Chapter Text
The bright lights of Haneda International Airport showed overhead, casting everything in a white glow that made Sakuya feel like he was already somewhere unreal, somewhere that wasn't home. He stood with his family near the departure gate, his single black suitcase at his feet, and tried very hard to keep his hands still.
His mother was crying. She'd been crying on and off since they left the house that morning, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that had long since become useless. His father stood beside her with one hand on her shoulder as if showing emotion would somehow make this harder than it already was. His sister clinging tightly to his waist.
"You'll call us when you land," his mother said for the third time. It wasn't a question.
"I'll call," Sakuya promised, and he hated how his voice came out thinner than he wanted, almost wavering. He was fourteen years old. He was about to move to a foreign country to train as an idol. He couldn't afford to sound like a child.
But he felt like one. Standing there in the airport with his family, wearing the new clothes his mother had insisted on buying him for the trip, jeans and A-teen white t-shirt that somehow felt too new. Sakuya felt very, very young.
"And you'll eat properly," his mother continued, reaching out to adjust his collar even though it didn't need adjusting. "Korean food is different, but you'll get used to it. Don't just eat bread all the time. Make sure you eat vegetables-"
"Mom." Sakuya caught her hand gently. "I know."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and her face crumpled. "You're so young," she whispered. "Too young to be going so far away."
Sakuya's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her that he didn't have to go, that he could stay, that passing the audition didn't mean he had to actually get on the plane. The thought had been circling his mind all morning like a vulture: You can still back out. You can still stay home.
But then he remembered that it was his mother who had always told him: if you’re passionate about something, chase it. K-pop had been that passion, the thing that made his chest tighten with longing. His friends from school had laughed while his sister shoved him toward the audition venue. “Just do it,” She had said. “I dare you. You’re always saying you could be an idol if you wanted to. Prove it.”
It had been a joke. The whole thing had been a joke. But then he had passed.
The email had come weeks later, very official and very real, and suddenly the joke wasn't funny anymore. Suddenly there were video progress updates, contracts and plane tickets and his mother crying in the kitchen while his father made phone calls to make sure everything was legitimate.
"I'll be okay," Sakuya said now, and he squeezed his mother's hand even though his own was starting to tremble. "I promise."
His father cleared his throat. "You'll make us proud," he said, and it sounded like a command and a plea all at once. "Work hard. Don't give up when things get difficult."
"I won't," Sakuya said automatically, but the words felt hollow. He didn't know if he could keep that promise. He didn't know if he wanted to.
The intercom spoke overhead, announcing boarding for his flight in Japanese. Sakuya's stomach lurched.
"That's you," his father said unnecessarily.
Sakuya nodded. He hugged his sister first, feeling her shake against him as she tried to hold back sobs. She grabbed his hand, her fingers trembling, and slipped something into his palm: a pink hair tie, warm from her wrist. “So you don’t forget me,” she said through hiccupping sobs.
His chest tightened. He bent down slightly, slipping the hair tie snug around his wrist. “I won’t,” he promised softly. Then, with one last squeeze of her hand, he turned toward his father, who gripped him tightly and said nothing. When they finally let go, Sakuya grabbed his suitcase and turned toward the gate before he could change his mind.
He made it five steps before his hands started shaking visibly.
He made it ten steps before he had to stop and take a deep breath.
He made it to the gate agent and handed over his boarding pass, and his hands were trembling so badly that he nearly dropped it.
"First time flying alone?" the agent asked kindly in Japanese, and Sakuya could only nod because he didn't trust his voice. She smiled at him, the kind of smile adults gave children when they were trying to be encouraging, and waved him through.
The jetway felt impossibly long. Each step took him farther from everything he knew, everything familiar and safe. By the time he reached the plane and found his seat, window seat 39A, he'd memorized it from looking at his boarding pass obsessively for the past week, his vision was starting to blur at the edges.
He sat down and immediately pressed his face to the window, staring out at the tarmac below. If he didn't think too hard about it, he could almost pretend this wasn't happening. The careful control he'd been maintaining all morning shattered like glass. His vision blurred, his breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, hot tears were spilling down his cheeks.
