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No one had expected the auditions to be public.
The chairs were cheap plastic, lined in long, uneven rows off to the side of the stage that creaked when the trainees shifted their weight. The lights above the audience stayed dim, but the stage was blinding. White, flat, merciless. Every mistake could be seen. Every success, witnessed by competitors who wanted the same future. To make it as a trainee on the survival show, ‘PROJECT: WHITE NOISE’. Wanting to make it as an idol.
Semi Eita sat with his legs spread slightly, elbows resting on his knees. He’d already had his audition. Already seen more than he could count. Strong vocals and flashy dancers. People who clearly wanted to be idols more than they wanted to breathe.
By the time the next person walked on stage, he was tired. He walked to center stage and bowed once, cleanly, and lifted his head.
“My name is Shirabu Kenjirou,” he said into the microphone.
He didn’t look like much. Slim. Quiet posture. Hair styled neatly, expression neutral in a way that almost felt… detached. No dramatic waves, no practiced smiles.
Semi barely paid attention, until the music started.
The first movement was subtle. A shift of weight. A controlled bend of the spine that rolled through his back like water. Semi straightened without realizing it.
Shirabu didn’t dance like someone trying to impress.
He danced like he had been doing it for years, which he probably was, and was taught that precision mattered. His arms cut clean lines through the air, wrists soft, shoulders relaxed. When he turned, his balance never wavered. When he jumped, he landed silently, knees bending just enough to absorb the impact.
There was no wasted motion.
When the music ended, the room stayed quiet for half a second too long.
Then, the judges applauded. The camera filming them cut to Semi. His brows were drawn together, eyes sharp, mouth slightly open like he’d forgotten to close it. Later, fans would pause the frame and circle it in red.
“That look is respect.” Someone would write.
At the time, Semi only thought of one thing.
Oh. He’s dangerous.
—
The practice room smelled like sweat and disinfectant.
Semi clapped his hand once, loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Alright. Let’s get started.”
He’d been named the leader of his group for this week’s mission about ten minutes ago. The responsibility sat comfortably on his shoulders. He was used to this. Used to managing people, to pulling performances together.
He was used to being listened to.
His group consisted of a friend he had made, Tendou, someone he didn’t know very well, Goshiki, and Shirabu.
Shirabu stood off to the side, stretching quietly. He didn’t look at Semi. Didn’t look at anyone. He folded himself forward with alarming ease, palms flat against the floor, breathing steady.
Semi noticed.
“Okay,” Semi said, voice light. They had practiced the dance a couple times with the instructor and were now left to figure it out fully on their own. “We’ll run it once more to see where everyone’s at.”
They ran it.
Once. Twice.
Shirabu almost immediately had the dance perfected to a T. No questions. No hesitation. He adjusted angles on instinct, corrected himself mid-step before Semi could say a word.
Semi felt irritation curl in his stomach, sharp and unwelcome.
“If you can keep up,” Semi said casually during a break, “this tempo should be fine.”
Shirabu wiped sweat from the back of his neck. “If you can count properly,” he replies, tone even, “yeah.”
It wasn’t loud.
But Tendou’s eyebrows shot up. Goshiki froze mid-stretch.
Semi smiled, thin and polite. “Good. Let’s run it one more time.”
Later, when the episode aired, the comments rolled in immediately.
“THE TENSION????”
“Theyre not even arguing bro,,,, theyre just circling each other”
“Why does this feel like the start of something….”
—
Shirabu sat alone in the interview chair.
His hands rested neatly in his lap. His posture was perfect, his back straight, chin up. The producer off-camera prompted him gently.
“How did you prepare for the show?”
Shirabu blinked once.
“I didn’t really,” he said.
The pause afterward was deliberate.
“I saw it on social media. I never thought of being an idol, like ever. I kind of applied on a whim.”
The producer waited.
“My parents already had a son. They thought I’d be a girl, so they prepared my life for that.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “So they raised me like one. Ballet. Gymnastics.”
He shrugged.
“It stuck.”
The music softened. The lighting warmed. Viewers leaned in.
Then… cut.
The dorm kitchen was fluorescent and harsh, the warmth gone. Cups and instant noodles cluttered the counter. Several trainees sat half-asleep, shoulders slumped.
Semi leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight over his chest.
“You know,” he said quietly, “some people have worked their whole lives for this.”
Shirabu looked over the rim of his cup. “I know.”
Semi pushed off the counter, pacing once. “A lot of people here feel like you’re not trying.”
The words hung between them.
Shirabu set his cup down carefully. “I am.”
“Then why does it look like you don’t care?”
