Chapter Text
It always started like this.
The low hum of the studio light. The faint echo of laughter in the hall outside. The slight chill in the room that made Taki pull the sleeves of his sweater over his palms. And Maki—barefoot, grinning, already too close.
The live had only just started, and it already felt like they were in their own bubble.
Taki wasn’t sure if it was the camera that made Maki this soft or if it was just how he always was, but turned up—brighter, more teasing, more touch. Sometimes it made him dizzy. Sometimes it made him hope.
Maki leaned in again, brushing shoulders as he read the comments on the screen, his voice low with amusement. “They’re saying we look like a couple.”
Taki’s breath caught in his throat. Not because of the comment—he’d heard that kind of thing before—but because of the way Maki was looking at him. Lazy, amused, eyes flicking down to his mouth for half a second too long. Like he wanted to play with the idea. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Taki chuckled, soft and breathy. “Well, that’s because you’re sitting nearly on top of me.”
“I’m barely touching you.” Maki didn’t move away. In fact, he tilted his head a little closer. “Why, is that a problem?”
It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. It was a problem in the same way fire was a problem—dangerous, beautiful, impossible to ignore.
“No,” Taki said, almost too quickly. “It’s fine.”
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Maki smiled again—this time more gently, like he could hear everything Taki wasn’t saying. For a few seconds, they just looked at each other. And it was like—
No.
It wasn’t anything. Not really.
It never was.
The door opened behind them, and Taki already knew who it was from the shift in the air. From the way Maki straightened up slightly—not to move away from Taki, but to turn toward the voice that hadn’t even spoken yet.
Harua stepped into the room with a lopsided smile and a casual wave toward the camera. “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
And just like that, Maki was already moving. “You’re not late,” he said, voice lighter, teasing. “You’re right on time to save me.”
“Save you from what?”
Taki didn’t look. He kept his gaze down on the screen, reading out a comment with a practiced laugh, trying to ignore the sound of Maki sliding closer to Harua on the couch.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Harua. He loved Harua. Everyone did. He was sunshine in human form—kind, affectionate, golden. It wasn’t even that Harua flirted with Maki, because he didn’t, not really. It was just that… when Harua was in the room, Maki changed.
He got louder. Looser. More performative.
With Taki, there was always this strange quiet. This in-between tension, like they were both afraid of naming what hovered between them. But with Harua, Maki could joke and nudge and throw his arm around someone’s shoulders like it didn’t mean anything.
And maybe it didn’t.
“Harua,” Maki was saying now, clearly forgetting they were still live, “you should’ve seen Taki a few minutes ago. He was blushing so hard.”
“I was not—”
“Yes, he was,” Maki insisted, flashing a grin at the camera like they were all in on some inside joke. “It was cute. I think I flustered him.”
Taki blinked. His smile wavered just slightly. It wasn’t the teasing that bothered him—it was the way Maki said it like a punchline. Like the moment they had wasn’t real. Just something to laugh about later.
He swallowed it down, laughing along like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t already pulling away inch by inch.
Harua chimed in, cheerful as ever. “You do have that effect on people.”
And that was that.
The live continued. The comments rolled in. Maki and Harua joked back and forth while Taki sat there, nodding when needed, smiling on cue, his voice growing quieter.
Later, when it ended and the lights dimmed, Taki was the first to get up.
“I’m gonna head back,” he said casually, already halfway to the door.
“You’re not staying?” Maki looked up, surprised. “We were gonna watch the new "GO ONE!" episode together.”
“With who?” Taki asked. It came out sharper than intended.
Maki blinked. “With—well, all of us.”
Taki hesitated at the door. “I’ll watch it later.”
And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Outside in the hallway, Taki let himself breathe again.
He didn’t know why it always stung like this. Why his chest felt tight, like he’d run a mile, like something was pressing down on his ribs. It wasn’t as if Maki had promised anything. It wasn’t as if Taki had confessed or expected him to feel the same.
But sometimes—sometimes Maki looked at him like he could.