He turned his face harder toward the window, desperate to hide it, but his shoulders were shaking and his breath was coming in quiet, hitching gasps that he couldn't suppress. This was humiliating. This was pathetic. He was crying like a child, and he couldn't stop, couldn't pull himself together, couldn't-
But there was no one there to see. No one in the seat beside him. Just empty space.
So he gave up. He buried his face in his hands and cried, really cried, for the first time since he'd gotten the acceptance email. He cried for his mother's tears and his father's stoic goodbye. He cried for his sister who had lost her protection. He cried because he was terrified and alone and he didn't know if he was strong enough for what was coming.
When Sakuya finally managed to get himself under control, his face felt hot and swollen, his eyes aching. He wiped at them roughly with the back of his hand and stared down at his lap.
The rest of the flight passed in a blur. He ate the mediocre airplane food without tasting it. He dozed off in fits and starts, waking each time feeling more disoriented than before.
When the captain announced their descent into Incheon International Airport, Sakuya's hands had started shaking again: a mix of excitement and fear.
The airport was massive and overwhelming, all signs in Korean and English but nothing in Japanese. Sakuya felt immediately lost. He was supposed to meet someone: a manager, his mother had said. Someone from the company. He scanned the crowd near baggage claim, looking for anyone holding a sign.
He found his suitcase circling on the carousel and then stood near the exit scanning the crowd. It took a few minutes before he spotted it: a man in his thirties, dressed casually in jeans and an SM company jacket, holding a placard that read "FUJINAGA SAKUYA" in both English and Japanese.
Sakuya approached carefully. The manager looked up and his expression shifted from neutral to professionally welcoming. "Fujinaga-kun?" He spoke in Japanese with a slight accent. "Welcome to Korea. I'm Manager Kim. I'll be taking you to your temporary housing and getting you settled in the trainee dorms."
Sakuya bowed deeply. "Thank you for meeting me."
"Do you have all your luggage?"
"Yes."
They made their way through the airport and out into the early evening air. It was cooler than Sakuya had expected, a crisp breeze that carried unfamiliar smells: city smells, mixed with something he couldn't quite identify. The sky was grey, threatening rain.
The van was black and nondescript. Manager Kim loaded Sakuya's suitcase into the back while he climbed into the middle row of seats. As soon as they were buckled in and the van pulled away from the curb, reality hit him again with renewed force.
He was in Korea. He was really, truly in Korea.
Manager Kim glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "You'll have language lessons as part of your training. Most of our foreign trainees become fluent within a year or two."
Sakuya nodded, unsure what to say.
"Your temporary dorm is about thirty minutes from here," Manager Kim continued. "You'll be sharing with some of the other Japanese trainees. There's a convenience store on the first floor and another manager living separately in the building. Someone will meet you tomorrow morning to go over your schedule."
"Tomorrow?" The word came out smaller than Sakuya intended.
"The sooner you begin, the better. Time is crucial right now."
Sakuya's stomach churned. He'd known this would be intense, but somehow he'd imagined he'd have at least a day or two to adjust. To catch their breath. To process the massive life change he'd just undergone.
But of course not. This wasn't a vacation. This was work.
The drive stretched on. Sakuya watched the city materialize around them. Seoul was enormous, bigger than anywhere he'd been before, all towering apartments and glittering signs and cars everywhere. It was overwhelming. It was too much.
By the time they pulled up to a tall, narrow building wedged between two others in a densely packed neighborhood, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones.
"We're here," Manager Kim announced, killing the engine.
The building didn't look like much from the outside: grey concrete, a convenience store on the ground floor with a flickering sign, a door beside it that presumably led to the upper floors. But this was going to be home. At least for a while.
Manager Kim helped him carry his suitcase up three flights of stairs (no elevator, Sakuya noted with dismay) to a door marked 3B. He unlocked it and gestured him inside.
The dorm was small. Brutally small. One main room with a tiny kitchenette in the corner, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, and two doors leading to what Sakuya assumed were bedrooms. The walls were white, the floor was wooden, and the whole place smelled faintly of cleaning products. It was empty, the other trainees were clearly still out.
