Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

09

Back in the practice studio, Yeonjun pretends nothing happened.

Soobin isn't buying it.
"Where'd you go this time?" he asks, side-eye sharp as a blade.

"Admin stuff," Yeonjun says smoothly, tossing his bag into the corner like he didn't just commit felony-level eavesdropping ten minutes ago. "Leader things. You wouldn't understand."

Soobin raises a brow. "Leader things, huh? So... stalking musicians in the west wing is part of your job now?"

Yeonjun freezes mid-stretch. "Excuse me?"

"You're sweaty, out of breath, and smirking like you know state secrets," Soobin says, deadpan. "You did something."

"I did not." Yeonjun straightens like a saint. "I was handling festival logistics."
...Which is technically true. If "logistics" means figuring out how to crush a band that doesn't even exist yet.

The crew runs the set twice before breaking for water. The music thrums through Yeonjun's veins like a drug, but even as his body moves on autopilot, his mind won't shut up:

Beomgyu.
The contest.
The maybe-band.
The festival.

A sharp smile curves his mouth before he even registers it. So that's how you wanna play, Princess? Fine. Let's make this interesting.

He drops onto the bench, grabs his phone, and snaps a shot of his sneakers crossed against the studio mirror, a hint of the mic stand in frame. Adds a caption with a lazy flick of his thumb:

"Music sounds better live 😉"

Hits post. Watches the chaos ignite in real time.

Comments flood in like a tidal wave:
"IS THIS A HINT?? ARE YOU COLLABING WITH PRINCESS??"
"live??? does that mean FESTIVAL????"
"stop being cryptic you menace."

Fan edits appear within minutes, pairing his photo with blurry hallway shots of Beomgyu like some tragic romance trailer. Hashtags trend:
#BenchlineFestival
#PrincessAndThePrinceLIVE

Yeonjun leans back against the mirror, smirk deepening as he scrolls. Petty? Absolutely. Effective? Hell yes.

And yet—
Underneath the smug satisfaction, something tugs at him. The memory of a hood sliding back. The way Beomgyu's breath hitched like every inhale hurt.

For a split second, Yeonjun's thumb hovers over the DM button. Just to... check in. Make sure the guy's not drowning in the mess he's half responsible for.

But pride wins. It always does.
Instead, he locks his phone, pushes to his feet, and calls out, "Alright, one more run-through before we wrap. Let's make it count."

His voice rings sharp, steady. Like nothing's wrong.
Like he isn't already planning how to own that festival stage so hard the band won't stand a chance—even if one stubborn guitarist does decide to join.

Midnight hums low outside the dorm window, the glow of campus lights bleeding soft through the blinds.

Beomgyu sits cross-legged on his bed, notebook open but blank, pen idle between his fingers. The silence is loud—the kind that makes every thought scrape harder against his skull.

He hears Taehyun's voice like an echo still vibrating through the walls.
"You hate the attention because it's not on your terms. So take the terms back. Fuck the noise."

Easy words. Harder in the bones.

Because Taehyun's right. Every word.
And that's what terrifies him.