouchable. Like whatever he was looking at mattered more than anything else around him.

More than...

Taiga swallowed, throat tightening.

More than him. Like Taiga wasn’t even there. 

That part... that feeling was new. A lie. 

No... that wasn’t true.

What was new... wasn’t Hokuto looking away. Hokuto had done that before.

What was new was this —  Taiga couldn’t reach him anymore, even when he did look. The version of Matsumura Hokuto he used to know... the one who would eventually look back, who would always meet him halfway — that version felt out of reach now.

“Are we starting?” Morimoto Shintaro’s voice cut through the room. Too loud, too forced. Like he was trying to break something that refused to be broken. 

No one answered. It was like everyone had lost the ability to speak at once.

The music hadn’t even started yet, but something already felt off-beat.

Tanaka Juri clicked his tongue quietly, eyes flicking between Hokuto and Taiga. Sharp. Observant. As if reading something no one else wanted to acknowledge. 

Like he was watching a ticking bomb. Waiting to see when it would finally explode.

As the silence deepened, Jesse Lewis let out a small laugh, stepping forward with his usual energy, trying to inject something or anything lighter into the air. 

“Come on, what is this? Practice or funeral rehearsal?” 

It should have worked. It always did. Everyone had been living with his joke for years; laughing, teasing, sometimes even hitting him when it got too ridiculous.

But this time, the joke didn’t land. It hovered for a second... then dropped flat. Like something that had lost its weight mid-flight.

Even Kochi Yugo, usually the one who could brighten any room, couldn’t quite laugh. Or maybe he did, but it came out strained, more like a choke than anything real.

Because everyone could feel it.

This wasn’t just tension. It wasn’t just a bad day or exhaustion from work. Everyone knew it was something deeper. Something that had been built without anyone stopping it.

Whatever had broken between Kyomoto Taiga and Matsumura Hokuto... it wasn’t small.

And it wasn’t something that could be smoothed over with a joke anymore. 

Taiga exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if he could physically shake the feeling off. 

He couldn’t, unfortunately. But he had to. Because this was work. And he was professional; he had to be.

“Let’s just start,” Taiga said finally, his voice steady enough to cut through the silence. 

Across the room, Hokuto didn’t respond. He simply slipped his phone away.

And then — finally. He looked up. Looked toward Taiga’s direction.

For a moment... just for a moment, Taiga felt it. 

That familiar pull. Like Hokuto was really looking at him again. Like before.

And somehow... that made everything feel worse. 

Because this wasn’t the Hokuto who stayed. This wasn’t the Hokuto who meant it.

It only looked like him.

They took their positions. Back to work. Back to being professionals.

The music finally started. Feeling too sharp, too loud. Loud enough to fill the space that words no longer occupied. 

They fell into formation like muscle memory. Because if there was one thing that had never failed them — it was this.

Taiga hit every note like his life depended on it. Controlled, effortless, beautiful. Exactly what everyone expected from him.

He moved instinctively, body following choreography he had done a hundred times before. But his awareness, his attention... was somewhere else entirely.

Hokuto. 

It was always Hokuto.

And for a moment, Taiga felt himself being pulled back into memory. The kind he seemed to be the only one still carrying. 

There was a part in the routine; a small one, barely noticeable to anyone watching casually. A simple turn, a passing step. A moment where their paths crossed just close enough. 

That moment had never been written into the choreography. It wasn’t planned. But it had always been theirs.

A glance. Half a second, at most. Something unspoken that passed between them like a secret no one else could see.

Today... it came, just like always.

Taiga turned. Right on beat. Right on cue. And for a second — he allowed himself to hope. Just a little. 

Maybe... they were okay, they were fine. Maybe nothing had really changed.

But Hokuto didn’t look. Not even by accident.

He moved past Taiga like he was just another point in space. Just another position to hit. Just another member to avoid colliding with. 

Nothing more.

And just like that, Taiga missed the next step. Barely, just a fraction. 

But in a room like this, with people who had spent half their lives together — it didn’t matter how small it was. It was obvious.

The music stopped. But the tension didn’t.

Silence rushed back in immediately, like it had been waiting for its turn, like it belonged there.

“...Again,” Juri’s voice cut through it. 

No one commented on the mistake. No one pointed it out. No one needed to.

Taiga nodded once. “Sorry,” he said quietly. 

And he meant it. He hated that this — this had become his weak point. At work. Of all places. 

And Hokuto said nothing. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge it.

It passed like it meant nothing. Like Taiga didn’t matter.

And somehow... that hurt more than being corrected ever could.

The practice continued, but not for long. The break came too quickly.

Or maybe... not quickly enough.

Taiga slipped out before anyone could stop him, the hallway outside blessedly empty.

And he couldn’t have been more grateful for that. Because he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Didn’t want anyone to notice the way his breathing felt uneven, or how his chest refused to loosen no matter how hard he tried.

He leaned back against the wall, the cold surface pressing through his shirt. His fingers trembled slightly as he brought them to his lips, as if he could steady himself that way.

It didn’t work. Nothing did.

He tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him something; an answer, a reason, anything. 

But he already knew. There was nothing there.

He hated this. He hated how it felt like he was suffocating just by being in the same room. Hated how Hokuto could stand there, breathe normally, move normally; like none of this mattered.

Like they didn’t matter.

And what he hated most... was how much it still mattered to him.

“...You’re running away again.”

Taiga froze. His eyes slid shut for a brief second. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He would recognize that voice anywhere. The same voice that once grounded him, always found comfort in it. Still did, maybe. Even now.

