Chapter Text
Taesan isn’t the type to follow campus celebrities. University fame is flimsy at best. Built on Tiktok clips, group chats, and whoever happens to be trending on the student’s forum page that week. He’s heard the name Riptide Riot thrown around enough times to recognise it, usually paired with words like insane, crazy good, you have to watch them live! But hype has never convinced him of anything. If something is good, he prefers to decide that for himself.
The first time he goes to one of their busking sessions isn’t because he was curious, he just had the time to. They’re performing near the café he frequents after late dance practice, and the sound of electric guitar travels further than it should down narrow streets. He tells himself he’s only stopping because he likes rock music, because live drums sound different in open air and because watching musicians improvise is mildly interesting from a performance standpoint.
Of course, it has nothing to do with the guitarist who laughs too loudly between songs.
He doesn’t even notice him properly at first. There are six of them on that makeshift stage, if you can even call a slightly elevated wooden platform a stage. They move around each other easily, bumping shoulders, sharing microphones, grinning like this isn’t their fourth consecutive weekly performance. The crowd seems to know their inside jokes. Someone shouts a member’s name and the rest immediately point at him in exaggerated betrayal.
Taesan studies them the way he studies choreography, detached and analytical. “Hmm, they're pretty good,” he thinks to himself. Tight timing. Clean transitions. No visible tension when someone played the wrong chord. He respects that. Beside him, Leehan hums along to a chorus he already knows by heart. “You’re staring,” Leehan says lightly. “I’m observing,” Taesan corrects.
He isn’t looking at anyone in particular. Not yet.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Jiseok likes practice days the most, so that he won’t have to dress up to make himself feel good in front of people. Although applause and sing-along sessions from the crowd bring an adrenaline rush to him, he still prefers playing for himself and the band. Practice days are messy and quiet in a way performances never are — where mistakes are forgiven, ideas can be tried, and the music feels like it belongs entirely to them.
The studio smells like dust and old cables, like wood that’s absorbed too many years of sound. The walls are lined with scuff marks from careless amp placements, drumsticks tapping out nervous rhythms against plaster. Hyeongjun has left an unfinished iced coffee sweating on top of his guitar amplifier again.
“Count it properly,” Gunil, their drummer groans for the third time that hour.
“I am counting it properly,” Jiseok argues, though he’s grinning as he says it.
He adjusts the strap of his guitar and plays the riff again, slower this time, exaggerating the timing just to be annoying. Someone throws a crumpled chord sheet at his head. He ducks too late. They’ve been doing the same setlist for months.
It works, they think. The crowd expects it. The opening is explosive, the middle softens just enough to make people sway, and the final song always ends with them shouting their name like they’re convincing themselves they deserve it.
Riptide Riot.
The name had been a joke at first. Now it’s printed on small banners they hang behind them during busking sessions.
“Don’t you think we’re getting repetitive?” Jooyeon says suddenly, dropping onto the floor and massaging his sore shoulder.
There’s a pause. The kind that doesn’t happen often with them.
Jiseok keeps strumming absentmindedly, not looking up.
Repetitive.
He hates that word.
“We’re consistent,” he corrects lightly. “Well, that’s one of the ways people would say when they’re bored with something they like,” Jungsu snickers.
That statement earns a laugh from the others, but the sentence from Jungsu hits harder than it should. Jiseok finally looks up. They’re all tired. It’s visible because there are dark circles under their eyes, stiff shoulders that Gunil and Jooyeon kept massaging slowly, Hyeongjun flexing his fingers from overuse. They’ve been chasing something ever since they started gaining attention around campus: more gigs, better crowds, tighter performances. Every week has to be better than the last. And yet, this is just a side thing for all of them. It’s mostly about enjoying themselves and earning some extra cash on the side. Each of them is majoring in their own subjects, juggling assignments and tests, but still finding time to invest in the band, to strengthen their sound and cohesion. That kind of dedication, despite everything else on their plates, is something to be applauded.
But, when did it stop being just fun?
