Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

10

The band room is quieter now, stripped of the earlier chaos. The amps are cooling, cables coiled in lazy loops on the floor, faint feedback still ghosting in the air.

Beomgyu sinks onto a stool, wiping sweat from his neck with the edge of his hoodie. His hands still hum, fingertips aching in the best way.

"Not bad for a hostage," Taehyun says, leaning against the wall with that annoying calm, arms folded like a dad watching his kid's soccer game.

"Bite me," Beomgyu mutters, setting his guitar back in its stand like it's made of glass.

"They'll text the group chat later," Taehyun adds, smirking. "'Our new lead guitarist is shy but mysterious. So aesthetic.'"

"Shut up."

Taehyun pushes off the wall, crossing the room with lazy steps. "So. Contest."

Beomgyu stiffens. "What about it?"

"You submitting or just writing poetry for your diary?"

Beomgyu sighs, tipping his head back until it thuds against the mirror. "I'm not done. The melody's fine, but the lyrics..." He trails off, dragging a hand through his hair. "Trash. And don't get me started on the title."

Taehyun hums like he's filing that away. "Then don't think. Play."

Beomgyu cracks an eye open. "What kind of philosophical—"

"Shut up and play, Gyu."

And because it's Taehyun, and because Beomgyu's too tired to fight, he picks up the guitar again. Lets his fingers wander over the frets, coaxing out the skeleton of something that's been living in his chest for weeks.

Soft chords. Minor, aching, dripping like rain against glass.
Taehyun listens, then slips in without warning—voice low, warm, threading through the sound like smoke through wire.

They've done this a thousand times in the dorm, between ramen cups and sleepless nights. But here, with real gear humming and the air thick with reverb, it feels different. Bigger. Like the walls are leaning in to listen.

Beomgyu hums under his breath, lines he hasn't written yet spilling in fragments;
stop the spinning / stop the sound / in my head, it's too loud—

Taehyun's voice curls around the edges, smooth as honey poured over broken glass.
For a second—just a second—Beomgyu forgets the feeds, the rumors, the spotlight gnawing at his heels. There's only this. Strings and voice. Gravity and orbit.

Click.

Beomgyu freezes mid-chord. "Did you just—"

Taehyun grins, phone still propped on a tripod by the amp. "For blackmail."

"Delete it."

"Absolutely not."

"Hyun."

"Nope," Taehyun says cheerfully, tucking the phone into his pocket like state secrets. "Might need leverage when you start acting like a diva."

"You're evil."

"And you," Taehyun says, leaning down until his smirk is all teeth, "are a coward."

Beomgyu blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Taehyun straightens, voice calm but eyes sharp. "You're suddenly famous—viral, trending, campus eating out of your hand—and what do you do? Hide in hoodies like a cryptid. Your fans are starving, bro."

"I didn't ask for fans!" Beomgyu snaps.

"Doesn't matter," Taehyun says simply. "They're here. So either keep sulking or feed them something real."