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Tang Hao didn’t get a lot of time onstage in season 7, the year of his debut. Zou Yuan, as a Spitfire, got even less. Zou Yuan was a lively and straightforward person, and while he had his own dreams of taking the stage amidst cheers of recognition, of shocking the opponents with his skill and leading the team to victory, he wasn’t unaware of the reality of the matter. Zhang Jiale burst forth with his ability in match after match, completely deserving of the “dazzling” title his character and signature style shared, without a single sign of slowing down. Zou Yuan thought he could get there eventually, but he knew he couldn’t get there now.
Tang Hao was different. The two of them worked hard together every day, improving their skills, even though a first-year rookie didn’t have a lot of time to shine—although that wasn’t quite right, wasn’t Sun Xiang charging forward as a Berserker, dragging his team up the rankings? He was so flashy, even their own team was talking about recruiting him.
(Tang Hao snorted. “Would he still be so flashy if he were in this team? Look at what environment he has, of course he stands out.”
Zou Yuan had to agree. Could Sun Xiang possibly be flashier than Zhang Jiale?)
In Hundred Blossoms, at least, there really wasn’t that kind of space for a first-year rookie to take the stage. Zou Yuan knew he didn’t have Sun Xiang’s aggressive might as a player, but he played right next to Tang Hao every day, he knew what kind of player his fellow rookie was. So, Tang Hao was different. Tang Hao’s skill with a Brawler increased over and over, with no sign of an upper limit. Tang Hao really worked hard, and Zou Yuan could see his building frustration—clearly things went so well when he was practicing, so why did he fall short of his imaginings those few chances he had onstage? He won some, yes, but even those wins weren’t the kind of victories that stood out—and did his best to encourage him. Tang Hao was serious about improving, had the talent and the temperament. He’d be noticed eventually, Zou Yuan was absolutely sure. Honestly speaking, if he kept developing at this speed, Zou Yuan was pretty sure it wouldn’t take long. Maybe as early as next year, given his stubborn advancement over what should have been a summer break, Zou Yuan truly believed Tang Hao would be on the main roster.
In any case, Zou Yuan wasn’t blind. Tang Hao would make it there long before him.
Tang Hao would always tell him to push a little more, and Zou Yuan seriously tried his best, but talent was talent, and there was Zhang Jiale right there to compare to. When Zhang Jiale was Zou Yuan’s age, he swept through the Alliance with such exuberance people were writing headlines about him. Zou Yuan didn’t get many chances to go onstage, but he did get a few, and that was more than enough to recognize that his skill was more in the realm of “upper average pro” than “god.” He’d push to be recognized as that upper average rather than a baby rookie, stand up from the bench a bit more in his second year, and slowly bring his own kind of Spitfire to the stage. Tang Hao could take the main stage first, Zou Yuan said, and tell him what it was like so he could prepare for the results of his own improvement. Even as a class that overlapped with the captain that powered them into the finals yet again, Zou Yuan fully believed he’d get there.
And then, in the midst of gearing up for the new season, Zhang Jiale announced his retirement and disappeared.
There was almost no time to find a replacement, and few Spitfires who could compare in the first place. They gave him Dazzling Hundred Blossoms. They gave him the position of captain. They tossed him onstage as their core and ace. Zou Yuan couldn’t tell if this was still a dream.
Who could ever believe that he’d make the main roster first? He was a Spitfire, his class overlapped with the captain’s!
And now, exactly because of that, he was the captain. “Lucky,” everyone said. It was like a dream.
It turned out that even good dreams were nightmares in reality.
The room was dark, because, in truth, Zou Yuan was hiding. Tang Hao already knew of anywhere he might go, though. Not because Zou Yuan was given to hiding, but actually because he wasn’t—anywhere he felt comfortable would be a place he’d also been with Tang Hao, so how could he not know about it?
It didn’t really matter. Zou Yuan wasn’t actually hiding from Tang Hao.
“Help me,” Zou Yuan said, sounding lost, once his teammate approached. “Tang Hao, I don’t, I don’t know what I’m doing, help me.”
