Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

16

He pushes off the amp, steps toward the door slow, lazy, like he's still in control even as the room hums with something he can't name.

At the threshold, he glances back—grin curling again, soft and lethal.
"Careful, Princess," he drawls, voice smooth as oil. "You keep hiding like this, and people might just love you more."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the air tasting like static and smoke.

Taehyun grips Beomgyu's wrist before he can fling something across the room. His voice is tight, almost breaking, as he says low.
"Breathe. Just—breathe. Please."

And Beomgyu, throat raw, obeys. Not because he wants to—
Because he's too tired to fight the one person who never stops standing in the fire with him.

The door clicks shut behind Yeonjun, leaving the room stripped bare of his heat and noise—except the echo lingers, like smoke in Beomgyu's lungs.

Silence hums heavy. Then a hand clamps his wrist, firm enough to root him when his body wants to splinter into motion.

"Sit," Taehyun says. Not a request.

Beomgyu exhales a laugh that tastes like rust. "What am I, a dog?"

"Sit before you collapse," Taehyun fires back, steering him toward the couch in the corner with an ease that says don't test me.

Beomgyu lets himself sink down because fighting takes energy he doesn't have. His head tips back against the wall, hoodie hood slipping halfway down, exposing skin that feels too clammy under the white-hot stripes of sunlight bleeding through the blinds.

His pulse is still hammering. His throat tastes of copper and something bitter.

And his mind—God, his mind won't shut up.
Yeonjun's voice curling like smoke. Why make it a big deal? People love you.
His own words snapping back like broken glass. Why can't people leave me the hell alone?

He scrubs both hands over his face, nails biting his scalp.

A crinkle cuts through the silence. Beomgyu cracks one eye open to see Taehyun tearing into a convenience-store sandwich like it owes him rent. He tosses the second pack at Beomgyu's chest without looking.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Cool. Starve," Taehyun says flatly, taking an aggressive bite of his own sandwich. Then, around a mouthful of bread, "Also, you look like a ghost haunting a guitar shop. So maybe fix that."

Beomgyu glares, but his stomach betrays him with a low growl. He rips the wrapper with his teeth, muttering, "You're insufferable."

"And you're alive because of me," Taehyun deadpans. "So chew faster."

For a while, the only sound is paper crinkling and the distant echo of muffled bass from somewhere down the hall. Beomgyu swallows the last bite dry, throat aching, and leans back again, hoodie sagging like surrender.

"You should've told him to shut up," he mutters. "Yeonjun."

"Should've tasered him," Taehyun corrects, crumpling his wrapper into a fist. "But then you'd probably write a ballad about police brutality and go viral twice as hard."

"Funny," Beomgyu says without a hint of humor.

Taehyun studies him then—really looks—and the joke drains out of his face. "Beomgyu," he says, voice dipping low, raw around the edges. "Yesterday..."

Beomgyu flinches. "Don't."

"No. Listen to me." Taehyun leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling loose but trembling just enough to betray the calm mask. "I thought I was going to lose you. And then today, you waltz in here like nothing happened, looking like you could fold in half if someone breathes too hard." His throat works. "I can't—" He stops, bites it off.