Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

03

And that's how they end up sitting cross-legged on the floor, trading the notebook back and forth as Beomgyu hums half-formed lines and Taehyun polishes them into something sharp. Their voices blend surprisingly well—Beomgyu's warm and unpolished, Taehyun's crisp and deliberate.

By the time the room falls into an easy rhythm of strumming, scribbling, and low laughter, it almost feels like midnight at a sleepover instead of two stressed music majors trying to outwit fate.

It's Taehyun who breaks the spell, leaning back on his hands with a lazy smirk. "You know," he says, "for someone who hates dancing, you sure watch a lot of choreography videos."

Beomgyu stiffens, nearly choking on his own breath. "What—no—I don't—"

"You do," Taehyun says, grinning like the devil. "I saw your YouTube history, genius. Half of it is acoustic covers, the other half is choreo practice clips."

Beomgyu sputters. "Research. For—artistic reasons."

"Right," Taehyun says, dragging the word like honey. "Artistic."

Beomgyu points his pen at him like a sword. "Say one more word and I'm writing a diss track about you."

"Do it," Taehyun says with a grin. "Might be the only track you actually finish."

Beomgyu lunges, Taehyun dodges, and their laughter bounces off the dorm walls like static—warm, unpolished, real.

By the time Taehyun gives up roasting him and moves to his laptop, the room has slipped into an easy hum of keys clicking, strings thrumming, and the occasional curse from Beomgyu when a chord doesn't land the way he wants.

It feels safe like this. Contained. Just music and four walls.

Beomgyu flips to a clean page, pen scratching as he writes the chorus that's been gnawing at his head since lunch. His hair's fallen loose from its tie, brushing his cheek, but he doesn't care—he's too deep in the melody now, humming softly under his breath.

"This contest thing," Taehyun says suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet. "It's really your plan?"

Beomgyu doesn't look up. "Yeah. Why?"

"You're killing yourself over a song but keep saying no to Kai's band," Taehyun mutters, almost like he's talking to himself. "Sometimes I wonder if you're allergic to teamwork or just... attention."

The pen in Beomgyu's hand pauses mid-line.

"Bands mean crowds," he says finally, voice low, controlled. "Crowds mean eyes. And I don't need that."

Taehyun glances over, brows lifting. "You already have eyes on you. Ten thousand of them."

"Ten thousand who only care about the music," Beomgyu says quickly, maybe too quickly. He forces a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "It's different."

Taehyun studies him for a beat, something like understanding flickering there, but he doesn't push. He just nods, slow and deliberate. "Whatever you say, Princess."

Beomgyu flips him off without looking up.

But later, when Taehyun's earbuds are in and the glow of his laptop softens against the wall, Beomgyu sits there with his notebook open and his chest feeling heavier than it should. He remembers sharp voices, laughter that cut like glass, the heat of a spotlight he never asked for—and he shoves it all down, burying it under the scratch of ink and the safe rhythm of strings.

Because this? Writing alone in the quiet? This is all he wants.

Just the music. Nothing else.

His phone buzzes once on the desk. Then twice. Then again, rapid-fire, until the screen lights like a beacon.

Beomgyu ignores it. Probably spam. Probably Taehyun's fault.

He tucks the pen behind his ear, strums the opening line of his song, and lets himself believe—just for a little while—that he can keep the world small.

Yeonjun sprawls across his bed like a man in a cologne ad—sweat-damp hair pushed back, gray hoodie slouching off one shoulder. His phone hovers in front of his face, glowing like a tiny stage light.

One photo, two taps, and a caption typed with the precision of someone who knows his power:

sweat > stress // choreo dropped on @beatline_academy 🔥 #beatlineacademy

He stares at it for exactly three seconds before hitting Post.

Immediately, his notifications flare up like fireworks.

@yawnjun
✔ Followers: 428,931
✔ Post likes: climbing past 2,000 in 60 seconds.
✔ Comments: already 300 and counting.

Yeonjun smirks. King behavior, as always.

He scrolls through the first wave of comments, basking in the chaos:
"WHEN ARE YOU TEACHING ME THIS MOVE 😩🔥"
"Name a time yawnjun DIDN'T deliver. Trick question."
"sir i have exams why are you attacking me like this???"
"THE SWEAT. THE ARMS. THE DISRESPECT."
"if confidence was a person it'd be him."

He double-taps a few, replies to one with a wink emoji, and watches his engagement skyrocket like a stock chart on steroids.

But Yeonjun isn't done feeding his kingdom. He flips to the crew's page—@beatline_academy—and checks the newest upload.

The full video.
Fresh on the feed for fifteen minutes and already clocking:
✔ 87k views
✔ 12k likes
✔ Comments blowing up faster than his notifications.

Yeonjun smirks, proud and a little smug, because this is the high he lives for: validation, applause, the sweet rush of being the moment.

Until—

"ok but WHO is the guy on the bench??"

Yeonjun blinks. Scrolls.

"bench guy??? hello?? guitar?? hoodie?? low bun???"
"i didn't even watch the choreo i was busy FALLING IN LOVE WITH BACKGROUND BOY."
"pls does anyone know him??? i need @ IMMEDIATELY."

He frowns, thumb pausing mid-scroll. "...Bench guy?"

The next ten comments are worse:
"main character energy and he's not even trying."
"this man is a Pinterest board come alive."
"WHO IS HE AND WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE'LL WRITE A SONG AND BREAK MY HEART."

Yeonjun replays the video. Watches the routine he killed, the footwork he bled over—and there, barely in the frame, sitting at the edge of the quad like a casual apocalypse:

Bench Guy.
Hoodie. Low bun. Guitar propped against his knee like it was born there. Head bent over a notebook, sunlight grazing his jaw in the rudest way possible.

Yeonjun stares. Blinks. Stares harder.

"...Are you kidding me."

He drags the scrub bar back, slows it down—and that's when it happens. Bench Guy lifts a hand. Runs it through his hair in one lazy motion, pushing loose strands back before bowing over his notebook again.

It's two seconds of footage. Two seconds that just detonated Yeonjun's comment section.

Because the comments? Absolutely feral now:
"THE HAIR PUSH?? goodnight i'm passing away."
"he's not real. there's no way someone like that just EXISTS in the background."
"yeonjun baby you slayed but respectfully? bench guy owns this video now."
"petition to change the account name to @benchline_academy."

Yeonjun's jaw unhinges. "Oh. Hell. No."

He checks the latest count:
✔ 150k views.
✔ Top-liked comment:

"Who's the bench guy? Asking for my future self."

Yeonjun throws his phone onto the mattress, grabs a pillow, and screams into it for a solid three seconds. Then he sits up and snatches the phone back like a man on a mission.

"Okay," he mutters, scrolling back to the frame where Bench Guy is half-smiling at his notebook like he invented emotions. "Who the hell are you, Guitar Kid."