Chapter Text
Geonwoo learns about Hyunjoon leaving the team the same way everyone does: a short but concise Thank you Doran post on Twitter.
He’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through fan messages, a forgotten movie playing softly in the background, when he sees it. His reaction is cliché when he looks back on it: his next breath catches in his throat; his heart misses a beat. In a second, he’s sprang up, bare feet firmly planted on the cold tiles while his brain tries to make sense of the words he’s reading.
“Hyunjoon-hyung?” he can’t help but ask out loud, voice wavering at the end. But the apartment is empty. Hyunjoon left hours ago, saying he had an errand to run and everyone else has already gone home for their break.
So, Geonwoo is alone when his world shatters.
He’s left reeling, breathless. No matter how many times he reads them, the words can’t seem to register. It’s not that they don’t make sense, just that they can’t possibly be right.
Maybe it was naiveté, but Geonwoo had simply always assumed all five of them would re-sign for 2025 and stay together. No other scenario had ever crossed his mind. They’d built a strong and meaningful bond throughout the year, stronger than anything Geonwoo had ever experienced in other teams before. It had been the easiest thing in the world, too, since everyone already knew each other from previous teams. All it took was a couple of days of awkwardness between them. The five of them had something special, or so Geonwoo thought. Maybe Hyunjoon hadn’t seen it in the same way, maybe he’d never intended to stay another year, and Geonwoo had just made up everything in his head.
At some point, in his whirlwind of thoughts, Geonwoo finds that his feet have started moving, retracing the familiar path to Hyunjoon’s room, his phone abandoned somewhere.
The door is ajar when he gets there, streetlights spilling out from the space because Hyunjoon always refuses to close his blinds. Geonwoo has spent so much time here, he could probably draw the room’s layout with his eyes closed: the tiny desk pushed under the window, where it gets too cold to play in winter; the perpetually unmade bed and the shelves over it with carefully placed knick-knacks gifted by fans; the chair in the corner where no one ever sits because it’s overflowing with clothes... In his mind, Geonwoo clearly pictures the details, like the spray of disinfectant and the small cloth Hyunjoon always keeps on his nightstand to sanitise every “outside object” that will touch his bed: phones, laptops, even book covers and pens. He sees the small stretching ball Hyunjoon is always careful to place back into his bag the second he’s done using it; the ruler he uses to perfectly place his gaming set-up wherever he goes.
Maybe, if he thought about it for more than a second and stopped shoving the thought away before it fully formed, Geonwoo would realise how odd it is for him to be so attuned to another person’s habits. Probably, he’d write it off as something usual for teammates. They live together, after all, and spend most of their waking hours in close proximity between scrims, post-game reviews or team dinners. Geonwoo is attentive, he notices things, of course he’s going to pick up on others’ routines. But Geonwoo is a hypocrite as well, because he doesn’t know, or care, what Wangho likes to eat as a late-night snack, the secret recipe to Dohyeon’s hotpot sauce or whether Hwanjoong prefers sleeping with his window closed or not. But those are things he knows about Hyunjoon, like he knows the sky is blue, and the sun rises every morning in the east.
Geonwoo’s fingers shake as he reaches for the door handle. He’s unsure of what he’ll find on the other side. Will everything still be in place? Or has everything been packed and sent away already? What team is Hyunjoon even joining? A toplaner of his calibre, who just won LCK Summer Split and who went to Worlds, could probably get offers from any top team in the world. What if he goes to China, or worse, Europe or America? No, Geonwoo thinks, the teams aren’t good enough for him there. But most Korean rosters have been confirmed already, haven’t they?
Geonwoo can’t help but let his thoughts spiral, hand gripping the doorknob so hard his knuckles have turned white. Somehow, this is all his fault. He’s probably the reason Hyunjoon decided to leave, too tired and sick of dealing with Geonwoo.
Funnily enough, this is where it all started. Geonwoo walking those exact steps at night, after games and scrims and on the days they were free from work, too. He’d knock gently on the door and Hyunjoon would open in the next beat, never asking what Geonwoo wanted, simply letting him in with a small grin on his lips. Hyunjoon would then shuffle close to the wall on his bed, leaving enough room for Geonwoo to lie next to him. It turned into a habit of sorts, a routine between them. They never really talked about it, probably because there wasn’t much to say. Friends slept in the same bed all the time without it meaning anything. Except it did, for Geonwoo at least. Between movie watching and late-night conversations, he had let himself fall into the comfort Hyunjoon offered freely. But Geonwoo hadn’t been careful, too swept up in the big warm eyes and the rosy cheeks and the breathy laughter to notice that his craving for comfort had slowly turned into something big and ugly. He really hadn’t meant to. It was just too easy to be around Hyunjoon.
