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Peter pushed open the door to the men's restroom backstage at LCS stadium, his momentum nearly throwing him against someone hunched over, face buried in the sink. It was Søren. His ex-mid laner raised his head, water trickling down his chin, and took a small step to the side. "Oh wow, I haven't seen you in a while." Peter grumbled as he walked.
That was a dumb move. Perhaps not dumb, but untrue. Every LCS weekend, they encountered each other before games, primarily in the halls, but it was merely a matter of locking eyes and looking away the next second, followed by an interchange of the most mundane civilities or banter if necessary, and that was that.
But this was the first time Peter had seen Sørens face outside of the broadcast screen in a long time. And, to be honest, he looked awful. He was flushed all over his face in an unhealthy way, like the result of breathing difficulties. His eyes were sunken behind the glasses, and stubble had grown on the sides of his chin overnight.
Søren was never one to flaunt his defeat. Peter felt a triumphant rush, because it had been on his to-do list since the beginning of the year: make Søren feel defeated. He realised he'd ticked the box the other day. In the end, Peter had proven himself irreplaceable, and it had been much easier than he had anticipated.
He went inside one of the restrooms. Not that he was concerned about being heard peeing; they never used to care. But you know.
Søren appeared to be rinsing something off himself in front of the mirror when he was finished. "Did you pee on your hands? It took so long." Peter stepped up to the washbasin and knelt beside him.
Søren gave him a slow, cautious look in the mirror. Peter caught a glimpse of his fingers under the running water, the tips of his fingers red and white from his own pinching.
"You know what, we were just watching your last week's games, and it's a little sad to see Kevin playing Gnar like shit now." That's a shame in and of itself."
The words appeared to take a little longer for them to get to Søren's ears. He let out a tight chuckle.
"I had no idea you still cared."
"As an old friend, I do, you know."
Søren was unlikely to have much patience for whatever Peter was attempting to play. He stepped away from the talk and switched off the faucet, bringing out a sheet of paper towel to dry his hands.
Peter saw it as just another small victory.
He observed from the corner of his eye as Søren was about to leave, but then he halted, his form slightly wobbly, like a robot running out of battery.
Peter quickly whirled around, just in time to catch him by the elbow before he fell to the ground. Damn, the fun fades so quickly.
He didn't mind getting into trouble because that's what he did. But this is quite embarrassing.
"Søren? Oh, man. Is this a case of asthma? Do you have your inhaler?" Peter sat him on the floor and rummaged through his pockets.
Even with Peter's limited medical expertise, it didn't appear to be an asthma attack; there was no obvious panting or coughing. Søren had never looked so defenceless as he did at the moment, even during some of their darkest, ugliest occasions together. His brows furrowed, his eyes wide shut, as if he's fighting something in his head. Something in the scene caused Peter second-hand embarrassment, and there's no object for it.
Peter let the limp one lie against him until his eyes sprang open, a fragment of consciousness still striving to return. "Thank fuck you woke up on your own, or it'll look like I knocked you unconscious out of grudge or something." You know, I'm not petty enough to do that."
Søren moved his hand slowly across his brow. "Do you want me to contact the team doctor?" Peter proposed.
Søren struggled to his feet, and Peter's hand receded from his shoulder blade. "It's probably just a hypoglycemic jam." I guess I'm all right now. Thank you so much, Peter. I was about to start playing. Don't tell anyone."
"Ha, are you sure?" Peter intended it to be humorous, if not disarming. "Perhaps you should just go see a doctor." No offence, but no one's going to talk shit about you missing a game or two with your rubbish team. If you can't make the playoffs, you won't make them regardless."
Right away, Søren shoved him out of the path.
"Oh, fuck you." He snapped, his voice low and determined, and Peter was taken aback for a brief instant. "What do you know?" Søren added, slightly more calmly.
He pushed open the door and walked out. Peter shrugged and remained where he was.
...
It seemed like a very long, laborious race, but Peter barely remembered anything from it.