Shirabu met his eyes fully now. His voice stayed calm, but something hardened beneath it.
“Because I don’t show it the way you do.”
Silence stretched. Neither apologized.
The clip ended there. Fans argued for months.
—
The final stage was too bright.
White light spilled over everything. The floor, the set, the faces of the 15 remaining trainees lined up shoulder to shoulder. There was nowhere to hide. No shadow to disappear into. Every twitch of nerves was caught by the cameras and magnified across millions of screens.
Semi stood near the center of the lineup, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. He’d already made peace with the possibility. He knew where he stood. His rankings, his screen time, the way the judges looked at him when he performed.
He wasn’t worried about himself.
Shirabu stood two places to his right.
He looked the same as always. Calm, composed. Hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes forward. If his heart was racing, there was no sign of it. The stylists had brushed his hair back cleanly, exposing the elegant line of his neck, the slope of his shoulders beneath the tailored jacket.
Semi glanced sideways, just once.
Does he even realize? He wondered, a little sharply. How close this is?
The host’s voice echoed through the studio.
“One by one, we will now announce the final members of the debut group.”
The first name was called. Ushijima Wakatoshi.
Then the second. Taichi Kawanishi.
His name came third. “Semi Eita.”
Applause roared. Semi stepped forward, bowed deeply, and walked across the stage to stand in the lineup for the group. Relief settled into him like a weight, real, grounding.
He exhaled.
Then he looked back down the line.
Shirabu was still there. The list grew shorter as more trainees were called. Reon Oohira, Tendou Satori, Yamagata Hayato, Goshiki Tsutomu.
One spot left.
The host paused, drawing out the silence until it felt cruel.
The camera panned slowly across the remaining face. It lingered on Shirabu just long enough to catch the way his jaw tightened.
Semi’s chest tightened.
The host finally spoke. “The final member of SHIROTAE is…”
Time stretched.
“Shirabu Kenjirou.”
For half a second, Shirabu didn’t move.
His eyes widened. Not dramatically, just enough to crack the calm facade he’d worn for months. His breath caught. Sharp and audible in the mic.
The crowd exploded.
Shirabu bowed deeply, reflexively, then stepped forward as if he wasn’t entirely sure his legs would hold him.
Semi, and the rest of his members, were there before he thought about it.
An arm slid around Shirabu’s shoulders. Not pulling, not restraining, just anchoring. A firm clap landed between the shoulder blades, steady and reassuring.
“You did good,” Semi said, voice low, meant only for him.
Shirabu’s shoulders rose and fell with a shaky breath. He nodded once, swallowing hard.
“…Thanks,” he managed.
The camera caught it all. The touch. The words. The way Shirabu leaned just slightly into Semi’s side before straightening again.
Later, ECHOES would dissect the footage frame by frame.
As they line up together. No longer competitors, but members of the same group, Semi felt something settle between them.
Not peace. But acknowledgement.
And for the first time since the auditions, when Shirabu looked at him, there was no edge in his gaze.
Only something like trust.
—
The first SHIROTAE livestream was scheduled for exactly one hour.
It lasted ninety minutes.
They were seated in a semi-circle on a low couch and mismatched chairs. The company’s practice room was hastily dressed up with a banner behind them and a table crowded with water bottles and a tablet to look through the comments. Someone had turned on fairy lights, which cast a warm, uneven glow across their faces.
Semi sat near the center. Shirabu sat beside him.
It wasn’t a deliberate choice, at least, that’s what the staff said later, but the proximity felt intentional in a way the internet would never let go of.
Ushijima Wakatoshi, as the captain of the group, gave a short introduction, before they all had to introduce themselves.
“Hello, everyone,” Semi said, leaning toward the camera with a practiced smile. “I’m Semi, the face of the group.”
The chat exploded immediately.
He did what he always did on camera: talked easily, filled silences, steered conversation when it veered off track. Tendou cracked jokes. Goshiki waved too enthusiastically. Ushijima nodded solemnly at everything.
Shirabu didn’t say much. He listened.
Semi noticed it almost right away. The way Shirabu angled his body slightly inward, hands folded in his lap, gaze steady but soft as he followed the conversation. Every now and then, he nodded, quiet acknowledgment instead of interruption.
Semi caught himself glancing over.
Not staring, he was careful about that, but checking. As if to make sure Shirabu was still there, still present. The habit formed without his permission.
At one point, Goshiki launched into a rambling story that made absolutely no sense.
There was a beat.
Semi turned his head at the same time Shirabu did. Their eyes met. Just for a second.
Shirabu’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his usual composure. Semi bit down on a smile before it could show.
They both looked away immediately. The chat noticed.