Actually, Hyunjoon’s room is the last place he wants to be. Geonwoo could easily walk away. Go back to the couch. Pick up his phone where he dropped it. Return to a time and place where the last few minutes of his life don’t have to be real, at least for now. But curiosity is gnawing at him. Curiosity, and the need for confirmation.
On the other side of the door, Geonwoo will find the truth, probably. But opening it might mean embracing a future where Hyunjoon isn’t his teammate anymore, where they don’t play side by side. As long as the door remains closed, Geonwoo can pretend it isn’t true.
Still, he has to know for sure. He has never been the kind to live in delusions.
His hand almost looks steady when he finally pushes the door open.
The empty room looks back at him in mockery; a well-elaborated joke played on him. Empty, except for a suitcase and three neatly stacked boxes placed under the window, waiting. The bed is made: generic white pillow and generic white comforter perfectly tucked under the mattress. The shelves have been emptied of their knick-knacks and dusted. The room is immaculate. It could be anyone’s room, it’s no one’s anymore.
It shouldn’t hurt Geonwoo the way it does. It’s just a room after all, and it was just as empty a year ago before Hyunjoon moved in.
Geonwoo is still standing in the door frame, staring at Hyunjoon’s neatly packaged belongings, when he comes hom—back. It’s not really his home anymore, is it?
Geonwoo hears the soft click of the door, the shuffle of Hyunjoon removing his shoes in the entryway before he makes his way deeper into the apartment. But he can’t find it in him to move, to tear his eyes away from the single suitcase and three boxes that serve as the last remnants of Choi “Doran” Hyunjoon’s year at Hanwha Life Esports. Distantly, Geonwoo is aware that he might be overreacting a little, but all he can really focus on is how little Hyunjoon seems to have brought here, like he never really meant to make this his home.
He’s in the kitchen now. There’s the familiar sound of the fridge closing, of a can of Red Bull being opened. The floorboards creak under Hyunjoon’s weight in that one spot in the hallway everyone always knows to avoid, except him. It used to drive Geonwoo crazy, especially at night, but now he finds that he’s trying to commit the sound to memory because he already knows he’s going to miss it.
It’s another few seconds before Hyunjoon finally notices Geonwoo, stopping a few steps from where he still hasn’t moved.
“Oh,” Hyunjoon whispers behind him. “They’ve made it official, then?”
And Geonwoo thought seeing the empty room had been enough confirmation, but a traitorous part of his brain had managed to cling onto the hope that this was all a dream, or a misunderstanding. Hearing Hyunjoon’s words, though, reality finally comes crashing down on him.
For a second, he almost thinks he won’t cry, because he hasn’t really felt the urge to so far. But in the next breath he’s turning around, facing the sorrow on Hyunjoon’s face, and the sting in his eyes becomes unbearable.
“Geonwoo-yah…” Hyunjoon croaks, closing the gap between them and gathering Geonwoo in his arms the second the tears start to flow.
A warm hand finds the back of Geonwoo’s neck with a gentle squeeze, but it does little to soothe the sobs wracking his body.
They stay like this for a while, until Geonwoo manages to get his breathing back to normal. Until the tears finally stop. He takes a step back, letting go of Hyunjoon’s comforting warmth for what is probably the last time.
“It’s true, then? You’re leaving.” And Geonwoo thought he had it under control, but he hears how his voice wavers on the last word, insecurity creeping in. But Geonwoo can do this, he can have a normal conversation with a former teammate without acting like a little kid.
“I am,” Hyunjoon says, uncertainty coating his words, like he’s trying to convince himself.
“I don’t understand. I thought— we made a promise, right?”
Pain, or maybe regret, flashes across Hyunjoon’s face for a second before he composes himself. “Something came up…” he hesitates. “I just couldn’t refuse this offer.”
Oh, of course. How silly of Geonwoo to think a simple promise would mean anything in this industry.
“I’m sorry.” Hyunjoon tries to take a step forward, but something he sees in Geonwoo’s face makes him backtrack. He adds: “I really wanted to spend another year with y— with the team. But after Worlds—”
“So where are you going?” Geonwoo cuts him, sharp. He doesn’t want to hear excuses or apologies. What good would they make?
“What?”
