Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

07

"Yeah," Taehyun mutters darkly, clocking the mob. "Congratulations, Rockstar. You've gone viral in 4K."

Beomgyu's stomach twists. His pulse spikes again, teeth clenching. "Let's go. Now."

Taehyun doesn't argue. Just grabs his arm and cuts hard left, pulling him down a side path, moving fast—silent except for the crunch of gravel underfoot and Beomgyu's uneven breathing.

The door barely clicks shut before Taehyun whirls on him.

"Explain."

Beomgyu kicks off his shoes, drops his guitar case, and collapses onto the edge of his bed like his bones have given up. "There's nothing to explain. I... freaked out. It's over."

"Over?!" Taehyun throws his arms wide. "Gyu, the entire internet is frothing at the mouth. There are at least ten new edits of you just existing in that hallway. And guess who's in all of them?"

Beomgyu groans, dragging a pillow over his face. "Don't say it."

"Yeonjun," Taehyun says mercilessly. "Dance King himself. Holding your arm like a K-drama lead. Congrats, you're the nation's new OTP."

Beomgyu muffles a scream into the pillow. "I hate this timeline."

Taehyun yanks the pillow away, eyes blazing. "Do you understand what this means? They're going to start digging harder. You can't keep hiding behind moody captions forever."

Beomgyu stares at the ceiling, jaw tight. "I didn't ask for this. I just wanted to write my song. Enter my contest. Live like a ghost."

"Yeah, well," Taehyun says, dropping onto the chair opposite him, voice softening just slightly, "ghosts don't trend on gossip accounts."

Silence hums between them, heavy and buzzing. Beomgyu grips the edge of the mattress until his knuckles ache.

Taehyun sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Gyu... talk to me. What happened back there? For real."

Beomgyu hesitates. Images flash—blinding lights, laughter slicing through him like glass, voices from years ago chanting every fear he ever swallowed. His throat locks around the words.

"Nothing," he lies finally, forcing a shaky smile. "Just... too many people. You know me."

Taehyun doesn't buy it. He never does. But he lets it drop—for now.

Instead, he leans back, eyes narrowing. "Fine. Then explain why your hood's practically superglued to your head all day."

Beomgyu stiffens. "Comfort."

"Bullshit comfort," Taehyun mutters. "You're hiding something."

And he's right. Because under the fabric, the new haircut presses like a secret against his skull—a change he thought would shrink the noise, not make it roar louder.

Beomgyu swallows hard, a bitter laugh curling in his chest.
Guess I was wrong.

Notifications detonate across his phone on the desk, screen glowing like a warning beacon:

@campusfeed: "BREAKING: GUITAR PRINCE AND DANCE KING IN ONE FRAME. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"
[Attached: the photo—Yeonjun's hand on his arm, his hood half-slipped.]
Comments:

"PRINCESS AND THE PRINCE ERA LET'S GO."
"someone drop the fanfic link pls."
"is that... NEW HAIR under the hood??!!"

Beomgyu doesn't look. Can't.

But he feels it. Like heat against glass. The attention pressing closer, louder, hungrier.

And for the first time, he wonders if Taehyun's right.
If this isn't something he can outrun.

The practice room smells like sweat and betrayal when Yeonjun walks back in.

Three sets of eyes pin him instantly.

"Where were you?" one of the juniors asks, mid-stretch.

"Bathroom," Yeonjun says casually, tossing his phone onto the bench like it's not vibrating every two seconds with chaos.

Soobin snorts. "For twenty minutes? Did you fall in?"

"Maybe I like my privacy," Yeonjun shoots back, grabbing his water bottle.

"Maybe you like vanishing like a main character with a tragic backstory," Soobin says, deadpan as ever. "You good, bro? Need a monologue?"

Laughter ripples around the room. Yeonjun flips him off and sinks against the mirror, chugging water like it might drown the heat still crawling under his skin.

Because no matter how hard he pretends, the image won't leave his head.
Beomgyu—hood gone, hair spilling like dark fire, eyes wide and glassy with something raw.

He hadn't meant to follow him. Not really.
But when Beomgyu stormed out after that first clash—the sharp shoulders, the way his hands shook on the guitar strap—something didn't sit right.

Yeonjun had seen nerves before. Seen stage fright, performance jitters, even full-blown breakdowns. But this? This was different. Quiet. Dangerous. Like a wire pulled too tight.

And when he finally caught up—just in time to see Beomgyu crumpling against the wall, breaths coming in sharp, shallow bursts—
Yeah. He didn't think. Didn't plan. Just moved.
Pulled his hood up. Told him to keep his head down. Low voice steady because someone had to be.

And then he ruined the moment by opening his mouth like an idiot about "Taekbae." Because apparently, sarcasm is his coping mechanism.

Yeonjun drags a towel over his face, trying to wipe away the memory, the heat curling low in his gut like static.

His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

Finally, he snatches it up—only to choke on air.

Campus Feed:

"BREAKING: THE PRINCE AND THE PRINCESS ERA CONTINUES 💥"
Attached: that cursed photo. His hand gripping Beomgyu's wrist, hood half-off, light catching the edge of freshly cut hair.

The comment section is a funeral for his sanity:
"the tension in this pic is ILLEGAL."
"why does this look like a promo poster for a BL drama??"
"yeonjun protecting his princess?? oh we're FEEDED."
"someone tag @beomnote rn omg."

Yeonjun scrolls deeper, pulse thudding harder with every edit: slow-motion clips of him pulling the hood, overlaid with romantic OSTs. Hashtags piling up like a tower of hell: #PrincessAndThePrince #BenchlineCouple #ProtectThePrincess

He throws the phone down like it burned him.
Not obsessed. Not even close.

So why the hell does his chest feel weird? Why can't he stop hearing that voice—the shaky edge in it when Beomgyu muttered "leave me alone" like he meant it?

And why—why—does the name keep echoing like a drumline under his skin?
Beomgyu.

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, muttering curses under his breath.

"Bro," Soobin says from across the room, tone casual but eyes sharp. "You're spiraling."

"I'm stretching," Yeonjun snaps, folding into a lunge so aggressively his hamstrings scream.

"Sure," Soobin says, smirking. "Stretching your ego, maybe."

Yeonjun flips him off again, holds the pose like it might ground him, and whispers to himself:
It's fine. He's just a guy. A guy with too many followers and a haircut that should be illegal. I'll figure him out. Then I'm done.

But the truth hums under his skin like a bassline he can't ignore.
He's not done. Not even close.