“WHY DID THEY DO THAT AT THE SAME TIMEE”
“That was a shared thought, I’m convinced!!!”
As the livestream dragged on, Semi found himself leaning back slightly, shoulders brushing Shirabu’s every time he shifted. Shirabu never moved away. Never moved closer, either. Just existed in that narrow space between.
Once, when Semi paused to read a comment, Shirabu leaned in just enough to see the screen. “What does that say?” he asked quietly.
Semi tilted the tablet toward him. Their hands brushed.
“Nothing important,” Semi said, a little too quickly.
Shirabu hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t press.
By the end of the livestream, Semi’s voice was hoarse, and Shirabu had spoken exactly three full sentences.
Still, when the staff called cut and the camera light went dark, the room felt… different.
More settled.
As they stood to leave, Semi hesitated, then said, “You did fine.”
Shirabu blinked, clearly surprised.
“I didn’t really do anything…” he replied.
Semi shrugged. “Exactly.”
For once, Shirabu smiled.
Later that night, ECHOES clipped the stream down to seconds-long videos and looped them endlessly.
Not the jokes. Not the introductions.
Just the moments where Semi kept looking over.
—
The practice room was all mirrors and fluorescent lights.
By the time filming started, they’d already run the choreography six times. Sweat clung to the back of Semi’s neck, dampening his shirt. His muscles burned in that familiar, satisfying way. Evidence of work done right.
“Again,” the choreographer said. “From the top.”
They moved.
The choreography for ‘STATIC’ was precise and punishing, full of sharp transitions and tight formations. Semi hit each move with power, confidence, and control. He always did.
Shirabu danced differently. Not worse, just… differently.
Where Semi pushed, Shirabu refined. Where Semi emphasized strength, Shirabu emphasized line. His flexibility threaded through the routine like something alive. His body folding and unfolding in ways that made the moves look deceptively easy.
Semi felt it itch under his skin.
They finished the run-through.
Shirabu exhaled slowly, hands resting on his hips. “Your shoulder’s late on the third count,” he said, tone neutral.
Semi turned toward him. “My shoulder?”
Shirabu stepped closer without hesitation. Too close. He reached out, fingers light but certain, and adjusted Semi’s shoulder angle.
“Here,” he said. “You’re overcompensating.”
The contact sent a jolt through Semi’s chest.
He resisted the urge to step back.
“You’re stiff through the hips,” Semi shot back, not missing a beat to clap back at Shirabu. He placed his hands at Shirabu’s waist, only meant to demonstrate, pure technical, and guided his hips into a smoother angle. “You’re cutting the line.”
Shirabu inhaled sharply.
For a second, neither of them moved. They were close enough to feel each other breathe.
The camera caught everything.
“Can you two not flirt on company time?” Tendou called from the corner.
Semi pulled his hands away immediately. “We’re not.”
Shirabu straightened. “Absolutely not.”
They ran it again.
And again.
Each correction brought them closer. Hands on shoulders. Fingers at wrists. A palm flat against a lower back to guide timing. They spoke in clipped phrases, counting beats, muttering critiques, but the air between them grew heavy.
“You’re rushing,” Shirabu said under his breath.
“You’re too loose,” Semi replied, just as quietly.
They finished the final run drenched in sweat, chests heaving.
The choreographer nodded, satisfied. “That’s good. Very good. Especially you two.”
Semi wiped his face with his shirt, heart still pounding. Shirabu avoided his eyes. When the video dropped, the internet combusted.
“WHY ARE THEY TOUCHING LIKE THAT”
“THIS IS NO LONGER PROFESSIONAL, ITS PERSONAL”
“Someone separate them for my sanity”
Semi watched the comments later that night, scrolling without thinking.
He paused on one.
“They argue like people who know each other a little too well.”
He closed the app.
—
The fan event was supposed to be simple.
A small stage. Folding chairs. A banner with SHIROTAE printed in clean block letters behind them. The members sat in a line, microphones rested loosely in their hands as they answered questions pulled from a clear acrylic box.
The crowd was loud, but controlled. The kind of excitement that buzzed just under the surface, waiting for something to tip it over.
Shirabu sat third from the left. He was wearing a cropped practice shirt with a meme of Taichi printed on it. It wasn’t dramatic enough, with just a touch of funny. Just short enough to expose a narrow strip of skin when he lifted his arms. Paired with high-waisted black pants, it looked almost accidental.
Semi noticed immediately. He told himself it was professional awareness. Stage presence. Image management. He did not stop noticing.
A fan’s question came up, read aloud by the MC.
“Shirabu, can you show how flexible you are?”
The crowd erupted.