"It's not much," Manager Kim admitted, "but it's clean and close to the company building. You'll spend most of your time practicing anyway." He handed Sakuya a key. "Try to get some rest tonight. Someone will collect you at seven tomorrow morning."
Seven. In the morning. After flying all day.
"Thank you," Sakuya managed.
Manager Kim nodded, gave him a few more instructions about not making too much noise and keeping the place clean, and then left. The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly Sakuya was alone in this strange, small space that was supposed to be home.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then he dragged his suitcase toward the bedrooms. Both rooms were tiny, barely bigger than closets, each containing two sets of bunk beds and a standing wardrobe. The windows were small and looked out onto the side of another building about two feet away.
In the first room, both bottom bunks were clearly occupied. Blankets, phone chargers, clothes. Only one top bunk was empty but made up: waiting.
In the second room, it was a similar situation except all the beds were occupied.
Sakuya chose the first room arbitrarily and went inside, closing the door behind him. Then he climbed up to the top bunk, sat on the edge of the thin mattress, and stared at the wall.
This was his life now. This tiny room in this tiny dorm in this massive city in this foreign country. This was real. This was happening.
He sat there for a while. Long enough for his legs to go numb from dangling over the edge of the bed. Long enough for the light outside the small window to shift from grey to dark.
That's when it hit him.
The crying came suddenly, without warning. One moment he was sitting there numbly, and the next his vision was blurring and his breath was catching in his throat. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop it, but that only made it worse.
He thought about his mother at the airport. About his room back home that wasn't his room anymore. About how he'd chosen this, wanted this, and now that he had it he felt like he was drowning.
The sobs were quiet but they shook his whole body. He curled forward, forehead nearly touching his knees, and let it happen. There was no one to see him. No one to tell him to pull himself together.
It lasted maybe ten minutes. Maybe longer. When it finally subsided, he sat there feeling hollowed out and exhausted, his face hot and damp.
Then he heard it, the sound of the front door opening. Voices in the hallway. Multiple people, speaking Japanese, their words overlapping and indistinct. The other trainees were back.
Sakuya froze, holding his breath, hoping they wouldn't come into his room. But one of them did, one of his roommates probably, and then kept walking past to the bathroom. Running water. More voices from the common area.
"Did another trainee arrive?" someone asked.
"Yeah, Manager Kim mentioned it earlier," another voice responded. "From Japan. Really young, I think."
"How young?"
"Thirteen? Maybe fourteen?"
There was a pause. "Like Ryo?"
"Yeah. Someone should probably check on him. Make sure he's okay."
"Send Ryo. They're the same age, right?"
"I don't know if that's–Ryo's barely been here two days himself."
"Exactly. He'll get it."
A longer pause, then a quieter voice, uncertain. "I guess I could... I mean, if you think I should?"
"You'll be fine. Just say hi. You wanted a friend your age anyway."
"Yeah, but–okay. Okay, I'll go."
Footsteps approached his door, slower and more hesitant than Sakuya expected. A soft knock.
"Um. Hello?" The voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "Are you... are you awake?"
Sakuya climbed down from the bunk and wiped his face quickly, though he knew it was obvious he'd been crying. He opened the door.
The boy standing there was probably around his age, with bright eyes that looked nervous despite his attempt at a smile. His hair was a mess and he was still wearing oversized practice clothes.. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Oh," the boy said, his expression immediately shifting to concern when he saw Sakuya's face. "I'm–sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. The others said I should–I'm Ryo. "
"Sakuya," he managed.
"Do you need anything? Water or something?"
Before Sakuya could answer, another trainee appeared behind Ryo, older, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with an expression that was fond but watchful.
"Everything okay?" The older trainee looked between them. "I'm Aito. Ryo, you're doing fine. Don't look so nervous."
"I'm not nervous," Ryo said, which would have been more convincing if his voice hadn't cracked slightly.
Aito's expression softened. "Fujinaga-kun, if you need anything tonight, we're all just down the hall. And Ryo's in the other room, so you've got someone your age around. You two can figure things out together."
"The instant ramen is in the left cabinet," Ryo added quietly, then seemed to gain a bit of confidence. "If you're hungry. And there's extra blankets in the closet. The shower's kind of weird too, you have to turn the handle all the way left for hot water."
"Thanks, Ryo," Aito said. "Come on, let's let him rest."
Ryo nodded, and gave Sakuya an awkward little wave. "Um. See you tomorrow? We start training at the same time, I think."
"Okay," Sakuya said.
After they left, he could hear their voices fading down the hall.
"Did I do okay?"
"You did great. See? Not so scary."
"He looked really sad though."
"He just got here. Give it time. You'll both settle in."
Sakuya closed the door and stood there for a moment, processing.
Ryo had only been here two days. He was probably just as lost as Sakuya was, just as scared. And somehow that made it feel slightly less overwhelming.
He climbed back up to his bunk and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Through the wall, he could hear muffled sounds of the other trainees.
He tried to sleep. He really did. But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was his mother's face at the airport, his father's stiff wave, his sister clinging to his arm. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then his other side. The mattress was thin and unfamiliar.
His roommates came in eventually, two older trainees who offered him quiet greetings in Japanese before climbing into their bunks. One of them asked if he needed anything. Sakuya said no. They exchanged a few words between themselves, something about tomorrow's schedule, and then the lights went out.
The room fell into darkness. The sounds of the dorm gradually quieted, shower running, then stopping. Muffled voices through walls, then silence. Someone's alarm being set. The creak of bed frames as people settled in.
Sakuya lay there in the dark, listening to his roommates' breathing even out into sleep.
An hour passed. Maybe more. Maybe less. He wasn't keeping track.
The weight of the day pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He couldn't do this alone. Not tonight.
Sakuya climbed down from the bunk as quietly as he could, careful not to wake his roommates. He stood in the dark hallway for a moment, his heart pounding. This was stupid. This was embarrassing. Ryo barely knew him.
But he couldn't go back to that empty bunk and stare at the ceiling for another hour.
He walked to the other bedroom door and opened it slowly and quietly, so softly he almost hoped no one would hear. He didn't want to wake the other trainees, didn't want anyone else to see him like this.
The room was dark except for the glow of a phone screen. Ryo was lying on the top bunk in pajamas scrolling through something. He must have heard the door because he looked up, squinting in the darkness.
Sakuya stood there for a moment, frozen. He could still leave. Could still pretend he'd gotten lost looking for the bathroom or something.
But then Ryo sat up slightly, his expression shifting from confused to concerned. He lowered his phone, the light casting shadows across his face.
"Sakuya?" he whispered. "You okay?"
Sakuya shook his head. He couldn't get words out.
Ryo glanced toward his roommates' bunks, both occupied, both still, then back at Sakuya. He seemed to understand the need for quiet. He waved him over to ask what's wrong.
Sakuya meant to say something. Meant to explain himself, to say he was fine, just wanted to ask something stupid, never mind, forget it.
Instead what came out, barely above a whisper, was: "Can I sleep here tonight?"
Ryo blinked. "In my room?"
"In your bed." The words felt ridiculous as soon as he said them. "Just for tonight. I don't-" He stopped, trying to find an explanation that made sense. "I don't want to be alone."
There was a beat of silence. Sakuya waited for Ryo to laugh, or make a joke, or ask what was wrong with him.
Instead, Ryo just scooted over toward the wall. "Yeah, okay. There's room."
"Okay." Sakuya stood there for another second, then climbed up the ladder toward the bed. It was narrow, clearly meant for one person, and they had to lie on their sides to fit. The mattress dipped under their combined weight.
"Can we talk?" Sakuya whispered.
"Sure.” a moment pass
"Is this about your family?" Ryo asked quietly.
Sakuya stared at the wall. "I don't know."
"It's okay if it is."
"I don't know what it's about." His voice came out rough, still thick from crying.
"It's okay." Ryo was quiet for a moment. "I get it."
Time passed. Sakuya wasn't sure how much. Could have been ten minutes. Could have been an hour. The darkness made it impossible to tell, and neither of them moved to check their phones.
Sakuya's eyes had adjusted to the dark. He could make out the shape of the window, the outline of the wardrobe, the edge of the bunk above them. His breathing had steadied. The tightness in his chest had loosened, just a little.
He didn't realize he'd been lying there so long until one of Ryo's roommates shifted in their sleep, the bed frame creaking softly.
"Thank you," Sakuya said after a while.
"It's just a bed."
"Still."
"Yeah," Ryo said. "Anytime."
Sakuya didn't fall asleep for a long time. He lay there in the dark, listening to Ryo's breathing slowly even out into sleep, and tried to imagine a future where this tiny room felt like home. Where this foreign city became familiar. Where he stood on a stage and performed for thousands of people and felt like he deserved to be there.
He couldn't quite picture it.
But for the first time since deciding to get on that plane, he thought maybe, just maybe, he wanted to try.
Outside the window, Seoul glittered in the night, indifferent to the two boys who had just arrived. Indifferent to their fears and hopes and promises. The city was vast and the future was uncertain and the path ahead was terrifying.
And that, Sakuya thought as sleep finally began to pull him under, would have to be enough.
恋焦がれる
The alarm went off at six thirty.
Sakuya woke to unfamiliar sounds, Ryo's phone blaring some upbeat K-pop song from the next room, the boy himself groaning and fumbling to turn it off. But there were other sounds too. Footsteps in the hallway. Running water. Voices speaking rapid Japanese that weren't Ryo's.
For a disorienting moment, Sakuya didn't know where he was. The ceiling was wrong. The sounds were wrong. Everything was-
Korea. He was in Korea.
He climbed down from the top bunk carefully, trying not to make too much noise. Below him, one of Ryo’s roommates was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when Sakuya's feet hit the floor.
"Morning," the boy said in Japanese. He looked a few years older, maybe nineteen or twenty.
"Morning," Sakuya replied.
"You're one of the new ones, right? From yesterday?"
"Yeah."
The boy nodded. "Bathroom's probably occupied. There's like eight of us sharing one." He said it matter of factly, then went back to his phone.
Sakuya grabbed his towel and opened the door. The hallway was busier than he expected, trainees moving between rooms, someone brushing their teeth in the kitchen sink because the bathroom was indeed occupied. He recognized Ryo's voice coming from one of the rooms, talking to someone in enthusiastic but broken sentences.
A trainee passed him in the hall, gave him a quick nod. "New?"
"Yeah."
"Good luck today." He kept walking.
Sakuya waited his turn for the bathroom, standing awkwardly near the door while two other trainees had a conversation around him in Japanese. They didn't exclude him exactly, but they didn't include him either. They were talking about some vocal coach, someone named teacher Han (?) who apparently "didn't accept excuses."
When the bathroom finally opened, Sakuya slipped inside. He brushed his teeth and washed his face in silence, staring at his reflection. He looked exhausted; he had shadows under his eyes and his hair was a mess. He looked like someone who'd cried themselves to sleep and then barely slept at all.
He looked exactly how he felt.
By the time he was dressed, jeans and a hoodie because he'd seen the others wearing similar, Ryo had appeared in his doorway.
"Ready?" Ryo asked. He looked slightly more put together than Sakuya felt, but not by much. "The manager is here. He's taking all of us to the building."
"All of us?"
"Yeah, there's like-" Ryo glanced down the hall and counted under his breath. "Six others? I think we're the only new ones right now. Well, the only ones in this dorm."
They gathered near the entrance with the others. Everyone looked tired but purposeful, like they'd done this routine before, which Sakuya realized they had. He was the only brand new one. And somewhat Ryo.
The manager stood by the door with her clipboard, doing a headcount.
The walk to the company building was only ten minutes, but it felt longer. The eight of them moved as a loose cluster, some of the older trainees talking amongst themselves about schedules and teachers. Ryo walked beside Sakuya, quiet but present.
The company building was sleek and modern, all glass and steel, with the company logo emblazoned on the front. Inside, it was even more impressive, marble floors, walls covered in photos of their senior artists, awards in glass cases. This was real. This was a real company with real idols who had real success.
They walked to an elevator, up to the fifth floor, down a hallway lined with practice rooms. Music leaked from behind closed doors, the thump of bass, someone counting in Korean, the squeak of shoes on wood floors.
"Fujinaga-kun," The manager said, stopping in front of a door marked "Practice Room 3A." "Your assessment starts now. The instructors are waiting inside."
Sakuya's stomach dropped. "Now?"
"Yes. Don't be nervous, they just want to see your current skill level." He checked his clipboard. "We saw the videos you would send but we just want to see it in person. The rest of you, Practice Room 1B. Hirose-kun, you'll join them for morning practice since you've already been assessed."
Ryo gave Sakuya an encouraging look before following the others down the hall. Then he was gone, and Sakuya was alone in front of the door.
Sakuya knocked.
"Come in," a voice called in Korean.
Inside, the practice room was exactly what he'd expected: mirrored walls, wooden floor, a sound system in the corner. Sitting at a table were three people: an older man in a suit, a woman with kind eyes, and a younger man with a dancer's build.
"Fujinaga Sakuya," the older man said, reading from a paper. “We'll be evaluating your current abilities today."
"Hello," Sakuya managed, bowing.
"Let's start with dance," the guy with the dancer's build said, standing. "I'm going to teach you a short routine. Eight counts, basic movements. Watch carefully."
He demonstrated the choreography once, his movements sharp and precise. Sakuya watched, trying to commit it to memory, but his exhausted brain struggled to keep up.
"Your turn," he said.
Sakuya moved to the center of the room. The mirrors reflected infinite versions of himself, all looking equally lost.
He attempted the routine. His limbs felt disconnected from his body. His timing was off. He stumbled on the fourth count and had to restart.
"Again," Instructor Choi said.
Sakuya did it again. It wasn't better.
"Again."
And again. And again. Five times total, until Sakuya's legs were shaking and his lungs were burning and sweat was dripping down his back.
"Stop." The man made notes on his clipboard. "Your body awareness is very poor. You're thinking too much instead of feeling the music. Your balance needs work. Your flexibility needs work. Everything needs work." He said it not cruel, but not kind either. "You'll be placed in the beginner dance group. Morning sessions, six days a week."
Next was vocals. They had him warm up briefly, then perform a song of his choice.
Sakuya chose a ballad, something simple. He closed his eyes and sang.
"Your tone has potential," The same man said, making notes. "But your technique needs significant development. Your breath support is weak, your pitch control is inconsistent, and you're straining on higher notes. You'll start with basic technique classes. Three times per week to start."
The woman spoke up. "How is your Korean?"
"I don't know any Korean," Sakuya said.
"We'll arrange a tutor. You'll have language lessons every afternoon, one hour of grammar, one hour of conversation practice. Korean fluency is non-negotiable." She made a final note. "Your schedule will be provided by the end of the day. Report to Practice Room 1B tomorrow morning at seven AM. Dismissed."
Sakuya bowed and left, his whole body trembling.
In the hallway, he sagged against the wall. That had been brutal. They'd laid out every single one of his inadequacies in clinical detail.
"Sakuya?"
He looked up to find Ryo jogging down the hallway toward him, slightly out of breath.
"How did it go?" Ryo asked.
"Terrible," Sakuya said flatly. "They said I need to work on everything. Dance, singing, Korean. Everything."
"They told me the same thing a few days ago." Ryo leaned against the wall beside him. "I think that's just how assessments are. They're supposed to show you what you need to improve."
"There's nothing I don't need to improve."
"That just means you have a clear path forward." Ryo nudged his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get lunch. The cafeteria here is actually pretty good, and we have a break before afternoon practice."
They found the cafeteria on the second floor, a bright, clean space with tables full of trainees. Some were Korean, some Japanese, a few speaking languages Sakuya didn't recognize. Everyone looked focused, purposeful, like they knew exactly what they were doing.
Sakuya felt like an imposter.
They got food: bread, soup and meat before finding a table near the window. Ryo chatted about his morning practice, about the dance instructor who'd corrected his posture seventeen times, about the vocal exercise that made his throat hurt. He made it sound almost funny, like a challenge rather than a failure.
Sakuya picked at his food and tried to absorb even a fraction of Ryo's optimism.
"Oh," Ryo said suddenly. "I forgot to tell you. They're assigning you a Korean tutor, right? Mine is really nice. Her name is Teacher Jung. She's patient.”
"They said I'd have lessons every afternoon."
"Yeah, me too. We might have the same teacher then." Ryo grinned. "We're already doing things together."
After lunch,the manager found them and handed Sakuya a printed schedule. It was dense, every hour from seven AM to nine PM accounted for. Morning dance practice. Vocal technique. Korean grammar. Conversation practice. Afternoon dance. Physical training. Self practice time.
"Your Korean tutor is Teacher Jung," Coordinator Lee said. "She's waiting for you in Study Room 2C. Third floor."
Sakuya found the study room, small, quiet, with a table and two chairs. Teacher Jung was young, maybe mid twenties, with a warm smile.
"Fujinaga-kun," she said in Japanese. "Nice to meet you. I'm Teacher Jung. I'll be helping you learn Korean." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Don't look so nervous. Everyone starts from zero."
The lesson was overwhelming. Teacher Jung taught him the alphabet: Hangul, she called it, showing him how to write the characters, how to pronounce them. The shapes swam before his eyes. The sounds all blurred together. By the end of the hour, Sakuya had a headache and could barely remember how to write his own name in Korean.
"Good first lesson," Teacher Jung said, clearly lying. "Practice these characters tonight. We'll review them tomorrow."
Sakuya stumbled back to the practice rooms, where he was supposed to have self practice time.
He practiced until nine PM, when the same manager came to collect him and the other trainees sharing the room. The walk back to the dorm was quiet, many of them too exhausted to talk. Sakuya's body ached. His brain felt like mush. His throat was raw from singing.
Back at the dorm, the other trainees were already settling in. Aito asked how their first day went. Ryo answered enthusiastically. Sakuya just nodded and retreated to his room.
He climbed up to his bunk and stared at the ceiling. Through the wall, he could hear Ryo talking to his roommates, his voice still bright despite the long day.
Sakuya didn't know how he did it. Didn't know how anyone did it.
He pulled out the Korean practice sheets Teacher Jung had given him and stared at the characters. They looked like abstract art. Meaningless shapes that were supposed to become a language he could speak and read and understand.
It felt impossible.
His phone buzzed, a message from his mother asking how his first day went.
Sakuya stared at it for a long time before typing back: "Good. Everything's fine."
He wasn't sure who he was lying to more, her or himself.
So the first week was hell.
There was no other word for it. He started sleeping with Ryo after the first night and couldn’t stop yet. He just didn't feel adjusted yet. Therefore, Sakuya woke each morning at six thirty to Ryo's alarm, dragged himself through getting ready, and arrived at the company building by seven AM feeling like he'd barely slept. Which was accurate, he rarely managed more than five or six hours before his brain started spiraling with anxiety about everything he was doing wrong.
The days blurred together into an exhausting routine: vocal lessons from seven to nine, dance practice from nine to twelve, lunch break (barely enough time to eat), Korean language lessons from one to three, more dance practice from three to six, then "self-practice time" until nine PM.
Except self practice time wasn't really optional. Everyone stayed late, pushing themselves, trying to improve, trying to be better than the trainee next to them. Because that's what this was, Sakuya realized quickly: a competition. They were all competing for limited spots in a debut group that might not even form for years.
The other trainees were both better and worse than he'd expected. Better because most of them had been training for months and years before he arrived, giving them a technical advantage he couldn't match. Worse because they were just kids, like him, exhausted and homesick and struggling under the pressure.
There were around a quarter Japanese trainees total, including him and Ryo. The others ranged from ages twelve to twenties, all of them navigating the same challenges of language barriers and cultural adjustment. Some were kind, offering help with Korean phrases or sharing food during breaks. Others were competitive to the point of coldness, seeing every interaction as a test.
By Friday of that first week, Sakuya was ready to collapse.
He'd messed up the choreography in dance practice so badly that Instructor Choi had made him repeat it alone in front of everyone. He'd cracked on a high note during vocal lessons, earning a sharp reprimand from Coach Min. And in Korean class, he'd mixed up two similar-sounding words and accidentally told the teacher that he wanted to "eat a house" instead of "go to a house."
When nine pm finally came and they were dismissed, Sakuya walked back to the dorm in silence. Ryo chattered beside him about something one of the other trainees had said, but Sakuya barely heard it. He was too busy replaying every mistake, every failure, every moment of inadequacy from the day.
Back in the dorm, he collapsed onto his bed fully clothed.
"You okay?" Ryo asked, kicking off his shoes.
"Fine," Sakuya lied.
"You don't look fine."
"I'm just tired."
Ryo was quiet for a moment. Then he sat down on the couch, facing Sakuya. "You know, you're being really hard on yourself."
"I'm being realistic."
"Look," Ryo said, standing up. "We're both struggling. But we're struggling together, which means we can help each other. You're good at things I'm bad at. I'm good at things you're bad at. That's why we're going to make it."
"You can't know that."
"I can't know for sure," Ryo admitted. "But I believe it. And I think you should try believing it too."
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay?" Ryo's face brightened.
"Okay. I'll try."
"Good." Ryo grinned and walked to his room. "I'm taking a shower. You should eat something, you barely touched your lunch."
After Ryo disappeared into the bathroom, Sakuya remained on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His body ached. His voice was raw. His feet had blisters from the new dance shoes that hadn't broken in yet.
The second week was marginally better, if only because Sakuya was too exhausted to overthink as much.
His body adapted to the brutal schedule through sheer necessity. He learned to survive on less sleep, to grab food whenever there was a spare moment, to stretch his sore muscles in between lessons. The constant ache became normal.
Dance practice was still his weakest area, but he started staying later than everyone else to practice the choreography in an empty studio. Ryo often stayed with him, the two of them running through routines until their legs shook and they could barely stand.
During one of these late night sessions, Sakuya finally nailed a sequence he'd been struggling with all week. It wasn't perfect, but it was clean, his body hit the right positions at the right times, and he felt for the first time like maybe he understood what Instructor Choi had been trying to teach him.
"Yes!" Ryo cheered from where he'd been watching. "That was so good! Do it again!"
Sakuya did it again. And again. By the third time, muscle memory was starting to kick in, his body learning the movements in a way his brain hadn't been able to consciously process.
When they finally left the practice room that night, it was nearly eleven PM. They were both drenched in sweat, barely able to walk, but Sakuya felt something he hadn't felt since arriving in Korea: pride.
Small, fragile, easily crushed pride, but pride nonetheless.
"See?" Ryo said as they trudged back to the dorm. "I told you that you could do it."
"It's one sequence," Sakuya protested. "That doesn't mean-"
"It means you're improving. Which means you can improve more. Which means you're going to be great." Ryo bumped his shoulder against Sakuya's. "I'm always right about these things."
"You're not always right."
"Name one time I was wrong."
Sakuya thought about it. "You said the convenience store would have Japanese curry. They didn't."
"That was a prediction, not a fact. Predictions can be wrong without me being wrong about facts."
Despite his exhaustion, Sakuya felt his lips twitch. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Makes perfect sense," Ryo said cheerfully.
They made it back to the dorm and took turns showering, then collapsed into their own beds. Sakuya expected to fall asleep immediately, he'd been running on fumes for hours.
But instead, he lay there in the darkness and felt something shift in his chest.
He was grateful for Ryo.
For his relentless optimism, his genuine belief that they would make it, his presence that made this entire ordeal bearable. Without Ryo, Sakuya wasn't sure he would have lasted past the first week. He would have given up, gone home, and admitted defeat.