Zou Yuan wasn’t like Tang Hao. Maybe they had the same dreams, but he didn’t have his pride. He didn’t have his talent. He didn’t have his skill, or his bearing, or his confidence, Zou Yuan didn’t have a single thing that would make him a good captain, the hope of Hundred Blossoms, the future of their team, like they all now told him he was.
In a maelstrom of confusion, he reached out to Tang Hao like he was the only guiding light he could see.
“I can’t be anything like Zhang Jiale,” Zou Yuan said, almost hyperventilating. Panic. “I don’t know how, please—please help.”
Tang Hao’s face looked a little bitter, and Zou Yuan knew Tang Hao didn’t like asking for help himself, didn’t look highly upon people who needed or gave that kind of support, but it didn’t matter. Even if Tang Hao hated him for rejecting everything Tang Hao wanted, everything he’d thought he wanted, for betraying everything their relationship had been founded on this past year and stealing Tang Hao’s place, it didn’t matter. He was desperate, and Tang Hao was the only person he could ask.
So he would, he’d ask.
No matter how ugly the words fell from his lips.
(Tang Hao really hated the words that came out of Zou Yuan’s mouth. He wasn’t particularly good at dealing with people, but he knew enough about Zou Yuan’s regard for Zhang Jiale, the “best Spitfire,” that he didn’t respond the way he wanted to. He hated it, but he still said “okay” instead of what he really wanted to say: “Good.”
“Good, don’t be anything like Zhang Jiale.”
Why the fuck would Tang Hao want a captain who ditched them without a single glance back? He’d never treated Zou Yuan as his successor, he didn’t explain anything, he fucked off to who knows where without a care for how Zou Yuan sat now with wide eyes and a pale face, clutching an account card he’d at most joked about having one day like it was going to save him. Did Zhang Jiale give a shit that Zou Yuan had to learn how to be a captain in less than a day? That the fans were going to see Zou Yuan as a replacement instead of himself? That Zou Yuan didn’t know how to be what they were going to ask him to be, and could only fail?
Tang Hao believed in Zou Yuan to be someone worth something onstage. But he didn’t think Zou Yuan could be Zhang Jiale, and he’d never want him to. He hated that Zou Yuan said Zhang Jiale’s name like he really was a god, a god who’d turned his favor from their team, and what could any of them do about that? Where was the blame?
Tang Hao would blame him. Tang Hao didn’t give a shit, he’d blame Zhang Jiale all he’d fucking like.
But in his head. Because Zou Yuan didn’t want to hear that Zhang Jiale was horsecrap anyway. He wanted to hear that someone could save him.
Tang Hao was here. Tang Hao could. Tang Hao would.
So take that, asshole ex-captain, and shove it right up your ass where you keep your head, too, while you’re at it.
Goddamn Hundred Blossoms and their sad looks and nostalgia.
Tang Hao said, “It’s fine.” He said, “Put me on stage. We can do this.”
The gratitude in Zou Yuan’s eyes burned.
Because no matter what Tang Hao said, he didn’t actually look any less lost.)
Zou Yuan watched videos of Zhang Jiale almost obsessively, practicing the Hundred Blossoms Style again and again. He tried not to bother Tang Hao, who was quickly becoming the pillar of the team, as Zou Yuan had always known he could. Zou Yuan didn’t really know how to strategize, and Tang Hao didn’t go for that kind of thing, either. The rest of the team mostly knew tactics centered around a Spitfire, and Zou Yuan…really couldn’t keep up.
He wasn’t Zhang Jiale. He was a Spitfire, but he wasn’t Zhang Jiale, and no amount of struggling could make Zhang Jiale’s shadow appear within him.
That’s the only thing anyone was looking for, when they looked at him, so Zou Yuan could only do his best to become it, but it was hard. It was so, so hard to be Zhang Jiale.
Zou Yuan really didn’t know how Zhang Jiale managed it so long.
(Tang Hao looked at him and said “fuck them, just be Zou Yuan.”
But he couldn’t.)
(“Don’t be the core then, I’ll be the core.”
Zou Yuan almost cried, because he wanted.)