Shirabu blinked once, processing. “Here?”
“If you’re comfortable,” the MC added quickly.
Shirabu nodded. “That’s fine.”
He stood smoothly, handing his microphone to the staff member at the edge of the stage. He took one step forward, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled.
Semi shifted in his seat.
Shirabu turned sideways and leaned backward. Slowly. Controlled. His spine arched with unsettling ease, vertebrae stacking in reverse as he bent farther and farther back. The movement was graceful, deliberate. More demonstration than showing off.
And then gravity did its thing.
The hem of his shirt slid upward. Just a little.
Enough to expose more skin than intended as his torso inverted, fabric bunching slightly against his ribs.
The crowd screamed. Semi reacted before he thought. He stood halfway out of his chair and reached out, fingers catching the edge of Shirabu’s shirt and tugging it down quickly.
“Hey–” Semi muttered under his breath.
Shirabu froze. Then straightened abruptly, breath hitching as he came back upright. His hand flew to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as he processed what had just happened.
Their eyes met.
For one half-second, Shirabu looked genuinely startled.
“… Thanks,” he said quietly.
Semi cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
The MC, flustered but delighted, laughed nervously. “Wow! That was uh… very impressive.”
The crowd was already feral.
Shirabu adjusted his shirt once, deliberately as if to reassure himself it was in place.
Then without prompting, he turned back toward the audience.
“And this,” he added calmly, “is easier.”
He stepped his feet apart. Lowered himself smoothly. And slid into a full split, facing the crowd, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
The scream that followed was deafening.
Semi stared.
He didn’t even try to hide it this time.
The camera caught everything: Semi’s wide-eyed pause, the way his mouth parted, the unmistakable oh written across his face.
When Shirabu stood again, the crowd was still screaming. He bowed once, polite as ever, and returned to his seat.
Semi sat down a beat too late.
Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Later, the clips hit the internet in rapid succession. ECHOES lost their collective minds.
“SEMI MOVED ON PURE INSTINCT!!”
“THAT WAS A HUSBAND REACTION”
“SHIRABU DOESN’T EVEN LOOK ANGRY”
The slow motion edits were merciless. And Semi never denied any of it.
—
The small room hummed with quiet energy. String lights casting a soft glow over posters and scattered cushions. The interviewer sat casually on a stool, clipboard in hand, while the SHIROTAE members lounged across sofas and beanbags, relaxed and at ease despite the camera rolling steadily.
Semi settled on a back couch, fingers tapping lightly on his knee. Across the room, Shirabu reclined on a beanbag, eyes lidded, face calm but distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.
The interviewer smiled brightly. “Alright, SHIROTAE! We’re playing quickfire. I ask a question and pick one person to answer. Don’t think too hard. Ready?”
The group murmured agreement.
She held up the first card with a flourish.
“First question: If you could star in any movie genre, what would it be? Leader Ushijima, let’s begin with you.”
Ushijima’s expression was as stoic as ever, but he still let a small smile grace his lips. “Action,” he said simply. “I like movies with fighting and intense choreography. Something that pushes physical limits. I think that could be interesting.” His voice was low and steady, like the calm before a storm.
The group nodded, some smiling at Ushijima’s unchanging seriousness.
The next question came quickly.
“Who’s most likely to secretly snack during practice? Tendou?”
Tendou raised a hand, grinning widely. “That’s me,” he admitted, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I always have a stash of candy somewhere. No one’s safe when I get hungry.” He laughed, the room warming with his infectious energy.
“Next one,” the interviewer said, flipping to another card. “If you had to pick one member to be your partner in a heist, who would it be?”
She scanned the group, then pointed to Goshiki.
Goshiki rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Honesly, probably Taichi-san. He’s quiet and he’s pretty sharp with surroundings.” He smiled. “Plus, he’s pretty quick on his feet.”
Everyone chuckled at that.
The interviewer turned to Semi.
“Alright, Semi, this one’s for you. ‘If you could spend a day in someone else’s body, whose would you pick?’”
Semi hesitated for a beat, gaze drifting upward as he thought.
“Shirabu,” he said finally, voice calm but sincere. “I want to know what it’s like to have that kind of control and flexibility. To move the way he does, so effortlessly. It’s something I’ve never really been able to do, no matter how much I practice.”
The room softened. Shirabu’s eyes flickered open, sharper, and turned toward Semi, clearly surprised. His usual distant gaze was broken, replaced by a rare moment of connection.
The interviewer smiled, sensing the shift. “Great answer.”
Semi glanced back at Shirabu, who offered a quiet, almost imperceptible nod.
