Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

02

"Relax, Mom."

"I will," Taehyun fires back, "on the day you stop looking like a Victorian child in a fever ward."

Beomgyu ignores him, biting into the kimbap with a sound that's one-third groan, two-thirds bliss. "God, I love you."

"Say that to a salad next time."

For a few beats, the only sound is the rustle of wrappers and Beomgyu making quiet noises of gratitude to whatever deity invented seaweed rice rolls. By the second bite, his entire mood shifts like someone flipped a light switch. His shoulders unclench, the frown between his brows melts into something almost soft.

And then—inevitably—the whining starts.

"Studios are fully booked again," Beomgyu groans, tossing his head back against the bench dramatically. "It's like... do people have no hobbies besides hogging rehearsal rooms?"

"Pretty sure making music is the hobby," Taehyun says dryly.

"I'm serious," Beomgyu presses on. "I've got stuff I need to record, but my bank account looks like a bad joke."

"Pathetic joke," Taehyun corrects, licking stray rice off his thumb.

Beomgyu squints at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"The side of reality," Taehyun says. "Speaking of which—your Instagram. Sad."

Beomgyu freezes mid-chew. "What's wrong with my Instagram?"

"Where do I start?" Taehyun sighs, leaning back like this requires deep thought. "Your grid is just... close-ups of strings. Occasionally, a moody lyric caption. It's not mysterious—it's giving cryptid energy."

Beomgyu sputters. "It's called aesthetic."

"It's called nobody knows what you look like." Taehyun scrolls on his phone without looking. "Post your face once and maybe you'll stop sounding like a man begging vending machines for dinner."

Beomgyu flicks a grain of rice at him. Misses. "People care about the music, not the face."

"Sure," Taehyun says, so dry the Sahara feels moist.

Beomgyu grumbles, shoving the last bite into his mouth like victory. "Whatever. I'm not desperate. I have a plan."

"Oh?" Taehyun arches a brow. "Does it involve faking your death for insurance money?"

"No, genius. A contest."

That earns him a look—sharp, calculating. "What contest?"

Without ceremony, Beomgyu digs into his bag and slaps two things onto the bench:

A slightly crumpled poster: "BlueNote Annual Songwriting Competition – Winner Gets Full Studio Access + Cash Grant"

His music worksheet, lines filled with messy chords and lyrics scribbled at 3 a.m.

Taehyun blinks. Once. Twice. Then stares like Beomgyu just confessed to tax fraud.
"...So THIS is what you did until 3 a.m.?"

"Yep." Beomgyu leans back, smug.

"Instead of sleeping like a human?"

"Sleep is for people who lack ambition."

Taehyun pinches the bridge of his nose. "Or for people who don't look like they're about to faint in a lecture hall."

Beomgyu shrugs, snatching the worksheet back before Taehyun can smudge the ink. "Relax, Mom."

Taehyun glares. "I will not relax until you stop making life choices powered by caffeine and self-loathing."

"You sound like a TED Talk."

"You sound like a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Wow," Beomgyu mutters, stuffing his papers away, "love the support in this household."

"Love yourself enough to nap," Taehyun shoots back. Then, casually, "By the way, Kai's been annoying me since sunrise. Says you ignored his calls about the band again."

"Because the answer is still no."

"You could at least consider it. Free equipment, exposure, actual human interaction—"

"Nope." Beomgyu zips his bag with finality. "I've got better odds with this contest than babysitting Kai's drum ego."

Taehyun snorts. "You really think winning this is easier than playing in a band?"

"I really think dealing with Kai is harder than winning a Grammy," Beomgyu says flatly.

Taehyun laughs so hard he almost chokes on his drink.

The laughter between them fizzles into the soft hum of campus life. Students pass by in clusters, their chatter folding into the breeze. Taehyun scrolls aimlessly on his phone, the glow of the screen painting his face in tired hues.

Beomgyu wipes a stray grain of rice from his hoodie, then leans forward to unzip his guitar case again.

"Don't you dare start playing right now," Taehyun warns without looking up.

"Relax," Beomgyu says, already cradling the instrument in his lap. "I just want to hear something."

"That's what you said at midnight before writing your tragic 3 a.m. ballad."

"Ballads are immortal, Hyun." His fingers graze the strings, testing their tune like greeting old friends. A chord blooms under his touch—soft, tender, the kind of sound that curls into quiet corners of the soul.

Taehyun exhales the kind of sigh reserved for chronic disappointments. Still, he doesn't move away. If anything, he props his chin on his palm and watches as Beomgyu lets the world melt around him.

Because when Beomgyu plays, everything sharp in him softens. The sarcasm fades, the theatrics dim, and what's left is just... raw honesty in six strings.

He shifts, closing his eyes, humming the melody he scribbled earlier. The words hover like ghosts at the back of his throat: incomplete but pulsing with intent. He taps his foot, murmurs under his breath, and slowly pieces the fragments together.

Minutes pass in silence except for the low hum of music.

"This is the contest one?" Taehyun asks finally.

"Yeah." Beomgyu keeps his gaze on the frets, voice barely above a whisper. "Working title's trash, though."

"Better than sleep deprivation anthem," Taehyun mutters.

"Relax, Mom," Beomgyu repeats, lips quirking into the smallest smirk.

The chords taper off. Beomgyu sets the guitar back into its case with practiced care, snapping the latches closed like sealing a secret. He shoulders the strap, leans back against the bench, and watches the sky for a beat—blue stretching endless above the sharp lines of the buildings.

"Where to now?" Taehyun asks, pocketing his phone.

"Back to the dorm," Beomgyu says, pulling up his hood like a shield. "Maybe record later if my brain doesn't die."

"Or," Taehyun says, rising with the weight of someone who knows his suggestion will be ignored, "you could take a nap like a functioning organism."

Beomgyu grins, lazy and lopsided. "Ambition doesn't nap."

"Ambition also can't walk home if it collapses from hunger," Taehyun fires back, already striding ahead.

Beomgyu laughs under his breath, trailing after him. His steps are slow, unhurried. There's no rush in his world—not yet.

The sun slips behind a cloud, and for a fleeting moment, the air tastes like calm.

Somewhere else on campus, a progress bar crawls across a phone screen as a video uploads to @beatline_academy.