“What team are you joining? JDG, Top Esport?
“Wha— No, uh. I’m staying in Korea,” And, probably sensing Geonwoo’s confusion, “I signed with T1, Geonwoo.”
And how can Geonwoo compete with that? A generous offer and the opportunity to play with the best mid laner in the world, to proudly wear the jersey with the five stars.
Geonwoo has spent a third of his life fighting tooth and nail to reach that level, to engrave his name in a legacy. He thought he’d done it back in 2022, but two years later, the competition still seems as fierce as ever.
There is something fragile in Hyunjoon’s eyes that Geonwoo can’t bear to look at too closely. He should be happy for his friend, but he can’t bring himself to even fake a smile.
Maybe what hurts the most is not knowing. Geonwoo might have done a better job accepting Hyunjoon’s departure if he’d had time to prepare himself. He wouldn’t be standing there, helpless and barely breathing, eyes stinging. He would have helped Hyunjoon pack, and it would have hurt like hell knowing those were their last moments together, but at least he would have known they were. He would have lingered a little longer on the way Hyunjoon’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, would have tried harder to make him laugh with his whole body; commit all these little things to memory, store them safely in a corner of his mind to look at later.
Now, he can’t remember their last moments together, just the two of them. After Worlds, Hyunjoon had left for Changwon the minute the team landed in Korea. He’d spent three weeks there. Three weeks where Geonwoo didn’t hear from him. So Geonwoo had kept busy as well, visiting his family, hanging out with old friends, anything to distract him from the silence. When Hyunjoon came back to Ilsan, he was strange. Tired eyes, clipped smiles. He kept to himself, the door to his room firmly closed, like a wall he’d built to keep everyone away. Geonwoo hadn’t dared to ask. He wasn’t one to push, couldn’t be. He had already taken so much. Much more than he deserved.
“I’m happy for you, hyung,” Geonwoo says finally, breaking the silence, but the words echo wrongly against the walls, distorted.
Hyunjoon blinks once, stunned. He opens his mouth to say something, but Geonwoo is faster: “I’m going to Hyukkyu-hyung’s place tonight, so see you around, I guess?”
“Geonwoo, wait!”
But Geonwoo is already rushing to his room, throwing a change of clothes and his charger in his backpack. He needs to get out of here. He has no idea if Hyukkyu’s is even awake at this hour, or if he’d agree to let Geonwoo crash on his couch for the night, but it’s probably his best bet. The taxi fare to Seoul will be expensive, but anything is better than having to stay in an apartment with Hyunjoon for a whole night.
The hallway is blessedly empty when he gets out of his room. Geonwoo doesn’t take time to linger, doesn’t allow himself one last look at Hyunjoon’s door. He puts his shoes on and is out in the street in the next breath. The November cold bites his skin, but it almost feels gentle, grounding. At least it’s a tangible sensation, something he can touch and feel and point out. If he were to tell someone about it, they’d understand, sympathise. It’s nothing like the throbbing pain in his chest every time he thinks of Hyunjoon.
The taxi he called up only takes a few minutes to finally arrive. Geonwoo climbs in with a simple greeting and then he’s on his way to Seoul.
Hyukkyu is waiting for him when he gets there, a large hoodie covering his frame. He stifles a yawn behind a hand covered by the edge of his sleeve, but he still smiles gently at Geonwoo before letting him in.
Hyukkyu knows, because he always does, but he doesn’t ask. He watches as Geonwoo collapses heavily on the couch without a word, throws him a pillow and blanket before heading to his own room. He leaves the door ajar, though: not necessarily an invitation, but an offer, just in case.
Geonwoo doesn’t take it, not tonight at least. He’s talked enough, he thinks, and the only thing he wants right now is to pass out for the next couple of days. But he knows, even as he settles comfortably into the pillows, that sleep won’t find him. Instead, he finds his phone, pointedly ignores the notifications coming from the team’s group chat and instead goes for Twitter. He might be a masochist, he thinks, as he searches for the tweet that started it all to check the general response to it. Another one catches his attention, though: it starts with Welcome Doran, instead of thank you. And here it is, the final piece falling into place.
Geonwoo doesn’t remember falling asleep. One second, he’s scrolling through posts, the next, he’s being jostled awake by a firm hand on his shoulders. He looks up through bleary eyes that haven’t adjusted to the light yet to meet Hyukkyu’s sheepish smile.
“Morning,” he says softly. “Get up. Breakfast is ready.”