And that was almost worse than if he never had at all.
Taki didn’t go straight back to the dorm.
He wandered the halls for a while, hoodie up, headphones in, not playing anything. Just… existing. Letting the silence be loud. It was late enough that the lights had dimmed to that soft, sleepy gold, and the building was nearly empty—except for the occasional staff member or trainee passing by with quiet footsteps and tired eyes.
He liked this version of the building. After-hours. Stripped down. Honest.
He sat on the floor outside the practice rooms, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. The tiles were cold through his joggers, but he didn’t mind. He liked the grounding feeling of it. Like something real.
It had happened again.
The same cycle. The same rhythm.
Warmth. Softness. Hope. And then—
Distance.
It was always like that with Maki. Like the universe was playing some cruel game of red light, green light with his heart. Every time he started to move forward, every time he let himself believe, it all stopped.
Not now. Not yet. Not him.
He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew how things looked from the outside—he was chaotic, but softer, easier to fluster. And Maki was… Maki. Confident, composed, magnetic, he just had that type of presence, you know? He could light up a room without trying. He didn’t need to chase anyone. People came to him.
And Taki? Taki was just someone who lingered too long when their hands brushed. Who replayed conversations like they were songs. Who remembered what Maki wore the first time he called him pretty.
Too much. Always too much.
He didn’t even notice the footsteps until someone dropped into a crouch beside him.
“Hey.”
Taki blinked his eyes open.
Yuma.
Of course.
Hair messy, hoodie slung over his shoulder, eyes sharp even under the low light. He looked like he didn’t want to be there—and like he’d sprinted to find him.
Taki swallowed. “Hi.”
Yuma didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside him, legs stretched out, elbows on his knees.
They sat like that for a full minute. Maybe two.
Then: “You missed dinner,” Yuma muttered, not looking at him.
Taki huffed a soft laugh. “Wasn’t hungry.”
“Liar.”
Another beat of silence.
“I didn’t want to see them,” Taki admitted quietly.
Yuma turned his head then, brows pulling together slightly.
Taki kept his eyes on the floor. “He—Maki—he always does this. Gets close. Like really close. And then the second someone else walks in—”
“Like Harua.”
Taki paused.
Yuma’s voice was flat, but his eyes were watching closely. Taki didn’t answer.
Yuma scoffed. “He’s so obvious it’s pathetic.”
Taki blinked, confused. “Harua?”
“No,” Yuma said. “Maki.”
Taki's breath caught.
Yuma rolled his eyes, like this was all so annoying. “You think you are the one getting flustered when you two talk? Please. You get shy. But Maki? He practically breaks his neck every time you smile at someone else.”
Taki stared at him, heart pounding.
“But then why…” he started, voice small, “why does he always flirt when no one else is around, and act like I don’t exist the moment someone else is?”
Yuma sighed, like he hated having to explain feelings, like the whole concept exhausted him.
“Because he’s a coward,” he said simply. “Because he’s so far up his own ass he can’t admit he likes you. So he plays it safe. Gets close when it’s just you. Backs off when there’s an audience.”
Taki didn’t say anything.
He didn’t know what to say.
Yuma leaned back on his palms and tilted his head toward the ceiling.
“You know,” he added quietly, “you’re the only one who lets him do that.”
Taki frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You never call him out,” Yuma said, shrugging one shoulder. “You never make him say what he means. You just… let him float there, halfway. So he never has to choose.”
Taki felt that one like a punch to the chest.
He turned his head away.
Yuma sighed again—more gently this time—and bumped their shoulders together.
“I’m not trying to make you feel worse.”
Taki gave him a weak smile. “It’s okay. I already feel like crap.”
“Well,” Yuma muttered, “he should feel worse. Idiot.”
Taki laughed, soft and surprised.
And Yuma smiled too. Just a little and Taki laid his head on Yuma's shoulder, enjoying his quiet presence.
They sat there a while longer. And for the first time that night, Taki didn’t feel like the room was caving in.