48G ▸ [ advanced ] discussion

Really, there’s a reason why wildly successful ex-CGD48 Nitta Kenji is in 48 Entertainment’s shittiest practice room in the middle of the fucking night. He scoffs at his reflection in the mirror—the new move he’s trying just isn’t working. It looks lazy, sloppy—nothing like what he knows Team C is capable of. He pauses the music, taking a moment to toss his sweatshirt into the corner by his water, and brings the song back to the start. They had told them that it was “too much” this time, that Jihoon was the center and apparently he’d been having problems with his knee and he had to simplify it, and it put Kenji back at square one for the chorus.

Normally, Kenji is fine with spectators—usually a trainee or newer member who’s heard he’s in town and practicing and want to watch him, maybe ask him for a pointer or two on the choreographies he’s made for the group—but that’s when he’s practicing something he already knows, has already scrutinized day and night until he’s deemed it perfect, has mastered completely. It’s an issue that he probably should have gotten over by now, but Nitta Kenji is nothing if not a perfectionist, and he will not allow himself to be seen by anyone, colleague or not, as anything except that, because Korea would never have accepted anything less than perfection from him.

So he’s in the shitty practice room, despite the fact that he’s already killed two spiders. It’s fine.

He sends Tetsuya a text message (tetsu-chan ~ can u pls come monitor for me?) and starts again from the top. Maybe it’s loyalty, maybe it’s his contract with 48 Entertainment, maybe it’s his own stupid pride—but he doesn’t intend to rest until he has this down perfectly, until he’s sure that it’s something he wants to release into the world with his name branded on it. And that leaves him with only one option, which is the only one he ever has—work harder.

Tetsuya is used to lots of things: having his food stolen by the other members, practicing at stupid hours of the night, using the third practice room because it's the only one free, amongst a number of other things. This, though? This is new. He stands in the doorway, watching Kenji dance, and wonders if the feeling in his chest has always been this strong. Maybe it's because he's been feeling particularly homesick lately, and Kenji has always felt like an extension of home. Or maybe, probably, it's because Kenji dances inhumanly well and Tetsuya has been in love with him for years.

He waits there, not daring to break the peace and disturb him, slightly in awe. It's been so long since he's seen Kenji dance – outside of videos – he's forgotten just how amazing it is to watch him in real life, and he wants to appreciate it while he can. Tetsuya knows he's staring, and he can only hope that he doesn't look dumbstruck. Just because he has certain emotions doesn't mean they need to be visible.

He feels like he did when he first met Kenji – it feels surreal, like he's dreaming, but he knows he's not because he woke up for this. It feels like he's where he ought to be, it feels right and Tetsuya's been wanting to feel like this for so long that now it feels too good to be true.

wow this is garbage i'm so sorry

The song reaches its final chorus, and Kenji remembers the exchange from the earlier meeting — just tone it down, Nitta, they said, no one will notice, they said, no one will care about it, they said. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter Kenji's ass, because fuck, if they're going to make him fly back to this shithole from Osaka for this, someone better fucking care about it, even if it's Kenji alone.

He wants to scream, swear, throw a brick at the vice president's office, or perhaps at Cha Jihoon's knee so that he doesn't have to go through all this trouble, but all of those are things that he can't do, and after nine years, he's not about to start acting up now. So he dances the way he wants to — more than what a creaky-kneed center can allegedly handle, more than what he gave to show the company, because it is the only thing Nitta Kenji can do.

(That, and post an even more elaborate version on his personal YouTube channel after the song's official release, just out of spite to remind people of what he's capable of.)

When the song stops this time, he looks up and sees a familiar face, and a smile breaks across his face. "Tetsu-chan," he says, in his own language, something that he knows Tetsuya must miss, long for, because even now whenever he's not home, Kenji still does, too. "You're here," he says, even though he knew Tetsuya would be, because he always comes when Kenji needs him. "I need your input on this."

Hearing his name, in his language, from Kenji – it's a wave of familiarity threatening to drown Tetsuya in tears of happiness. But he keeps the emotions at bay, because he shouldn't be so easily affected by something so simple and he doesn't need to make things awkward. A smile is enough to make his heart calm down at least a little, a small expression of how he feels. "Of course I'm here, Kenji-kun," he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "You asked me to come."

"It had better be good," he adds. "I woke up for this." He's not serious – he would gladly wake up to spend time with Kenji. Even if it's the middle of the night.

"So, is there anything specific you want me to look at?" he asks, trying to avoid the unhelpful thoughts and instincts his brain is supplying. This isn't a drama, it's real life, and if whatever part of the brain it is that controls thoughts could understand that it'd be really helpful. "I'm not a dancer, though, so my input may not be that good." (He's also kind of still half-asleep).

