Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

03

By the time they make it back to the dorm, the sky outside is bruised purple, stretching long shadows across their cramped room. Taehyun drops his bag onto his chair with the sigh of a man who's been carrying humanity's sins all day. Beomgyu throws his guitar case onto his bed like a body at a crime scene and immediately collapses beside it.

"This room feels like a prison," Beomgyu mutters into his pillow.

"That's because you spend ninety percent of your time in here," Taehyun says, unzipping his laptop sleeve with the precision of a surgeon. "And because it smells like ramen despair."

"First of all," Beomgyu rolls over to glare at him, "it's called artistic suffering. Second, you sound like my mom."

"Your mom probably tells you to shower too. Take the hint."

Beomgyu groans dramatically, which is code for you're right but I refuse to admit it. He sits up just enough to pull his notebook from his hoodie pocket and flips it open, balancing it on his knees.

Taehyun glances up when the scratch of a pen joins the room's soundtrack. "Still on that track?"

"Still," Beomgyu says, biting his lip as he scribbles another chord symbol. "It's good, Hyun. Like—really good. If I can nail the arrangement, I'll win this contest. Easy."

Taehyun hums, unimpressed. "You also said that about passing Music Theory. How'd that work out again?"

"Wow," Beomgyu deadpans, "love the support."

"Love the realism."

"Love shutting up."

But Taehyun doesn't shut up—he never does when Beomgyu starts this spiral. "What do you even need? Lyrics? Arrangement?"

"Both. And a decent mic," Beomgyu says without shame, eyes flicking toward Taehyun's neatly stacked equipment on his desk. "Your mic. Actually, your entire setup. All of it."

Taehyun freezes mid-keystroke, then swivels slowly in his chair. "Excuse me?"

"Just for a week!" Beomgyu clasps his hands in a mock prayer. "Two, max. Please, Hyun. You're like... my fairy godmother but with a poker face and better calves."

"I should punch you just for saying that," Taehyun says, deadpan.

"Violence doesn't suit you."

"Neither does desperation, yet here you are."

Beomgyu groans and lets his forehead drop to the notebook like a tragic hero. "Fine. If I win, I'll buy you—what do you like? Protein powder? A new water bottle? An actual personality?"

Taehyun snorts. "Bold words for someone who slept through half of today."

"You smacked me awake!"

"And you still moved like a dying Roomba."

Before Beomgyu can launch his next insult, Taehyun sighs and stands, digging through his drawer. A moment later, he tosses a mic onto Beomgyu's bed. "Don't break it."

Beomgyu's head snaps up, eyes wide. "Wait—seriously?"

"Seriously," Taehyun says, grabbing a second kimbap from his snack stash. "If you wreck it, I'm selling your guitar to cover the cost."

"I take that deal," Beomgyu says instantly, clutching the mic like treasure.

A beat of silence follows—soft, warm—until Taehyun tilts his head. "You wrote a chorus yet?"

"Sort of."

"Sing it."

Beomgyu blinks. "What?"

"You heard me. Sing it, coward."