He leaves with a light flick on Geonwoo’s forehead and a small laugh. Geonwoo groans, rakes a hand through unruly hair, before getting up and making a stop by the bathroom to rinse his face. Geonwoo has been here often enough to know the layout of the apartment by heart, knows not to fully close the bathroom door because it will sometimes jam and won’t open from the inside. It happened to him once, late at night or early in the morning, and it had taken Hyukkyu almost an hour to finally free him. It’s odd, he thinks distantly, to build such strong and long-lasting relationships in a competitive world like theirs.
Hyukkyu is already eating when Geonwoo finally makes his way to the kitchen.
“Did you make all this?” Geonwoo asks as he sits down, eyeing the multiple dishes filled with meat, vegetables and eggs.
“No, my mom brought leftovers the other day,” he replies around a mouthful of rice.
“Yeah, makes more sense.”
Geonwoo unsuccessfully hides his laugh behind his hand, which earns him a kick to the shins under the table. Hyukkyu grumbles something about disrespectful guests, but he still brings the dish of what looks like stir-fried pork closer to Geonwoo. They eat in comfortable silence for a moment, interrupted only by the sound of chopsticks against dishware. Hyukkyu is the one to finally break the silence.
“So, do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, not looking at Geonwoo but at the piece of garlic he’s picking up with his chopsticks. He’s giving Geonwoo an out by not confronting him directly, the space to not answer if he doesn’t want to. He could pretend he didn’t hear, and nothing would change. It’s the Hyukkyu special, offering help, but not insisting.
“Not really,” Geonwoo still replies.
“It’s about Hyunjoon, isn’t it?”
Geonwoo looks up from his bowl of rice, surprised. “Did you know?”
“He told me a few days ago,” Hyukkyu nods, a small jerk of his head. He’s looking at Geonwoo now, something close to worry or pity in his face. “He wanted some advice.”
Geonwoo would probably laugh if he didn’t feel so raw and exposed. “Seems like everyone knew except for me, huh.”
The weight of Hyukkyu’s kind eyes on him is too much, Geonwoo has to drop his head down to look at his food before something in him tears open.
“I think he didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Well, the same way he did for you and everyone else, maybe!” Geonwoo surprises himself by raising his voice, fist almost coming down to hit the table, but he stops just in time. The fight leaves him right away. He sighs, running a shaky hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I just— I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me. Why I had to find out like this.”
“I don’t know Geonwoo… that’s something you’d have to ask him yourself, I think.”
Geonwoo finds that he can’t eat anymore, no matter how appetising the food in front of him is. His stomach is churning with something he can’t or doesn’t want to name. Wordlessly, he clears up his side of the table, throwing away what needs to be thrown away and piling up the dirty dishes in the sink. And Geonwoo has been here often enough to know that, even if Hyukkyu owns a dishwasher, he’d rather do it by hand. So Geonwoo pulls up the sleeves of his hoodie and grabs the sponge. Hyukkyu stops him the second he turns the faucet on.
“What are you doing?” he asks, grabbing the sponge from Geonwoo’s hand.
“Doing the dishes…?”
Hyukkyu rolls his eyes, gently pushing Geonwoo away from the sink. “You’re a guest,” he scoffs.
“A guest who barged in in the middle of the night,” Geonwoo retorts, trying to move Hyukkyu aside, but he just won’t budge. “It’s the least I can do. It wouldn’t even be the first time I've helped to clean up, why are you being weird?” He complains, shifting to stare expectantly at the other.
Hyukkyu mirrors his expression with a raised eyebrow and arms crossed over his chest. He leans against the sink and Geonwoo can see, with sudden clarity, that he’s about to get scolded by his hyung.
“You’re not helping, you’re stalling.” Geonwoo opens his mouth to reply, or defend himself somehow, but Hyukkyu doesn’t give him the chance. “You think I don’t know you’re leaving for Japan with the team tonight? What was the plan, then? To kill enough time here you’d somehow miss your flight and have an excuse to not go?”
And all Geonwoo can do is drop his head, defeated, because that’s exactly what he had in mind. There’s no way he can join this silly four-day healing and wellness workshop at the foot of Mount Yotei. It feels wrong in ways Geonwoo can’t begin to explain. Of course, it’s about Hyunjoon leaving, like everything has been in the past twenty-four hours, and Geonwoo knows it’s irrational, but he finds that he can’t help it. Can’t help but check his phone for something, a text, a news article, that would contradict what he knows but doesn’t want to accept. Can’t help but glance at what is now an empty room, when Hyukkyu all but throws him in a taxi and forces him to go home to pack, and expect Hyunjoon to step out the door with his heart-shaped smile and a suitcase full of warm and comfortable clothes meant to bear the Japanese cold.
