came up with another one enjoyyy
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Beomgyu was... different.
Not in the fake-quirky, “I’m-so-random” kind of way. No—he was genuinely in his own universe.
He showed up to school wearing fishnet sleeves, high-waisted pants with doodles he embroidered himself, glossy lip balm, igari blush that sat red and bold on his cheeks, and shiny black glasses that framed his wide, curious eyes.
He liked weird music. Rock Lobster was blasting in his headphones when he passed through the hallway. One time, he painted a cartoon crab across his binder and called it his “emotional support crustacean.”
He wore rings on every finger. He’d draw on his arms in pen. He sat alone under the stairwell during lunch, scribbling into his sketchbook while humming offbeat songs.
People called him names.
But none more than Yeonjun.
Yeonjun was the cool one. Star of the soccer team. Tall. Effortlessly hot. The type of guy teachers loved and girls tripped over themselves for. And every time Beomgyu walked by, Yeonjun had a comment:
“Hey freak boy, what circus you headed to?”
“Did your eyeliner run away from home?”
“Why you always look like a wet manga character?”
Beomgyu never replied. Not once. He just blinked slowly, said nothing, and walked away. That irritated Yeonjun the most.
But somewhere between junior year and the start of senior year… Yeonjun noticed something he didn’t want to admit.
Beomgyu looked kind of hot.
Not in the typical way. It was the way he didn’t care what people thought. The way his fingers moved so delicately when he painted. The way he stuck tiny stickers on his backpack like it was an art piece. The way he smiled to himself sometimes, as if his little world was way better than reality.
It annoyed Yeonjun. It made his stomach twist.
One afternoon, Yeonjun skipped practice. He wandered into the empty art room, bored, only to find Beomgyu sitting there, music low, a sketchbook in his lap.
Beomgyu looked up. No flinch. No fear.
“You stalking me now?” he asked flatly.
Yeonjun scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Beomgyu turned a page, unbothered. “What, you ran out of insults?”
Yeonjun opened his mouth, ready to shoot something back—but nothing came out. Instead, he found himself looking at the sketch on Beomgyu’s page.
It was… him.
Messy charcoal lines, soft shading around the eyes, and his signature soccer jersey. Yeonjun stared.
Beomgyu didn’t explain. Just raised an eyebrow. “You gonna keep staring or...?”
“You drew me?”
Beomgyu shrugged. “You’re always in my face. Might as well.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Yeonjun laughed. It wasn’t mocking. It sounded almost—giddy.
“You’re weird.”
Beomgyu smiled faintly. “Thanks.”
Yeonjun blinked. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sure.”
And that was it. Something clicked.
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A week passed. Yeonjun sat next to Beomgyu in art class. Then started walking by the stairwell during lunch. Then handed him a note that said, “What song were you listening to today? The one that sounded like ducks screaming?”
Beomgyu replied, “Rock Lobster. It’s art.”
Yeonjun kept sitting closer. Asking questions. Laughing more. He didn’t say mean things anymore. He started asking about Beomgyu’s drawings. About his music taste. About the rings he wore and the blush he used.
And one day, when Beomgyu handed him a lollipop with a doodle taped to it (a doodle of Yeonjun and Beomgyu dressed as sea creatures), Yeonjun looked him dead in the eye and said:
“Okay. I think I like you.”
Beomgyu raised a brow. “You bullied me for a whole year.”
Yeonjun scratched his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I was a dumbass. Still kinda am.”
Beomgyu studied him for a second, then smiled—genuine and wide.
“Fine. You can like me. But I’m still weird.”
Yeonjun grinned. “Good. I like weird.”
They sat under the stairwell, two worlds colliding in color, sound, and slow, soft warmth.
And for the first time, freak boy didn’t feel like an insult anymore.
It felt like a name only Yeonjun was allowed to whisper.
