Skz oneshotes (Requests Open)

Collision Course

Collision Course

The rehearsal room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers against the polished floor. Empty water bottles littered the corners, mirrors reflected exhaustion back at them, and the clock on the wall had long since passed midnight.

Han sat cross-legged near the soundboard, headphones slung around his neck, fingers drumming absently against his laptop. The track looping through the speakers was sharp, experimental—his latest attempt at rearranging the bridge of their new song.

Across the room, Seungmin watched in silence. His towel hung over his shoulders, hair damp from hours of practice. He had been patient all night—biting his tongue through every take, every restart—but patience was wearing thin.

"Han," he said finally, voice flat. "We've been at this for four hours. The song doesn't need another change."

Han didn't look up. "It's not right yet. The transition still feels off. The energy dips right before your verse."

"That's the point," Seungmin shot back. "It's supposed to dip. It's called dynamics."

Han exhaled sharply, leaning back against the wall. "You don't get it. It doesn't feel right. It's not flowing."

Seungmin's jaw clenched. "Or maybe you just don't like anything unless it's yours."

The words hung in the air like a slap. Han's fingers froze above the keyboard. Slowly, he looked up. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me," Seungmin said, voice quiet but cutting. "You've been rewriting everyone's parts for days. Hyunjin's ad-libs, Minho's bridge, now my verse. It's always about how you hear it."

Han's laugh was short, humorless. "You think I enjoy fixing everyone's messes? I'm trying to make sure the song doesn't crash and burn when it's released."

"Oh, so now we're the problem?"

Han stood, the scrape of his chair echoing off the walls. "If the shoe fits—"

"Don't," Seungmin warned. His voice had dropped lower, colder. "You're not the only one working hard here."

Han's chest tightened. "Then act like it. Stop settling for 'good enough.'"

Seungmin took a step forward, his eyes flashing. "And maybe you should stop pretending you're the only genius in the room."

Silence. The kind that presses down on your ribs until breathing hurts.

Han could hear the hum of the speakers, the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights, and somewhere, the quiet thunder of his own pulse. For a second, neither moved.

Then Han turned the volume up on the laptop. The same loop played again—the bridge he hated, the verse Seungmin defended. It filled the room like static, relentless.

"Tell me that sounds right to you," Han said, gesturing toward the speakers. "Tell me that doesn't drop all the energy we built up."

Seungmin crossed his arms. "It drops because it's supposed to. It gives the listener room to breathe before we hit the last chorus. Not everything has to explode."

Han shook his head, pacing. "You don't get it. Music isn't just structure—it's momentum. It's emotion. If people tune out for even a second, we lose them."

"And if everything's loud all the time, it stops meaning anything," Seungmin snapped. "You can't scream emotion into every second, Han. Sometimes it's about restraint."

That stopped him. Han blinked, thrown off by the sharpness in Seungmin's tone—the steadiness.

Seungmin took a breath, softer now but no less firm. "You always push. Always chase the next idea until the rest of us can't keep up. But sometimes, letting go is what makes it real."

Han looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly, not from anger but from the realization that maybe Seungmin wasn't wrong.

Still, pride was a heavy thing. "I just want it to be perfect," he said quietly.

Seungmin's expression softened, the edge in his eyes dulling. "I know you do. But chasing perfect doesn't mean crushing everyone in the process."

For a long moment, the only sound was the music looping in the background—the same eight bars repeating endlessly.

Han reached for the laptop and paused the track. The room fell silent again. He glanced at Seungmin, exhaustion flickering behind his grin. "You really think it works the way it is?"

Seungmin hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. It's not flawless, but it's ours."

Han ran a hand through his hair, chuckling softly. "You're stubborn, you know that?"

"Coming from you, that's rich."

The tension broke, not completely, but enough. They both sat down on the floor, shoulders brushing as the adrenaline drained from the argument.

After a while, Seungmin spoke again, voice lower. "We're all tired. You've been producing nonstop. Maybe take a break before you burn out."

Han stared at the blank timeline on his laptop screen. "If I stop, it all catches up to me."

"Then let it," Seungmin said simply. "That's how you make room for new things."

Han didn't reply, but his hand drifted toward the keyboard again, and this time, when he hit play, he didn't wince at the drop. The song moved—breathing, flowing—just like Seungmin said it would.

Maybe perfection wasn't volume or precision. Maybe it was balance.

As the final chorus hit, both of them listened quietly. The music filled the space between them—not as an argument, but as understanding.

When the last note faded, Han looked over and smirked. "You know, for a vocalist, you're pretty good at production advice."

Seungmin rolled his eyes. "And for a producer, you're pretty bad at listening."

Han laughed—a real one this time—and leaned back against the wall. "Guess that's why we work. We're always on a collision course."

Seungmin nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. But somehow, we never crash."