So Geonwoo goes to Japan with the team, minus their new top laner, Zeus, as he learns from Hwanjoong at the airport. A quick search on Twitter confirms it, too. Geonwoo should probably have some sort of reaction to the news, that’s what everyone expects of him when they ask how it feels to not be the youngest on the team anymore. But Geonwoo doesn’t feel anything about it, doesn’t care that Zeus—Wooje, he should probably call him Wooje, is younger than him, not in the way they want him to.
He boards the plane, and he doesn't get the plane's Wi-Fi for once, forces himself to sit the whole journey through without distraction, just the soft music playing in his earphones. He laughs at all of Hwanjoong's attempts at lightening the mood and shows interest in Wangho's new special interest in car races, sits quietly next to Dohyeon while they do their own thing. He's very normal. The most normal he's ever been, really. And he doesn't understand why everyone keeps sending worried glances his way. He's fine.
They get to their hotel around late afternoon, the sun already dipping behind beautiful Mount Yotei. And it is beautiful, Geonwoo has to admit. The secluded area is still powdered by remnants of fallen snow, the ever-watchful mountain in the background. It's quiet, in a way Geonwoo hasn't experienced in a very long time. The kind of quiet you could never get in Seoul, even in the middle of the night or behind closed doors.
Once they've dropped their bags in their respective rooms, they head down to the hotel's restaurant. It's fancy, a sort of open-space area with no windows but warm lights everywhere. Geonwoo surprises himself by only reaching for his phone once during the evening, just to research bears and their likelihood to be in the area. This quickly turns into a debate about how many men it would take to fight a bear, which only Geonwoo and Hwanjoong partake in.
The food is good, and the company too. Geonwoo can almost forget the Hyunjoon-shaped hole in his heart for a few hours.
With the slow buzz of alcohol and good food, Geonwoo gets to his room later on with the shadow of a smile on his lips. His mind is peacefully blank, and all he can think about as he brushes his teeth is how excited he is to get into bed. With the weird night he spent yesterday and the rush of the trip, he passes out into deep slumber the second his head hits his pillow.
Geonwoo wakes to sunlight streaming in his room through sheer curtains. It would almost feel nice and peaceful if it weren’t for the obnoxiously loud pounding on his door.
“Geonwoo-yah, if you don’t get up right now, I’m getting breakfast without you,” Hwanjoong shouts from the hallway, frustration and something like betrayal in his voice. Maybe they made a promise to go eat together in the morning last night while drunk, and Geonwoo forgot about it.
He groans into his pillow, probably loud enough for the hotel to hear and shouts back for Hwanjoong to go ahead and that he’ll catch up with him. Hwanjoong doesn’t reply, but Geonwoo hears him sigh and then walk away towards the elevator. He groans into his pillow again, for good measure, before finally getting up and heading to the bathroom.
After a quick yet very appreciated shower, Geonwoo makes his way down for breakfast. It’s in the elevator, once he’s already started his descent, that he realises he forgot his phone where he left it to charge earlier. He considers going back to get it for a solid minute, watching the floor number decrease slowly but inevitably, before he changes his mind. When the door to the elevator finally opens on the ground floor, he gets out and walks straight to the restaurant. He can survive eating without looking at his phone, probably. It’s not like he’s waiting for someone to text him, anyway. At least, this way, he won’t be tempted to doomscroll or check a certain top laner’s social accounts.
Most of the team is already sitting when he gets there, except for Dohyeon and Jaeha, who join them a few minutes later. Hwanjoong, because he is who he is, obviously takes a jab at Geonwoo’s timekeeping and his inability to wake up on time, which he easily laughs at. The rest of the meal is spent in relative silence, as everyone is still slowly waking up.
Breakfast is followed by a sort of meeting presenting the workshop program. Geonwoo latches onto the promise of walking around Sapporo the next day while trying very hard not to roll his eyes at the mandatory group meditation this afternoon.
