Before The Lights Came On
The practice room smelled like sweat, wood polish, and unsaid words. Jo sat at the far end of the mirrored wall, legs stretched out, arms behind him, propping him up as he watched the rest of the team move through the last steps of the routine. The music had stopped five minutes ago, but the tension still echoed in the air like the last vibration of a speaker not quite turned off.
Yuma was laughing with Nicholas by the vending machine, tossing his head back, all energy and soft mischief, like nothing in the world weighed on him.
Jo looked away.
He’d never really figured out how to be around Yuma. Ever since that stupid moment in their trainee dorm eight months ago, when he misheard something Yuma said about his dancing—or was it about him?—things had felt off. Not quite a fight. Not quite coldness. Just… distance. A quiet misalignment, like wires that almost connect but never spark.
The memory came back with annoying clarity. It was some offhand comment during a group evaluation day. Yuma had said something to K and Fuma, and Jo happened to walk by. He remembered hearing his name, then the phrase “he always looks so blank, like he’s not even here.” It stung. Deep. Especially because Jo was always trying to be present. Trying to do his best in a space where being invisible was the easiest way to get forgotten.
He never asked for clarification. He just… withdrew. Avoided eye contact. Gave short replies when necessary. And Yuma? He didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he never said anything.
But that was before the debut.
Now, things were different.
Now they were &TEAM—together in the public eye, bound by choreography, interviews, and endless rehearsals. They were no longer trainees competing silently. They were brothers. Supposedly.
Except that Jo didn’t quite feel like Yuma’s brother.
And sometimes, when Yuma glanced at him in the mirror while tying his shoes, or when their hands brushed passing a mic, Jo caught something… unspoken. Something that made his chest pull tight and strange.
⸻
That night, Jo sat on his bed at the dorm, drawing in his sketchbook with a soft pencil. The lines were light and thoughtful—mostly abstract shapes, overlapping circles, wings that curled into waves. He wasn’t much of an artist, but it helped him breathe.
He heard footsteps pause at his doorway.
It was Yuma.
“Hey,” Yuma said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. “You still awake?”
Jo nodded without looking up. “Yeah.”
A pause.
Yuma stepped in, hesitant. “You got a minute?”
Jo blinked, then nodded again. “Sure.”
Yuma sat down across from him on the floor, legs folded. For a second, he looked down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his oversized hoodie. He looked… nervous?
“So,” he started, then bit his lip. “This is kind of weird, but I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Since… like forever.”
Jo looked up at him, quiet. His heart started to beat just a bit faster.
Yuma exhaled. “Did I say something wrong to you before debut? Like… during trainee days?”
Jo’s pencil froze mid-shade. The silence hung heavy.
“You stopped talking to me,” Yuma continued, eyes searching his. “I kept thinking maybe I did something. I wasn’t sure. But you’ve been… distant. I noticed. I just didn’t know if I was imagining it.”
Jo looked at him, then closed his sketchbook slowly.
“You said I always looked blank,” Jo murmured. “Like I wasn’t even there.”
Yuma’s face crumpled into confusion, then sudden realization. “Oh—wait, that— That wasn’t even about you.”
Jo tilted his head.
“I was talking about myself. I said, ‘Sometimes I feel like I look blank—like I’m not even there.’ Fuma was telling me I needed to emote more during practice. I didn’t even see you walking by.”
The world tipped slightly under Jo’s feet.
“Oh,” he said. A single syllable, but it carried months of misunderstanding. Months of avoidance.
Yuma leaned forward a little. “I’m really sorry. If I’d known… I would’ve talked to you sooner.”
Jo’s throat felt tight. “I guess I assumed the worst.”
There was a long pause. Neither of them moved.
“I’ve missed being close with you,” Yuma said softly, eyes dropping to Jo’s sketchbook. “You’re… kind of hard to read. But you’re always steady. You always notice the little things. It was kind of nice, having you around.”
Jo’s voice came out quieter than he meant. “I missed you too.”
⸻
Later that night, after the others had gone to bed, Yuma hovered near Jo’s door again.
“Hey,” he whispered.
Jo opened the door, hair a little messy, still dressed in sweats.
“Do you wanna go up to the roof?”
Jo hesitated. Then nodded.
⸻
They sat side by side on the cold rooftop tiles, the city lights stretching around them like scattered constellations.
Yuma rubbed his hands together. “You know, Jo… sometimes I feel like I only understand my own feelings once I say them out loud.”
Jo looked at him.
“I think I… I started liking you before I even realized it.”
Jo’s breath caught. The wind whispered between them.
“I didn’t want to mess up our group,” Yuma continued. “Or confuse you. But every time I talk to you now, or look at you… it’s like, I don’t know, my heart starts doing these weird things.”
Jo’s lips parted slightly. “I’ve been trying not to think about that. About how I feel. But I think… it’s the same.”
They sat there, quiet and full of feelings neither of them quite knew what to do with.
But Jo reached out, slowly, and let his pinky brush against Yuma’s hand.
And Yuma smiled—soft and unsure, but full of hope.