Hundred Blossoms didn’t want a Brawler. It didn’t matter how much Tang Hao proved himself, it didn’t matter that they flailed around, trying to get his Delilo better equipment, it didn’t matter that Tang Hao had talent and even a bit of the fans’ notice—no. Because he was a Brawler, not a Berserker, the club didn’t really want him. Because Zou Yuan was a Spitfire, he was captain, even though Tang Hao wanted that position and Zou Yuan didn’t. Zou Yuan stumbled through the season with his eyes glazed over like he was living in a nightmare and because Tang Hao played a Brawler there was nothing he could do. Hundred Blossoms would never think Tang Hao was good enough to save him. When Zhang Jiale was here, they all lamented the loss of Sun Zheping. Now Zhang Jiale was gone, they all lamented the loss of Zhang Jiale. When would Hundred Blossoms stop looking for people who didn’t exist? When would they stop centering everything around players that weren’t even there to take the stage?
What was so fucking good about Zhang goddamn Jiale?
Zou Yuan chased after his specter even though it didn’t match his own style, thought about what Zhang Jiale would do every time he opened his mouth, how was Zhang Jiale worthy of that? How did he deserve so much of Zou Yuan’s love and attention, so much of the fans’ love and attention, when he wasn’t even here, couldn’t have cared that much about any of them if he could leave one day before the season started without a word? Why did Zou Yuan only look at him when Tang Hao was right next to him getting strong as fast as possible to try to prove himself and bring this stupid team up, when the team never gave a shit about the people who were here now because it was so goddamn sad that their ex-captain was a dick?
Tang Hao hated Hundred Blossoms. He really, really did. One day he’d have his own team, he’d be his own captain, and then finally the rest of the team would match him instead of leaving him to figure it out on his own because it didn’t match some old ideal, practically just vestiges of someone else’s aesthetic.
“Sorry for always burdening you,” Zou Yuan said quietly, late at night, seeing how dark Tang Hao’s face looked as he continued with extra practice.
Sorry, like he wasn’t sitting right here, working just as much, too. Who said sorry to Zou Yuan?
No one.
Because he’s so lucky, right?
Tang Hao’s expression didn’t get any better. “You’re not a burden.”
Zou Yuan’s smile was bitter. He looked back at his own screen and didn’t answer.
(Tang Hao gets onstage and proves himself the number one Brawler in the Alliance. The junior succeeds the senior, the low succeeds the high. He’s trying to prove a point.
See, it’s the new that triumphs over the old. Stop looking back.
Hundred Blossoms isn’t listening.)
Tang Hao transferred to Wind Howl instead of getting Demon Subduer in Hundred Blossoms. Yu Feng transferred in to be the core and captain. Zou Yuan finally got his own character so he could stop living in a shadow, but stayed a core player as well, and even vice-captain. In half a year, the two finally gave up on Blood and Blossoms and started to form their own partnership.
A better kind of dream come true.
So there it was. Yu Feng was a Berserker, so he got to make the happy ending.
Zou Yuan’s face lightened, his stress dropped. The messages he sent regained some of the liveliness of the past, but there was more steadiness, too. He finally got a chance to find himself, as he should have long ago.
Meanwhile, Tang Hao was a Brawler, and so he’d lead Wind Howl, even though he didn’t care for their dirty play at all. In the end, Wind Howl didn’t insist that he follow in step, as he’d made sure they wouldn’t before he even agreed to transfer.
It was fine to change the style so long as no one changed the class of the core players, right?
Tang Hao was a captain, now. He had what he wanted, so there was no room for being bitter. He’d make a strong team that followed his own ideals, and he’d bring them to the playoffs. Get a championship where no one put other players above themselves, or ran off with excuses for their weak abilities. A team of aces that could get their own victory, that was the dream.
(Zou Yuan says some things work only in dreams.)
Tang Hao wouldn’t look to the past for answers—in every case, he’d push himself to evolve into a better future.
Wind Howl climbed the rankings; Zou Yuan was a competitor, but Tang Hao still went to him to complain about the weather. Zou Yuan laughed with the sun on his face, and each passing day, he only got brighter.
(“I’m on the China Glory team,” Tang Hao said.
“Of course you are,” Zou Yuan replied. “You have to tell me what it’s like this time, so I’m prepared for when I get there, too.”
Many miles apart, the two players looking at their screens were smiling.)