He’s glad for the free time they get until then, though. Geonwoo contemplates sneaking a nap in, hopefully missing meditation in the process, but after a fancy but not very nourishing lunch, Wangho begs the whole team to join him in a game of Teamfight Tactics. All things considered, Geonwoo doesn’t mind missing sleep for it. He’s glad for the company as he sprawls on the couch of Wangho’s ridiculously large room, even as he starts whining five minutes in about stolen items and units. Geonwoo doesn’t really understand what it’s all about, since he hasn’t played enough TFT to really know the lingo, but Hwanjoong’s loud cackle at a whiny Wangho is always a sight to behold, and he can’t help but chuckle at their antics. Ultimately, it’s quiet and focused Dohyeon who wins, because of course it is.
Before they get the chance to start another game, Jaeha is there and ushering them out towards the elevator. They climb all the way up to the penthouse, a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a breathtaking view of Mount Yotei. Five yoga mats are aligned, facing the windows, with a sixth one in front of the others, where a tall and slim woman is standing. She introduces herself as their instructor, and without further ado, the meditation session starts.
Geonwoo is reluctant, feeling dumb while trying to follow the woman’s instructions, while ambient sounds play in the background, but the others are playing along willingly, so he does too.
His body is stiff and tight in all the places the movements hit, so it’s not only annoying but painful, too. After a little while, though, with the instructor’s gentle voice and the beautiful view of the sunset in front of him, Geonwoo starts relaxing, lets himself be lulled into the rhythm of everything. And it helps, somehow, with the whirlwind of his thoughts.
When the session ends, the sky is dark outside, and the wind in the parking lot of the restaurant they’re eating at is biting at Geonwoo’s skin, but he feels lighter than he has in a while, grounded even. It’s an odd feeling too, the quiet of his mind, the lightness on his shoulders.
Dinner is a quick affair, as everyone feels tired and spent from the afternoon. By eleven thirty, Geonwoo is freshly showered and tucked into bed, ready to catch up on the sleep Hwanjoong stole from him earlier.
For some reason, Geonwoo picks up his phone for only the second time that day and, among the multiple texts he’s doing an excellent job at ignoring, he sees it. It’s inconspicuous, and it should have gotten drowned in the dozens of notifications he never bothers to clear up, but his eyes latch onto it anyway: the SOOP alert announcing that “Doran is live!”. It’s stupid really. Geonwoo doesn’t even remember subscribing to his channel, but there it is. No matter how much he tries, he can’t seem to be able to walk away from Hyunjoon. The thumb hovering over the notification is shaky, the twisting pain in his chest he’d managed to quench is back in full force.
And Geonwoo could easily ignore it all, shut his phone off and go to sleep like he planned to, but he thinks he must have turned into a masochist in the last week or so because he still really wants to see Hyunjoon, no matter the way he gets to do it.
The sight that greets him when he finally presses play does nothing to calm the feeling in his chest. Hyunjoon is sitting in a bright streaming room, a soft smile playing on his lips as he talks. He’s wearing a large zip-up hoodie with T1’s logo on it, looking every bit like the Hyunjoon who’d let Geonwoo into his room at every hour of the night without a question. It’s the Hyunjoon in all of his best, and now most painful memories. The one who laughed loudly at Geonwoo’s bad jokes and never failed to indulge him in all of his antics.
Back then, Geonwoo used to think it was enough. To be the reason for Hyunjoon’s smile, to be able to see his eyes crinkle from up close, head thrown back in laughter to show the long column of his neck was enough. But now, watching him smile while talking about his new teammates and this whole new chapter of his life that won’t involve Geonwoo anymore, he realises that maybe he’d been wrong. He thought he’d been greedy enough, had taken enough, but all of it seems so insubstantial now that he can’t experience it firsthand.
By some twisted call of fate, Hyunjoon notices him watching, and the smile that splits his face as he checks the chat for confirmation is brighter than any smile Geonwoo had ever managed to get from him. There’s something wistful about it too, uncertain in the way he scratches the back of his head, turning a little in his chair; something that makes pain throb in Geonwoo’s chest. If he wanted to hurt himself more, Geonwoo might see traces of fondness in that smile, might think Hyunjoon still cares about him, sees him as more than a used-to-be teammate, though he’d probably rationalise it as wishful thinking.
The final nail in the coffin is having to watch as Hyunjoon gushes over how handsome his new jungler, who just interrupted his stream to greet him for the first time, while blush slowly climbs up his neck and all the way to the tip of his ears.
Geonwoo turns his phone off after that, pretends that it’s because he’s tired and should finally go to sleep, because it’s easier, and it doesn’t sound as stupid as the truth. Even all alone in his room, he feels the shame roll in, scratching at his skin, prickling right behind his eyes. How jealous and needy can one person possibly be? Hyunjoon has never been his, he has no right to feel like it. He knows it well, of course, those same words echoing in his head every time Hyunjoon got too close. He will never be yours. But feelings and emotions have never been something Geonwoo can easily control; if he could, he’d have stopped himself from ever catching feelings for Hyunjoon, stopped himself from becoming this awful version of himself.
