Chapter Text
Part I
Downbeat
The studio was already burning when Sho arrived, not with flame but with the kind of heat that came from repetition, from bodies moving through the same phrases again and again until the air itself seemed tired of holding them. Sound pressed faintly through the door before he touched it, music broken into strict, disciplined counts, each beat placed with care, each pause stretched just long enough to suggest refusal rather than rest.
Sho stood there longer than he meant to, listening.
This was not warm-up music. It was not rehearsal either. It was something that had slipped past preparation and decided to keep going.
When he finally pushed the door open, the hinge answered softly, as if the room had already decided it did not want interruption.
“Shinya?” he called, already prepared for a shrugging insult, a lazy joke, a wave of arrogance tossed at him like a towel.
The answer that came back was not his brother’s.
“…Two and three and four.”
A tall man stood at the center of the floor, facing the mirror with his hands on his hips, his posture exact, his breathing controlled in the precise, economical way of someone trained to notice how much air he used. Sweat darkened his hair and the fabric at his collar, but his movements remained clean, unhurried.
Sho stopped just inside the threshold.
Suzuki Shinya turned at the sound of the door, his gaze quick and unceremonious, taking Sho in with the same blunt attention he would have given anyone else who walked in mid-count.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Sho recognized him immediately. He had seen him onstage, in competition footage, in photographs and videos Sugiki never commented on but never deleted. Even so, seeing him here, alone in Sugiki’s private studio, produced a faint sense of trespass, as if Sho had opened a door he was not meant to.
The resemblance between Sho and his twin was obvious enough to be unsettling. Same eyes. Same bone structure. The same face, at a glance.
But the bodies told a different story.
Sugiki’s body was unmistakably a ballroom dancer’s. Lean, narrow, all line and control. Even when standing still, his posture held, head lifted, spine straight, as if he were permanently prepared to be judged.
Sho carried himself differently. Broader through the shoulders, heavier in a quiet way, like someone used to carrying instruments and cases. His posture was looser, not careless, just untrained. Where Sugiki’s stillness felt like tension, Sho’s felt like rest.
Suzuki noticed this. His eyes flicked once, then back.
“You’re not him,” Sho said at last.
Suzuki looked him over again, shorter this time. “No,” he said. “And you must be the brother.”
“I’m Sugiki Sho.” He didn’t move further into the room yet. “Where is he?”
Suzuki tipped his head toward the back. “Showering. He’s been at it all day.”
Of course he had.
Sho stepped inside and let the door close behind him. The click sounded final in a way that made the room feel smaller, more contained. The music had stopped, but its shape remained, hanging in the mirror, in the scuffed floor, in the faint sheen of sweat left behind.
“So,” Sho said, after a moment, “you train together?”
Suzuki shrugged. “That’s the arrangement.”
“He stays late?”
“Always,” Suzuki replied, casual, almost dismissive. “Doesn’t like stopping once he’s in it.”
The faint sound of running water came from the back room, steady and unbothered.
Sho nodded, storing the information without comment, already fitting it into a pattern he recognized too well.
The water shut off.
Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried.
The door slid open.
Sugiki Shinya stepped out, and the room shifted.
He was quiet, composed, his presence immediate without effort. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face. A robe hung loosely from his shoulders, tied just enough to stay closed. His body held itself exactly as expected, lean and upright, every line disciplined.
He was halfway through adjusting the knot when he looked up.
The pause was brief, but Sho caught it. The smallest hitch before Sugiki pulled his posture back into place.
“Sho.”
“What are you doing here,” Sugiki said, irritation surfacing quickly, familiar and sharp. “I told you not to come.”
Sho didn’t answer right away. His gaze moved over his brother with practiced ease, taking in the tension that sat too high in his shoulders, the faint hollowness at his cheeks, the way his hands tightened and released as if he were already rehearsing restraint.
“You stopped answering my calls.” Sho said.
“I was busy.”
“You always are. Your practice runs twelve hours a day now,” Sho cut in. “Even Martha doesn’t let you do that.”
Sugiki flinched, just a fraction but it was there.
Suzuki watched silently from the mirror, feeling like he had walked into a private storm.
Sho studied him for a moment, not arguing, not correcting. He had learned long ago that pushing too hard only made Sugiki retreat further into himself.
“I understand you don’t stop once you’ve decided to keep going,” Sho said instead. “You never have.”
Sugiki’s jaw tightened. He adjusted the belt of his robe, the motion exact, unnecessary.
Sho turned his head slightly. “He’s been staying until late.”
Suzuki nodded. “Yeah. Usually until the building’s empty.”
Sho looked back at Sugiki. The confirmation landed without satisfaction.
Silence followed, dense and familiar.
“Why didn’t you come to Tenblank’s last show?” Sho asked.
Sugiki looked away. “Didn’t have time.”
Sho didn’t respond immediately. He had learned the shape of that answer years ago.
“We had practice schedule,” Suzuki said, breaking in without ceremony. “Ballroom mornings. Latin after.”
Sugiki shot him a look, sharp but brief, then let it go.
“We’re preparing,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you’re using work to avoid yourself,” Sho said. “You always do.”
Sugiki’s eyes flashed. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. And you’re not my manager. You’re not my teacher. You don’t get to…”
“I’m your brother,” Sho said quietly. “Which means I’m the only one who’s allowed to tell you when you’re being an idiot about your own life.”
Sugiki scoffed, but his attention drifted, just slightly, toward the mirror, toward the version of himself that still looked precise and untouched by fatigue.
“Then I’ll stay,” Sho said.
Sugiki snapped back. “No. You won’t.”
“Yes,” Sho replied. “Tenblank has a show here this weekend. I was going to be in the city anyway. I’ll stay a few days.”
“You’ll distract me.”
“I’ll slow you down,” Sho said quietly.
That landed closer to the truth than either of them wanted.
Sugiki turned away, his posture never breaking even as irritation tightened through him.
“Latin in fifteen,” he said, already heading back toward the changing room. “Get ready.”
The door slid shut behind him.
-
The studio felt altered without him, not empty, just misaligned, like something had been shifted and not set back yet.
Suzuki rolled his shoulders, then stretched his ankles, grounding himself in movement that made sense.
“You really are his twin,” he said after a moment. “It’s strange up close.”
Sho gave a soft, humorless sound. “That’s what people say.”
“You look similar,” Suzuki went on, choosing words without much care. “But he carries himself like the world’s watching. You don’t.”
Sho didn’t deny it.
“I’ve been watching him since we were kids,” Sho said. “Someone had to.”
“I didn’t go looking for this,” Suzuki said, glancing toward the changing room door. “We met through dance. That was it.”
“And now,” Sho said.
“Now I’m still here,” Suzuki replied. “Still training.”
Sho studied him, something unreadable passing through his expression.
“That’s usually how it starts… So what did you think when you realized he had a twin?” Sho asked.
“That it was unfair,” Suzuki said honestly. “One person already felt like too much to handle. Two…?” He shook his head slightly. “But I also understood something.”
“What?”
“That the reason Sugiki can be so reckless is because someone like you exists. Even if he pretends he doesn’t need you.”
Sho was quiet for a moment.
“…He doesn’t like when I come,” Sho said. “He thinks I’m trying to control him. But if I don’t show up, he disappears into himself.”
Suzuki nodded. “He told me you were annoying.”
“Of course he did.”
“So,” Suzuki said softly, “this is what it’s like to see the other half of him.”
Sho returned his gaze with a smile.