“Okay so, what are you suggesting?” Jiseok asks.
“I don’t know.. but something different,” Jungsu says, leaning back in his chair. “Not the usual setlist. I mean, we can still stick to the songs that we usually play but I think we need to change something at least.”
“Individual stages!” Jooyeon exclaims, slamming his hands on the table. “Each one of us decides one song to sing. Mmmaybe something… personal…?”
Jiseok frowns thoughtfully. “Personal, huh… like, outside our usual genre?”
“Exactly,” Jooyeon says, a small grin forming. “You know, the stuff we’d never normally play in front of a crowd.”
Seungmin shrugs. “Well, that sounds intriguing.”
“Alright, one night only,” Gunil concedes. “I support this, but I don’t want anyone stressing about holding up the vocals alone. After that, we go back to our usual setup.”
Jiseok leans back against the amp behind him, staring at the ceiling where one of the fluorescent lights flickers weakly.
A solo stage. He hasn’t done one since first year.
Back when Riptide Riot wasn’t Riptide Riot yet. Back when they were just six guys crammed into a practice room, trying to be louder than their doubts.
“What if it’s awkward?” Hyeongjun mutters.
“It won’t be,” Jiseok objects immediately.
He doesn’t know that for sure. But he says it anyway. Because that’s his role, isn’t it? If something feels uncertain, he smooths it over. If something feels heavy, he lightens it. If someone hesitates, he pushes forward.
Everyone in the studio looks at him. Waiting for his answer.
He smiles. “Let’s do it,” he sighs softly. “Okay, so one song each. Something we actually like. Not just what we think people want to hear, right?” Jooyeon nods with a full smile on his face.
Jiseok looks down at his guitar, tracing the edges of the fretboard with his fingertips. The strings hum softly under his touch. He knows which song he’ll choose. It’s the one that has been quietly echoing in the back of his mind for weeks.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Taesan drags his bag off his shoulder and drops it by the curb, letting out a long, quiet breath. Dance practice ran late today, and the combination of a test in the morning, an assignment due at midnight (which he submitted before his dance practice session), and his own perfectionism has left him sore, both in body and mind. He’s exhausted. Every muscle aches. Every thought in his heavy mind hums with leftover tension.
Normally, he’d be in his room by now. Watching his favourite series, curled up under the comfort of his blanket, letting the mundane repetition of the episodes quiet his brain because that’s his safe place. The space where nothing is urgent, nothing demands perfection, and no one can see the cracks behind his composed expression.
But tonight, he isn’t headed there.
Instead, he walks toward the small plaza near the arts faculty building, where Riptide Riot usually sets up their weekly busking session. He tells himself it’s just background noise. He likes rock music because of the raw edges, the live imperfections and for once, it’s not for a critique of movement or rhythm. He tells himself that it's just sound. A wall of sound to push aside everything else.
This time, Woonhak trails beside him, complaining about his day in his cheerful voice, but Taesan barely hears him. He’s too focused on shoving the day aside. He needs this. He needs something that isn’t rehearsal, grading, deadlines, or expectations. Something he doesn’t have to control.
By the time the first chords ring out from the makeshift stage, he’s standing a little off to the side, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. He barely notices the familiar motions of the band. He doesn’t scan the faces as he’s here for the music. The only escape that he needs at that moment. Nothing more.
Riptide Riot performs every week. The setlist is predictable. He can almost recite it all in his head before the drummer even counts off. That is the reason why he doesn’t react when someone whispers that tonight’s performance will be different. A solo stage for each member? He doesn’t really care because he is aware that bands experiment, and it rarely means anything.
Then something catches his eye. The stage has cleared in a way it never does. Usually, four of the members stand together at the front, singing their own lines in their covered songs, moving in sync, while the lead guitarist and the drummer anchor the back. Tonight, though, only one figure remains in the usual front-center spot. All the space around him makes it impossible to ignore.
Taesan’s head cocks automatically, and his brow raises, more out of instinct than thought.