And still, a couple of days later, in the comfort of his own room in Ilsan, Geonwoo finds himself looking for the specific clip of the moment where Hyunjoon’s face blooms in the most beautiful way at the knowledge that Geonwoo is watching. But it’s no one’s business but his own. And, if he replays the video an unhealthy amount, gripping onto every tiny detail in Hyunjoon’s reaction to try and make sense of it all, he can simply blame him on a lapse of judgment.
***
Time warps strangely after that. Zeus— Wooje finally joins them after his three-week-long military training, and the team jumps into practice right away. Even with only one new player, they need to adapt and synergise, adjust some things to make it work. It goes pretty well, all things considered, but it still takes enough of their time that Geonwoo barely has time to think, which he’s kind of glad for. They get a week off for the holidays, so he spends Christmas with his family, phone turned off and stashed away in a drawer for four days; New Year’s at Hyukkyu’s place with a couple of friends, getting drunk out of his mind so that when midnight rolls in he’s too far gone to even cry about the person he’d rather be welcoming the new year with.
He barely has time to get over his hangover of the century before they’re back to practising, scrim blocks succeeding in a blur of clicks and shot calls. In the blink of an eye, Geonwoo is back at LoL Park for the first time in months, ready to start off LCK Cup in the Baron group. Things go smoothly, they have great games, and not so great games, but it’s clear their synergy is good, and they all excel individually.
Geonwoo should be happy about it. Well, he is, distantly. He feels proud when they end a match cleanly without giving up a single set, when their coach greets him in the waiting room with a firm hand on the shoulder and compliments about his mechanics or a specific thing he did during the game. But he can’t help the feeling of wrongness itching just under his skin every time his eyes accidentally land on the name of his toplaner in-game, and he reads the wrong set of letters. Wooje is great, the sweetest kid. He laughs easily at Hwanjoong’s jokes and lets Wangho whine to him without a complaint, but he’s not Hyunjoon, and it’s all Geonwoo can think about. Still, he does what’s expected of him as a good hyung: he buys Wooje a meal or a drink any time he asks, and even sometimes when he doesn’t; agrees easily when he asks him to duel before a match. He’s not angry at Wooje, doesn’t blame him for anything, but he can’t lie and say that his presence doesn’t stir something raw and ugly in Geonwoo’s guts. He hates himself for it, it’s probably why he tries so hard to be the perfect hyung Wooje should have.
With the group thing, it takes a month for T1 and HLE to finally meet on the rift. Both teams reached the playoffs, but now it’s do-or-die: whoever wins gets closer to being the first-ever LCK Cup champion and having a ticket to the first international tournament of the year; whoever loses gets a nice long break until Spring starts.
It’s a cold February morning when the team makes it to LoL Park. Despite the blowing wind and the negative temperatures, Geonwoo’s whole body is on fire. It’s the common cold, he tells his worried teammates and coaches, nothing he can’t handle. But the sweat coating his palm and dampening the collar of his jersey, the quick beat of his heart and the annoying twitch of his right eyelid have nothing to do with sickness.
It’s the Match-Up of the Year! Everyone keeps repeating, casters, analysts, random people online. Everyone has been waiting for Zeus to face his old teammates, the ones he’s been playing with since the start of his career, all the way to two world championship titles. It’s on every tongue, but Geonwoo could not care less, he’d rather obsess over the other toplaner involved in this match, until the content of his stomach starts making its way up his throat and he has to excuse himself. He’s fine, really. He manages to swallow it all back down, and he only stays in the bathroom longer because it’s empty and quiet, not because his hands keep shaking and he can’t keep the tremor under control.
It’s stupid and ridiculous and every other synonym in the dictionary to feel this way about it. To have his stomach rolling and chest hurting at the idea of playing against Hyunjoon when they’ve scrimmed T1 dozens of times already. This feels more real: they’ll be in the same room for the first time since that night, since Geonwoo started ignoring Hyunjoon’s texts and calls hoping it might do something about his terrifying and too-big feelings. It hasn’t actually, but it’s too late to turn back now.
The worst part, the one Geonwoo has been replaying in his mind, replaying every scenario on loop, is that if HLE wins this and the subsequent games, Geonwoo will be raising a trophy, tasting victory on his tongue, without Hyunjoon.