When the interview aired, the fans were quick to react, flooding the chat with messages like:
“Shirabu’s face when Semi said his name 😭”
“Totally just snapped Shirabu out of his dissociation”
“SemiShira energy being undeniable like always”
Shirabu slid back into his usual calm posture, but the moment lingered between them. Unspoken, but felt.
Semi caught his eye once more, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
—
The video starts shaky, handheld, the energy raw and buzzing. The fan filming is just off to the side of the stage, clearly hyped.
“Okay, okay, you guys. Here’s the sign, alright?” The fan swivels their phone around to point the camera at the sign that says: ‘We want twink Shirabu next comeback’.
The camera spins back to show the fan. “I’m pretty in the front. I’m going to try to get someone’s reaction.”
The video cuts to a moment right after finishing a dance. The crowd is wild and the fan is waving the sign around. The camera zooms in on Semi stepping closer to read the sign.
His eyebrows lift. He smirks light and nods while pointing to the fan as she yells.
The camera jerks as the fan follows Semi’s gaze, then pans quickly to Shirabu, who’s waving at the crowd.
Semi gestures subtly, tugging Shirabu’s sleeve to pull him closer. Shirabu looks down, then up at the sign, reading it with a raised eyebrow.
Semi laughs quietly.
Shirabu turns to Semi, cracks a rare grin, and gives him a playful punch on the arm.
Shirabu mutters something that looks like: “You’re impossible.” and Semi shrugs, still grinning.
Shirabu shakes his head and immediately walks away. The camera turns back to the fan who’s staring with her mouth open. “Did you guys see that?! That was everything!”
The video ends.
Later, this clip blew up across social media. Slow zoom-ins on Semi’s smirk, Shirabu’s reaction, the arm punch.
Comments poured in:
“Not Semi low-key pulling Shirabu like a proud dead”
“Shirabu’s punch seemed so soft!!! He’s a softie!!!!”
“Twink Shirabu confirmed, can’t wait for the next comeback”
“This is what I live for <333”
—
The common room smelled faintly of green tea and warm wood. Cushions of all shapes and sizes were scattered across the floor and couches, some plumped just right, others flattened from hours of use. The soft hum of a ceiling fan mixed with the quiet murmur of voices, creating a cozy soundtrack for the late evening.
The livestream was still rolling.
Eight members of SHIROTAE were crammed into the space, sprawled on sofas, beanbags, and floor pillows. They had decided it would be a fun activity to write a song together with their fans through a livestream. So now, sheets of lyric drafts lay strewn across coffee tables, their edges curling from constant handling. Pens clicked, voices rose and fell in heated debate, and occasional bursts of laughter cut through the intensity.
Semi sat on the corner of an old, fabric couch, his shoulders hunched slightly as fatigue settled into his bones. His fingers tapped absently on the fabric of his pants, his eyes half-lidded as he tried to focus on the conversation around him.
He nodded slowly at suggestions, his mind drifting in and out of attention, eyelids growing heavier by the minute.
Then, almost imperceptibly, his head dipped forward, eyes closing fully.
He was asleep.
Shirabu, seated a few feet away on a low beanbag, noticed immediately.
Without a word, without disturbing the flow of the debate, Shirabu rose smoothly. His movements were quiet, so quiet that the camera only caught his slight shift.
He padded over, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips as he bent down to retrieve a folded blanket resting on the armrest of a nearby chair.
Semi remained still, breathing even, unaware.
Shirabu draped the blanket gently over Semi’s shoulders, tucking it softly around his neck and arms like a protective shield. He sat down beside Semi, careful not to crowd him, the blanket bridging the small gap between them.
As the others continued to argue about phrasing, voices overlapping, occasional jokes thrown in to lighten the mood, Shirabu’s gaze softened. He watched Semi’s peaceful face, the slow rise and fall of his chest, and the faint crease of tension in his brow that only sleep could smooth away.
Semi stirred slightly, a faint murmur escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake.
For a long moment, Shirabu simply sat, quiet and steady, a calm presence amid the chaos of creativity.
A single stray lock of Shirabu hair fell over his forehead as he glanced down at Semi, eyes warm and unblinking.
The livestream’s chat exploded:
“Shirabu is lowkey kind of the best???”
“Can we get a moment of appreciation for this!!!”
“ECHOES hold this in your hearts forever!”
Eventually, the group wrapped up their session, voices winding down as they said their goodbyes. Semi stirred once more, blinking open heavy eyes.
He looked around, then at Shirabu sitting close by, and offered a small, grateful smile.
Shirabu met it with a gentle nod.
The livestream ended, but the warmth of that quiet moment lingered in the hearts of many people watching.