The adrenaline faded pretty quick, and exhaustion rolled in like a wave. People on the bus weren’t talking and giggling as often anymore. He was sitting next to Søren at the back of the bus. On the other side of the aisle Dennis had fallen asleep on his seat, mouth open, completely worn out, snoring louder than a jackhammer. Vincent had his earbuds on.
The lambent Toronto night flashed across the bus windows, leaving trails of soft glow on their sweatpants. He sat back and watched in silence as Søren put on his chapstick, steady hand brushing the ointment against his lower lip, leaving it moist and glossy.
Søren finished his routine, pursing his lips and making a soft sound. He turned his head, just in time to meet Peter's gaze in dim light. "The fuck are you looking at." He mumbled absently as he put his lipstick away in his pants pocket. Peter let out a faint chuckle.
First thing that happened was, Peter felt his left hand gently taken away. Søren slowly turned the cord bracelet in bold red color on his left wrist and contemplated it in all reticence, studying the way it was tied. Cool tips of his fingers tickled Peter.
"Superstition. Said it brings good luck. Goofy stuff." Peter explained concisely.
"It worked." Søren whispered.
Peter fiddled with it for a moment, slender fingers motioning to Søren how the tie worked. Søren untied it from off his wrist and then struggled to put it on himself with one hand. Peter leaned forward and helped him with it.
They were sitting close enough for Peter to catch occasional whiffs of his laundry soap, light but soothing, the kind of smell you’d associate with home.
"There you go." He breathed, letting go of Søren’s wrist. Søren flipped his hand and fixated on the crimson bracelet by the light casted from out of the windows. Peter sat back and averted his gaze.
Before long, his left hand was seized once again and gently spread out in Søren’s lap. Søren was trying to return the bracelet to him, and he tamely let it happen.
Time crept by, and it bemused Peter for a brief moment that such minor task could perplex Søren. The touch of his fingers lingered on Peter's wrist for a tad too long, brushing over the thin skin above his pulse.
There was no small part of Peter expecting Søren to get it done quickly, or something might happen. Something might be rushing out of his chest.
Søren reinforced the tie and let go of him, and Peter breathed a suppressed sigh of relief, as if his soul was finally released from some sort of magnetic pull and returned to his body.
The air between them lapsed back into an eventless silence.
Unknown amount of time has passed before out of the blue, a pair of hands reached out and cupped his face, and something warm and soft fell on his lips —
Peter struggled to open his eyes. He shifted his position on the bed and moved his hand on his chest to the side. There was morning light coming in through the blinds, and chirps of birds were ever so loud once he noticed. It was probably going to be morning soon.
Playoffs were going to start today. He groaned in annoyance and put his hand to his face. The coarse texture of the braided bracelet on his wrist rubbed against his skin, and he fumbled to remove it.
Last weekend he had a day off and went to his parents' house for dinner. It was bad, as per usual. Barely ten minutes of peace passed before Mom and his brother got into a fight, and she was a heartbeat away from throwing chopsticks onto his face.
Peter ate in silence, burying his head in his bowl, planning to leave before he got caught up in anything. After the dinner, Dad came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, telling him to come into the study. He followed.
Dad took a dictionary out of the drawer and flipped it open, and there was an envelope lodged between the pages. Dad picked up the envelope, tore open the seal, took a cord bracelet out and beckoned him closer.
The sound of the clock ticking in the study was as loud as he remembered, while he lived through the process expressionlessly. “Liang-liang,” Dad said in Shanghainese, "this is what I told your aunt to ask for at the temple."
It was dumb and meaningless, but he kept in on. If it had been two or three years ago, he probably would have just tossed it in the trash.
Once again, Søren had found the opportunity to hijack his dream, and the dream had knocked his sense of time out of whack. He'd never won anything by luck, nor would he this time.
...
"I'm sorry about what happened." Søren messaged him.
Peter stared at it for a while and turned off his phone, determined to get it out of his mind.
Moments later, he picked his phone back up.