Every time he imagines that final Nexus going down, the arms of his teammates around him as people cheer and chant their names, all he feels is dread. If Geonwoo has finally accepted Hyunjoon’s departure, the thought of winning without him hadn’t even occurred to him. But now it might very well happen, and he finds that he never wants to experience it.
He’ll still play his best, though. League is a team game; he would never want to let his friends down. Selfishly, he also wants to prove himself and show the world that just because he doesn’t have five stars to his name doesn’t mean he can’t be the best at his role.
Hwanjoong is the one to interrupt his spiral, dragging him out of the bathroom and right to his spot where the teams line up before entering the arena. Geonwoo ignores the worried glance Wangho throws his way when he gets there by simply looking at the floor. He pointedly does not let his gaze wander, fists tight by his sides. He’s fine, he can do this. He’s a Worlds champion, and this is just a routine match that will be over in no time.
As they finally walk in, Geonwoo focuses on the back of Wangho’s head. Fist-bump the enemy midlaner, bow to the fans, sit in front of the monitor and wait for the draft to start. It’s muscle memory at this point, a habit that soothes Geonwoo’s nerves. The hands that adjust his set-up are firm, confident.
Draft starts, and then the game. It’s tough, intense, everything you’d expect from a fight between two of the best teams in the league. It makes Geonwoo’s heart race, not with anxiety this time, but adrenaline. He doesn’t know why this game is different from the others, why the feeling of wrongness that’s been sitting in his bones for a month seems to have disappeared now. It’s just the rift and the champions and his teammates’ voices in his ears; all that matters is getting to that damn nexus, no matter what.
T1 takes the first game. It doesn’t matter much in a best-of-five, but it’s still upsetting. Stupid mistakes, bad rotations, unnecessary fights… It’s always the same thing; there’s no point dwelling on it too much when the next game starts.
It ends up being a tense back-and-forth until they get to game five, silver scrapes. Everything seems to point to T1 winning the series as they have the momentum of winning the previous game, but Geonwoo knows his odd luck with game fives, and he’s not about to let go of his winning streak.
The game is slow, painfully so. It’s clear everyone is playing carefully, avoiding fights and skirmishes. By the thirtieth minute, the scoreboard only shows five kills total. But a fight suddenly breaks in the dragon pit, and T1 comes out of it with a clean ace and a nice wave in mid. Geonwoo watches with his breath held as they march onto their base and take everything with them. But somehow, Wangho is there, and he manages to get T1 to back away. Geonwoo, who was halfway through putting his jacket on, sits back in his chair, hands firm over his mouse and keyboard. It’s not over until a nexus falls, and he’ll do everything to make sure it’s not theirs. From there, they get Baron easily, then a mountain soul, even with a five-thousand-gold deficit. A bunch of kills, a new Baron buff and then they are the ones marching down T1’s base.
The nexus crumbles, the victory screen dances in front of Geonwoo’s eyes. Everything turns to static in his ears: the cheer of the crowd, the voice comms. The feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn’t feel anything like the relief he expected.
There’s a hand on his shoulders, ushering him up, and then he’s blindly following Dohyeon as they go around the arena. Again, muscle memory kicks in and he’s raising his fist to meet Keria’s before he even has time to think about it. Of course, his brain turns back online right when he sees Hwanjoong side-hug the enemy top-laner.
Geonwoo has done this countless times: meeting a past teammate after defeating them, the childish giddiness of being able to tease Hyukkyu after beating him. But this is different, somehow. It’s Hyunjoon and he’s wearing the same face he wore after their loss in the spring play-offs last year. Geonwoo remembers how hopeless he’d felt looking at that downturned mouth, those faraway eyes; He remembers how it had taken everything to stop himself from reaching out to ease the furrow of Hyunjoon’s eyebrows with his thumb.
The feeling in his stomach is slowly creeping up his throat.
By automatism, like a puppet pulled by a string, he leans in for a hug. He surprises himself at the gesture just as much as he surprises Hyunjoon, judging by the look in his eyes. But the moment is over in a second, the blink of an eye. Geonwoo barely has time to register Hyunjoon’s hand on his waist before he’s bowing to the audience and grabbing his bag and following everyone to the green room.
Geonwoo is most definitely listening to the feedback session, not at all trying to remember the feeling of Hyunjoon’s body against his for that split second; the way his lips parted in surprise when Geonwoo leaned in.
He’s very normal about everything, really.