Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

18

Yeonjun's breath comes in slow, controlled bursts as he sinks into the final pose, chest heaving faintly beneath his black tee. The camera light on his phone blinks red, recording every sharp angle, every clean snap of his movements.

"Cut," he mutters under his breath, padding over to stop the recording.

He scrolls through the playback, eyes scanning critically. The choreography looks tight—clean, powerful, the kind of routine that could make an application reel shine. But something nags at the edge of his focus. A disconnect.

He sets up again. Hits record.

Round two. Then three. Then five.

By the sixth take, sweat is sliding in rivulets down his spine, sticking fabric to his skin. He's hitting every move harder, sharper, like force alone could exorcise the distraction buzzing like static in his head.

It doesn't work.

Because beneath the pounding bass and his own breath, there's something else. A faint, rhythmic thrum bleeding through the floorboards. Guitar strings, threading soft but steady through the silence between his tracks.

Yeonjun freezes mid-spin, muscles locking.

Music.

Not his.

The sound floats like smoke, faint but undeniable, curling through the cracks of the quiet hall. He kills his own track and stands still, head tilted. A melody rises—low, moody, rich enough to make his pulse stutter. And threaded through it, a voice—soft at first, then swelling like something fragile learning to breathe.

The band room.

Yeonjun's jaw ticks as he pads toward the door, sneakers ghosting against the floor. His chest tightens, not from the dance this time, but from the ache curling like a fist around his ribs.

So the whole team's here now.

Of course they are. Syncope's golden little family. Probably laughing over inside jokes and harmonies, while he's out here alone in the sterile quiet.

He inches closer, steps careful, until the band's music spills clearer through the open hallway—a ripple of chords, uneven but alive, laughter bubbling between broken bars.

And then—

"Damn, Beomgyu, that's dark."

The words cut through the noise like a spotlight.

Yeonjun stills, breath catching against his throat. He doesn't move. Just stands there, heart thudding like a war drum as voices overlap in a blur. He catches fragments—snickers, teasing jabs, someone calling him 'gorgeous ghost,' laughter curling warm through the walls.

And beneath it all—fainter, softer—Beomgyu's voice. Not biting this time. Not bitter. Just light, loose, almost like—

—he's smiling.

Yeonjun swallows hard, the sound loud in the empty hallway.

For some reason, his chest feels tight. Like the air's been sucked out, leaving something sharp and aching in its place.

Before he can stop himself, his mind betrays him, sketching the picture unbidden, Beomgyu, hood down, head tipped back mid-laugh, eyes curved like crescents, that storm-shadowed face cracked wide open by sunlight.

Yeonjun presses his tongue against his teeth, forcing out a bitter laugh. "Pathetic," he mutters under his breath—though whether it's about the image or himself, he can't tell.

He steps back, fists curling loose at his sides, retreating toward the empty practice room with a smile curved like a blade.

Because rivals don't wonder how the other looks when they laugh.
They just don't.