"Sorry about what?" He typed.
Søren didn't respond for an extended period of time, probably wording what he was supposed to say.
"This is not about you. You have nothing to be sorry about." Peter added.
More silence from the other side, and then a reply, "If you want to talk about it, I can always make time."
"Why play therapist now? I have one of my own."
Unresponded.
"If you thought you and I were people of a kind, that you and I were going through the same things, you were mistaken. Think again." Peter pressed send.
"It's okay. You can say everything you want to me. I'm listening. Anything will do." replied Søren.
"Oh forget it, really, Søren. Go get yourself sorted out before you say anything."
He turned off his phone and threw it away.
...
"3-3. GG. Better luck next time." Søren messaged him.
Their plane landed not long ago and twilight was falling outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the airport terminal. The whole team walked wordlessly on their way to baggage claim. "Did you watch the games?" Peter messaged as he walked.
"Do I have other options?"
"You're not still in the TSM house, are you?"
"My flight back to Denmark is this weekend."
"Come out for a drink or something. I just landed, going back to my apartment in a moment." Peter typed.
"I Can't go."
"Then I'll come find you."
"Don't. I’m telling you no, Peter."
"Just you wait." Peter closed out the conversation.
Peter stepped out of the cab and carried his suitcase to the door of TSM house. It was somewhere he hadn’t been near in a year and he wasn't even sure if the doorbell still worked. It worked: thank goodness. Afraid Søren wouldn't hear him, he sent another message, "Come open the door."
After a long time, long enough for him to entertain the possibility that no one was really in the house, the lock clicked and Søren's disgruntled face appeared from behind the door. "The hell do you want?"
"Let me come in and talk."
"Whatever you wanted to say can’t we just get it done here?"
"No, I'm going in." Peter squeezed himself in.
The corridor light illuminated a small area at the front of the hallway, leaving the rest of the living room dark and empty, and it looked like everyone in the house except Søren had long gone home. The furnishings inside were not much different from what Peter remembered when he left a year ago.
Søren took two defensive steps back and wrapped his arms around his chest. To be honest, he still looked pretty bad. His hair was sticking up in disarray, and reddish acne spots were peeking out amid the stubble on his chin. He looked like any other gamer who didn't seem to have slept for ages, mixing up the days with the nights.
"What is it? Spit it out." It was hard for Søren to meet his eyes when they were the only two people in this empty hallway.
"Do you regret it? Watching me play in the finals."
Søren raised his head and looked him in the eyes.
"What do you want? So what? You wanna rewind the clock and start all over? Or is that the only thing you think about, to make me regret it? How much regret would satisfy you?"
Peter raised his arms, turning around with a significant amount of frustration and leaned against the door frame. "No, you don't understand. I want to make sure we're okay now."
"You're like a robot programmed to be an asshole, Peter," Søren said, eyes gloomy, fingers anxiously pinching the flesh of his own arm. "You have other options, but it's like you can't choose to do anything other than playing the asshole. God, you're the most predictable person in the world. Nothing has ever been any different."
"Yeah." Peter scratched his eyelids, "Yeah."
This life was like a dream he couldn’t wake up from, inside he was playing the role of someone whose mission was nothing more than resistance. He played it faithfully, played it like it was his calling.
"But you know, sometimes I just," he took one step forward, and Søren subconsciously withdrew to a distance, but was forced into the corner between the couch and the wall, "I…"
He wrapped his arms around Søren's shoulders and buried his face in the crook of his neck, taking a deep breath. He felt Søren's throat fluttered a little.
A moment later, he felt Søren's hand on his back.
"It's okay. We're okay." Søren said.
...
Early the year, Peter saw Søren's selfie on his Instagram feed. "Jesus Christ." He thought to himself but out loud.
He messaged Søren: "Did You play Santa for Christmas and then forget to take off the fake beard?"
"Basically, yes." Not long after that Søren replied.
"You probably don't need to know this, but wow I hate it."