He isn’t sure why it makes him pause, but it does. Something about the emptiness around that one silhouette, the way the spotlights catch only him, how the distance seems intentional.
And there he is, Jiseok. Perched on the worn wooden platform they call a stage, guitar cradled against him, fingertips moving over the strings like he’s telling a story only he can hear. The moment the first notes ring out, Taesan stiffens. His shoulders pull tight, fingers clenching so hard in his pockets he thinks he might leave indents in the fabric. The chord is too familiar. Way too precise, too soft, and too painfully right. The song that he is hearing at that moment makes his chest squeeze in a way that feels almost unfair.
He breathes slowly and swallows, but it doesn’t help. The sound digs under his ribs, twisting into something raw he doesn’t want to acknowledge at all. His heartbeat hammers against his temples, rapid and uneven, and he realizes he’s been holding his breath.
Everything else disappears. The chatter in the crowd, the shuffle of feet, even Woonhak’s small complaints and teasing beside him, fades into the background. There’s only the song, only the sound of Jiseok’s fingers strumming the guitar, only the careful pull of the melody.
Taesan’s head tilts slightly, his brow unconsciously furrowing. He can feel the tension creeping into his jaw, the tight line of his shoulders, and the way his spine straightens almost painfully. Every instinct tells him to step back, to avert his gaze, to pretend it’s just another song, but he can’t.
He can’t look away.
He doesn’t even want to.
Every note that comes out of Jiseok’s guitar feels meticulous, like it’s been carved out of something fragile. The melody bends and folds around the empty stage, wrapping the space in a hush so absolute that Taesan can hear his own heartbeat hammering in time. And then Jiseok’s voice cuts through. His voice sounds warm and steady, but also with that tremor underneath that betrays something raw. It’s painfully… beautiful. Every word lingers just long enough to make the silence behind it ache.
Taesan swallows again, a knot tightening in his chest. The way Jiseok sings softly into the mic, eyes half-closed, his delicate fingers brushing against his guitar strings, makes it impossible to think about anything else. His lips curve just slightly during the chorus, the faintest hint of a smile, Taesan notices.
It’s as if every tiny movement, every subtle inflection, is a message Taesan wasn’t meant to hear, and yet he does. Every sigh in the guitar, every pause between words, presses against something in his chest he didn’t realize had been waiting.
His shoulders tighten, and for a second, he thinks he might actually fold in on himself. He can feel the tension rising, a pull toward the stage he knows he can’t act on, can’t even rationalize.
It’s music… just music???? But why does it feel like it’s unraveling something inside him he never wanted anyone to touch?
And then Jiseok smiles again, softly, naturally, almost absentmindedly. Taesan’s chest clenched again, the ache sharp enough to steal his breath.
He’s captivated. He’s unsettled. He’s terrified.
And he doesn’t even know why.
The final note hangs in the air, fading slower than it should, like it doesn’t want to let go. Jiseok’s fingers lift from the strings, and the silence that follows feels impossibly loud in Taesan’s chest.
He can’t breathe.
His hands shake slightly in his pockets. His heart races as if it’s trying to escape, thudding so violently he’s sure someone in the crowd could hear it. The air feels too thick like it’s pressing down on his lungs. He’s hyperaware of every movement around him but it all blends into a blur.
There’s only Jiseok. Only the song. Only the ache that has lodged itself behind his ribs.
“Taesan.”
A hand shakes his shoulder. Hard enough to make him flinch, but not enough to hurt him. Woonhak’s voice cuts through the fog in his head. “Hey, wake up. You’re—”
Taesan blinks rapidly, trying to force the tension out of his chest. He coughs once, twice, still aware of how impossible it is to slow his racing heart.
Woonhak sighs, grabs both of his shoulders, and gives him a firmer shake. “Focus. Look at me. Breathe.”
Taesan swallows again. He nods, forcing himself to straighten. The crowd has moved on. The song is over. The stage is quiet now. Another member is preparing to sing the next song on the setlist.
But the tightness in his chest refuses to leave.