Tetsuya wishes he could single-handedly fight the entirety of the 48 Entertainment executive staff, to get them some freedom – for Kenji, for himself, for the myriad of other people who made the bad decision to sign with this particular company. Then they could go home, they could speak their own language everywhere rather than just in small conversations with the other international members.

Kenji's bad mood subsides somewhat, the burning desire to throw heavy objects dulling to a more manageable level of annoyance. But that's how it's always been when Tetsuya is around — when Tetsuya is there, a foreign and unforgiving land feels a little more like home. Ever since they were trainees, it was different between them — and of course Kenji made friends in Korea, he still keeps in touch with some of his old team members — but it was just that. Different.

Kenji would say that he's never ever wasted Tetsuya's time before, so why would he start now, except that's not true, and he's certain that they both remember all of the times he's woken up Tetsuya in the middle of the night for an emergency. (Manga emergency.) So he doesn't bother. Instead, he says, "They want me to revise Team C's new choreography. It's too much for them to handle."

Nitta Kenji would never explicitly say something directly against his company's authority, but he makes no attempt to hide the derision in his tone.

He continues, "I've been working on it, but I can't get it to work. I thought maybe a second opinion would help." Because to Kenji, the company's feelings on it don't count, not really. It's ridiculous. He knows it is. That this happens every time: they ask him to work on it, because they want his style, so he does it, and then they ask him to water it down, water it down, water it down until it's gone. But Kenji's used to it — and besides, now he has an extra set of eyes.

Tetsuya knows what Kenji means – vaguely. He's aware that Jihoon's knee is feeling the effects of being a first-generation member and twenty-four, and he's guessing that the company decided that rather than trying to work their way around it a little better it was easier just to outright force Kenji to change the choreography. Hence his annoyance. "What I saw just now looked really good," he offers, knowing that it will probably not make any difference. "And aside from my general bad dancing, I could probably dance to that. Jihoon's not the only one with old person knees."

Except Jihoon is a much better dancer than Tetsuya, and he's Team C's centre, and he's ranked third... he could continue to list things, but Tetsuya likes his self-confidence and what little faith in the company he has left intact. "One day you should just suggest they do the Macarena," he adds, jokingly. "Surely that's not too much for them to handle." Wow, the stress is really getting to him – his jokes are even worse than the boys claim they usually are.

Tetsuya finally actually steps inside the room, realising that he's been standing in the doorway the entire time. He squashes a spider under his foot and glances up to check the time, before remembering that the clock doesn't work. Then again, no analog clock ever does – but it's particularly ironic because the hands are fixed at 1am, and that's when everyone practices the most.

Kenji knows that Tetsuya means it — it's been long enough, now, that they can be honest with each other. They're not fourteen anymore, still too lost and too afraid to be stepping on any toes. And now, in the year 2018, if Kenji's choreography is shit, he knows that Tetsuya will tell him. "You're not a bad dancer," he says, and he means it, too. Kenji has seen bad dancers, he's seen idols who are bad dancers, and Tetsuya is not one of them. He grins. "And you're lucky enough to have a good teacher."

"Maybe I should." His laugh is small, genuine but at the same time resigned. It's true that Team C could probably handle whatever Kenji throws at them — he wouldn't have given them anything that he didn't think they could do. Kenji could dig his heels into the ground and refuse to change the choreography, but then that would either put him in bad relations with management, or they would just hire someone else for the job. Or both.

"Anyway," he says, because he's determined to not dwell on it. If they tell him to rework the choreography, he will, just like he's done everything else the company has ever asked of him. He sets the song to the beginning. "This is what I was thinking of, but it doesn't quite seem right."

Tetsuya shakes his head. "You're too nice. I'm not a good dancer in the slightest." He pauses, then grins. "But I do have an excellent teacher." Honestly, were it not for Kenji, he probably never would have debuted, because teenage Tetsuya couldn't dance half as well as he can now, and he still can't dance half as well as Kenji (at which point you'd still be a really good dancer, because his friend is insanely good at dancing).

He's grateful that Kenji actually finds his joke funny – probably yet another reason why he's in so deep and never going to dig his way out, but at least it's not a painful one. Tetsuya wishes that the company weren't so frustrating, that they actually listened and cooperated rather than trying their utmost to make life hard for everyone else.

He watches as Kenji dances, still slightly awestruck, the waking up in the middle of the night already forgotten (although its past iterations are not and probably never will be, because teenage Kenji had very different ideas of what constituted an emergency). He does sort of see what Kenji means, and he knows that there's no point in trying to reassure him that it's good enough, because good enough by Kenji's standards, by the company's standards, is almost always absolutely perfect. "That bit, about halfway through, with the..." Tetsuya gestures, vaguely. He's not good at dancing terminology. "That bit. The one that kind of feels ever so slightly off. Try loosening up? I don't know, it just seems a bit tenser than it should."

this took me multiple days and it's still garbage