Of course Hokuto followed. Slowly, Taiga turned.

Hokuto stood a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that didn’t match the weight in the air between them.

His expression was unreadable. Always unreadable.

It used to be something Taiga loved. Because he had known how to read him. Between every pause, every flicker, every breath Hokuto didn’t realize he was giving away. 

But now... it felt like staring at a wall. A wall he kept trying to break through with bare hands, only to end up hurting himself over and over again.

Because Hokuto — felt like a language he used to be fluent in... but now he had forgotten how to understand it anymore.

“I’m not,” Taiga said. But even to his own ears, his voice lacked conviction.

Hokuto tilted his head slightly. “Then what is this?”

Silence stretched between them. Too long. Too heavy.

Taiga let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You really want to do this here?”

“Do what?” Hokuto asked, like he didn’t know. Like he couldn’t feel it.

Taiga gestured vaguely between them, the motion weak, unfocused. “This.”

Hokuto didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

“...Where else?” Hokuto replied quietly. “We don’t talk anywhere else anymore.”

That landed too cleanly. Too painfully.

Taiga’s chest tightened, something sharp twisting inside.

“Whose fault is that?” he shot back, sharper than he intended.

Hokuto didn’t even flinch. “It’s not mine.”

And that… that was it.

Something inside Taiga snapped. Not loudly, not dramatically; but in a quiet, irreversible way.

“Of course,” he whispered, voice thin. “It’s never yours.”

Hokuto’s brows furrowed, just slightly. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” Taiga said, voice rising despite himself.
“You’re the one… who just decided one day that we’re nothing outside of work.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you did.” The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Taiga could feel his own heartbeat now, too fast, too loud — like it was trying to break out of his chest. 

Hokuto exhaled slowly, like he was already tired of this conversation. Like… Taiga was exhausting.

And that hurt too.

“I’m just being realistic,” Hokuto said finally.

Realistic.

Taiga almost laughed.

“Realistic?” he repeated softly. “So everything before this was what? A mistake?”

Hokuto’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t say that.”

Taiga scoffed, the sound breaking at the edges. “You didn’t have to.”

There it was. The truth neither of them had said out loud. Not when it started. Not when it grew into something more. And definitely not when it ended.

Because it had ended. And that's how Hokuto had made sure of that.

“We’re idols, Taiga.” Hokuto said, the words came out quieter now. Firmer. Final.

“We don’t get to be selfish.”

Taiga stared at him. And for a moment, he didn’t recognize the person in front of him.

This wasn’t the Hokuto who stayed up talking to him until sunrise.

This wasn’t the Hokuto who looked at him like he was something precious. 

This wasn’t the Hokuto who —

“Loving you isn’t selfish.” The words slipped out before Taiga could stop them. Raw. Honest. Like they had been waiting. Like they had been forced down for so long they finally broke free on their own.

Silence.

Hokuto’s expression cracked. Just for a second.

But Taiga saw it. And that made everything worse. Because it meant Hokuto knew.

He knew… and still chose this. Which meant Taiga had been fighting alone this entire time. A battle he didn’t even realize had started. A battle he never had a chance of winning.

“Don’t,” Hokuto said, voice low. “Don’t say things like that now.”

“Why?” Taiga demanded, stepping closer. “Because it’s inconvenient? Because it doesn’t fit your ‘realistic’ life?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything!” Hokuto snapped.

The words echoed down the empty hallway. Sharp. Loud. Wrong.

That was the first time Hokuto raised his voice at him. After all these years. And that hurt more than everything else combined. 

Both of them frozed.

Hokuto’s breathing was uneven now, control slipping in ways he clearly hated.

“We can’t be that,” he said, quieter. “You know that.”

Taiga shook his head slowly. Disbelief settling in like something heavy and immovable.

“No,” he said. “You decided that.”

Hokuto looked away.

And that… that was the answer. The one Taiga had been searching for. The one he had been dreading.

Taiga felt something in his chest cave in. Not shatter. Not explode. Just… collapse. Like something that had been barely holding itself together for a long time finally gave up.

“…Okay,” Taiga said softly.

Hokuto’s head snapped back toward him.

“Okay?” he repeated.

Taiga nodded. A small, empty smile tugged at his lips.

“You want realistic?” he said. 

“Fine.” His voice didn’t shake anymore. That scared him more than anything.

“I’ll give you realistic.”

He stepped back. Putting space between them.

Drawing a line that hadn’t existed before.

“You’re right,” Taiga continued. “We’re just members.”

Each word landed like a quiet cut. Deliberately. Careful. Like he was carving them into himself as he said them.

“Colleagues.”

Another step back.

“Nothing else.”

Hokuto stared at him. Like he wanted to say something. Like he should say something.

But he didn’t. He stayed silent. And in that silence — Taiga felt his world finally, completely break.

“Got it,” Taiga said. Then he turned. And walked away.

Because walking away was easier than staying somewhere he was no longer wanted. Even if every step felt heavy. Even if it felt like he was dragging something behind him — something that refused to let go.

Taiga kept walking. Because he had to.

Behind him, Hokuto didn’t move. Didn’t call his name. Didn’t stop him. Didn’t have the courage to.

But if Taiga had turned around… just once — he would have seen it.

The way Hokuto’s hands were shaking. The way his composure had completely fallen apart the moment Taiga was out of sight. The way he pressed his sleeve against his eyes like it could hide the damage. Like it could undo what he had just done.

But Taiga didn’t turn around. And Hokuto didn’t call him back.

Because some choices, even when they hurt like hell… aren’t meant to be taken back.