"I know. Are you in LA? Vincent asked if we wanted to go to dinner at this Spanish place. With Kevin and Dennis, you know."
"Of course I'm in LA. Where else could I be?"
"On vacation, I guess. I don't know. This Friday."
"Do you think I should make some changes to my look, like shaving my head or something? I want to look mature too."
"Don't do that." Søren’s message said.
He pulled into the parking lot Friday night and searched around but couldn't find the facade of the diner. He messaged in group chat asking where he was supposed to be headed, and got told by Vincent to wait where he was for Dennis to come find him.
There was a man in a jacket pacing up and down at the entrance of the parking lot who looked lost too. He went up and tapped the man on the shoulder, "Excuse me, are you going to…Oh."
The man turned around, long beard, wearing a striped shirt and a dark blue wool sweater underneath his jacket. It was Søren. "Oh!" Peter said, "My bad, I thought you were some stranger."
"Ha. It’s all good." Søren laughed awkwardly.
They walked along. Peter motioned with his hand. "Your beard. I can't look at it. There's something deeply wrong about it."
"Then it might take you some getting used to." Søren stroked a handful of his own beard.
Someone appeared from around the corner, a shadow stretched long under the streetlight. Dennis waved at them. Him and Søren had some invariably childish roughhouse and banter going on whenever they met, resembling that of the old time. When they were done messing around, Dennis led their way into the diner.
“Look who’s here!” Kevin threw his arm around Vincent’s shoulders as they came near the table. “We were just talking about you. Right Vincent?”
“What was it?” Søren seated himself as he took off his jacket.
Vincent poked his fork into a marinated olive among the appetizers in front of him. “Nah, Kevin was bitching about you guys being really bad at directions. But actually, my parents came over a few days ago and I was talking to my dad about the two of you.”
"Updating your dad on your friends? At this age? Vincent, you’ve heard this a lot, but you really do have the most loving family.” Peter had a playful grin on his face.
“What did he say, any advice for us?”
“He said he thinks you guys are… cool and hardworking people”, Vincent paused and swallowed, “and that he’d be happy to have you two as his guests and make you dinner someday.”
Søren and Peter exchanged looks.
“We’re happy to oblige, I guess. Whenever we have the chance.” Said Søren, spreading out his hand for a little.
“Yeah. No…I mean,” Peter shifted just mildly in his seat, “I was never likable around friends’ parents when I was a kid, not sure if that changed. Anyhow, thank you, Vincent. This is heartfelt.”
“You’ll be fine Peter. You’ll be fine.” Vincent mumbled.
The Paella was OK. The thing was, it surprised Peter slightly that there was still much to talk about between the five of them. Everybody got a little more chill, but still funny. It could be an age thing, or maybe simply because nothing forced them to share their problems anymore. Things were getting easier, and Peter was happy about it.
At the end of the dinner Kevin offered to drop Dennis and Vincent at each of their places. He fell on the two of them while they made their way out, hanging his arms over their necks. Peter and Søren followed them out.
The three of them went in the direction of the parking lot as a cluster of humans, leaving a few buoyant see you on the rifts in the air. Peter went no further and waved them goodbye. He turned around to Søren, who’s standing on the porch, looking up at something. Following where he was looking, it was an upside-down crescent moon overhung in the Californian night sky.
"It's a new year again." Peter said.
“Yeah.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Søren managed a dry grimace. “Big question, Peter. Just gonna keep it going…There’s no way of telling the future, right. Just gonna keep all of this going.”
“Yeah.” Peter nodded. “Yeah. You’re damn right. Good luck with that then.”
“You too.”
Søren’s phone rang. It’s his Uber. Peter saw him off, watching his Uber disappear into the night. He put his hands in his pockets, walking in a small, aimless circle for a while, head hanging low. Then he went alone to the parking lot to get his car.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining,
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other.
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert.
This is the land which ye shall divide by lot. And
Neither division nor unity matters.
This is the land.
We have our inheritance.
(T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday)