Pico To Chico - Shota Idol — No Oshigoto -cg-.15

The rehearsal room smelled of lemon polish and nervous sweat. Pico, at fourteen the younger of the duo by eleven months, pressed his palms flat against the mirrored wall. His reflection stared back—wide eyes, a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach them.

“CG-15,” the note read. “Costume guideline: soft sweaters, loose collarbones. Lighting: warm, intimate. No direct eye contact with camera for more than three seconds. Keep the mystery.” Pico to Chico - Shota Idol no Oshigoto -CG-.15

Pico smiled. The practiced one. The one that said, I’m fine, I’m happy, please keep watching . The rehearsal room smelled of lemon polish and nervous sweat

“That’s the problem.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

Chico’s jaw tightened. For a moment, the mask slipped. He looked less like an idol and more like a boy who’d signed a contract at twelve and hadn’t breathed freely since. “CG-15,” the note read

“I’m tired,” Pico said quietly, so only Chico could hear.