Taesan steps back instinctively, letting the edges of the crowd swallow him for cover. His lungs burn as he drags in air, fingers still trembling slightly from the tension he can’t shake. He hates how exposed he feels, how stupidly affected by one song and one person, and yet he can’t stop the rapid thrum in his chest.
Woonhak falls in step beside him, arms crossed and scowling lightly. “You’re pale. Don’t tell me you’re actually…”
“Fine,” Taesan mutters, cutting him off, though he doesn’t sound convincing even to himself. “I’m fine.”
He’s not.
He pushes through the thinning crowd, ignoring Woonhak’s calls, ignoring the faint murmur of applause lingering in the street. He doesn’t look up. He barely notices where he’s walking until he finds a quiet corner, crouches down on the cold pavement, and presses his hands to his face.
The street feels quieter now, the chatter of the crowd fading behind him, replaced by the ringing echo of the chords in his mind. He doesn’t want to think about how Jiseok’s hands moved over the strings, or the curve of his smile, or the way the voice seemed to thread right into his chest. He doesn’t want to think about it at all.
But he can’t stop.
The tears come violently, unrelenting. They spill through his fingers, soaking his palms. He can’t stop them. His chest heaves, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The song, the way
Jiseok played it, it was like a reminder to him. A reminder of what he lost. Of what was stolen from him before he had a chance to understand it.
It’s too much.
And then Woonhak finds him.
“Taesan!”
His voice is frantic, almost breaking. He kneels beside Taesan, grabbing his shoulders.
“Taesan! Look at me! What’s—what’s going on?”
Taesan can’t form words. Can’t even lift his head from his wet palms. He only shakes, sobbing, his whole body wracked with grief that’s been buried for years but has finally been unearthed by one song.
Everything clicks for Woonhak. He suddenly remembers the late-night confessions about “a song” that hurt too much and the way Taesan flinches at certain melodies. The pieces fall together, and panic overtakes him.
Without thinking, he pulls Taesan into a hug, holding him close, pressing his own face against Taesan’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he murmurs over and over. Taesan doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even try. He just cries, letting the grief and fatigue and memories of that lost childhood friend wash over him in a torrent he’s held in for years. The music lingers in his mind, haunting, beautiful, and painful. But for the first time in a long time, he feels less alone.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The room smells antiseptic and quiet. The steady beep of the monitor fills the spaces where voices should be. 8 year old Tesan sits cross-legged on the thin hospital bed, legs dangling over the edge, weakly clutching the small MP3 player in his tiny hands like it’s a lifeboat.
Beside him, his friend lies propped on a pillow, pale but smiling, eyes bright even though her arms are too thin and too tired. Her bangs curled slightly at the edges from the hospital’s harsh light.
“Taesan, can you play that song again?” the friend asks softly, voice hoarse.
Taesan nods, fumbling with the buttons. He presses play, and the first delicate notes of Reality fills the tiny room.
Taesan watches his friend’s chest rise and fall. He listens to the small, contented hum escaping between her lips, and for the first time in days, he feels content. “What’s this song called again? Is it ‘Reality’?” his friend questioned. Taesan nods quietly.
“If you ever hear this song again, I hope it makes you smile and remember us. And when we’re both stronger, let’s sing it together like the way we always wanted to. It’s ours!” his friend exclaimed wearily.
Taesan nods again, biting his lip to keep the lump in his throat from spilling over. “Our song,” he repeats.
Both of them hold onto the melody like it’s something tangible. Like if they cling tightly enough, all of the beeping monitors, the IV drips, and the endless corridors of white and gray, everything that reminds them they’re fragile won’t even matter.
Hours pass like this. Sometimes one of them hums along softly; sometimes they just lie in silence. The MP3 player becomes a heartbeat between them, a promise that at least for these few minutes, they’re not alone.
And then the day comes when Taesan wakes to a quiet room, the bed across from him empty, the small MP3 player still resting where it always had, the earphones dangling loosely. His friend is gone, and the song remains.
Forever.