Eventually, the team filters out, leaving Yeonjun alone in the empty practice room. The door clicks shut behind them, the quiet expanding around him. He pulls his phone out again—partly for distraction, partly habit.
It's worse now. Chaos has multiplied exponentially, the hashtag #ChoiBeomgyu still screaming across the campus forums.
"Do you think @beomnote is okay with Yeonjun leaking his name?"
"Bet Guitar Prince regrets ever being filmed by BeatLine."
"I bet Yeonjun loves this mess."
His jaw tightens at the last one. Yeah, he loves chaos, thrives on it. But something feels different this time. Messier. Unpredictable.
His thumb pauses over Beomgyu's now-infamous account. Still quiet. Still no updates since yesterday.
Yesterday.
Yeonjun exhales slowly, gaze sharpening, heart pulsing beneath his ribs. He's not supposed to care. They're rivals, aren't they? Or at least he thought so.
But something has changed. Something raw, jagged, and undeniable, more than ego and more than curiosity. Something about the way Beomgyu looked earlier—pale, brittle, like he was held together by sheer stubbornness alone—keeps tugging at him.
He stares into the reflection in the darkened mirrors, lips curving faintly in bitter amusement.
"Damn it, Princess," he mutters softly, fingers curling tight around his phone. "What are you doing to me?"
The silence of the practice room feels heavier now that he's alone—walls thick, mirrors reflecting emptiness back at him. Yeonjun tosses his jacket aside, the fabric landing with a muffled thump in the corner. He stretches, limbs moving fluidly through familiar patterns, muscles rippling beneath skin that still holds traces of sweat from earlier.
He taps his phone once, music flooding the room—bass deep, rhythm pulsing through his veins, pushing away everything else.
Or trying to.
He moves with effortless precision, every beat matched by sharp, intentional gestures. This choreography is his—a creation born from ambition, sweat, and sleepless nights. It's powerful, intricate, demanding. But even as his body snaps into each pose with practiced ease, his mind drifts stubbornly to one place—one face.
Beomgyu.
Guitar Prince.
Choi fucking Beomgyu.
Yeonjun grits his teeth, pushing harder into a spin, sneakers squealing against polished floor. Each move lands flawlessly, sharp enough to cut glass—but still not enough to silence the questions buzzing beneath his skin.
Why the hell can't I stop thinking about you?
He spins faster, losing himself in the movements, desperately chasing the focus slipping through his fingers. Yet the music feels louder, chaotic now. He can still see Beomgyu's pale face, the shadows under his eyes, the bitter flash of vulnerability hidden behind his anger.
He lands hard, chest rising rapidly. Sweat trickles down his temple, catching on his jawline. For the first time, he feels the choreography slipping slightly out of control—just a fraction offbeat.
"Shit."
He stops abruptly, breathing hard. The music drones on, indifferent to his loss of control.
He stares at himself in the mirrors, panting. His reflection is perfect—sharp, precise, composed—but he feels raw, restless, and undone.
This isn't like him. Yeonjun doesn't lose control. Not like this.
He crosses to the speakers, cutting the music with a sharp tap, plunging the room into silence again.
YOU ARE READING
Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT
FanfictionHe wasn't even playing. Just a notebook, a guitar on his side, and sunlight in his hair, and suddenly, Beomgyu's face is all over campus feeds. The internet crowns him the Guitar Prince. Too bad Yeonjun, the star of that dance video, hasn't forgiven...
