Archive of Our Own

Seongwoong was never a big Greek mythology fan as a kid. He would have much rather played video games all day than read old stories of gods and monsters.

Besides, what was the point? He knows how the stories will end, and they’re almost never happy. Heracles burns to death, Orpheus looks back, and Icarus falls. That’s just how it is.

He’d much rather read something with a happy ending.

But maybe he should have paid more attention.

In 2013, they win.

It’s like a myth. They roar into the league and Sanghyeok, the quiet boy who’d met Seongwoong’s eyes the first time they were put into the same room and had set him on fire with that dark gaze of his, burns fiercely.

Icarus had been too ambitious, right? Even ambition will crumble before the sun and the room roars loudly enough that Seongwoong feels as if his bones will crack and splinter right there on the stage, sound piercing through his headphones.

He risks a glance to the side and Sanghyeok’s face hasn’t changed. There’s no faint smile on his lips, no shine of pride in those burning eyes, and it’s as if he can’t hear the sound of marble grinding in the distance, columns rising and a throne looming in the building darkness.

Well, actually, they don’t win it all—but third is damn close, and they’re the dark horses, they five untested but bright rookies. Seongwoong wonders if everyone else notices that the light is really only coming from one of them.

Then summer comes and the finals venue is outside, but Seongwoong honestly doesn’t see a difference. The floodlights are the same, the headphones fit over his ears just as they’ve done all season, and his mouse and keyboard click away smoothly beneath his fingers.

And most importantly, to his right, the sun blazes.

It burns and it burns and the series goes to game five, but it burns too brightly for them to lose. The last game isn’t fair, and Seongwoong can almost feel eyes, spotlights, turning onto them.

He doesn’t notice it immediately, too busy cheering in the booth with five PCs, flinging his arms around Eonyoung. His ears are buzzing because Eonyoung is yelling but so is he because they’ve won.

He bumps into someone and he knows who it is because there is one star, one sun, on SK Telecom T1 2. He turns and he pulls Sanghyeok into a hug, his mouth finally pulled up into a radiant smile.

Seongwoong buries his head in his chest and his hands feel hot almost to the point of burning when he presses them into Sanghyeok’s back.

But it doesn’t hurt.

In this moment, they are young gods and the sun’s fire is nothing but gold, gold like the logo of their team, gold on their hands, and gold in their eyes.

They win in 2013. They lose spring, but the sun has to rise before it reaches the zenith, and so while they lose spring, they win summer.

And they keep winning.

Seongwoong, for the first time in his life, gets on a plane, and he flies. It isn’t nearly as exciting as it would be to free fall, he thinks, and certainly not as exciting if he had wings of his own, but he flies anyway.

The world below looks small, and if he had such ambitions, conquerable. Is this what the sun sees? Surely not. He’s still too close to the ground, the hooks of gravity still sunk deep into his bones.

Maybe he isn’t nearly as awed by the sight of rising through the clouds and seeing the day break early above a sea of pink-orange-gold because he’s already flown before.

Maybe he can’t get close enough to the sun because he’s moving in the wrong direction.

Seongwoong, sitting on the plane as it rumbles around him, looks away from the window. Despite the jacket he’d taken with him, his hands are cold.

Sanghyeok, curled into the nearby seat, a book in his lap, doesn’t seem to notice the attention. But Seongwoong wonders if flying like this isn’t as exciting because there’s no danger of burning.

The plane will never fly high enough to reach the heights Seongwoong can. It will never be able to fly high enough until the heat threatens to melt steel and aluminum and glass away, reducing it to liquid, vapor, something even less.

He will never be able to get close enough to that sun. Maybe it isn’t that bad. Because Seongwoong’s sun is gentler than that one ever will be. There’s only one sun that’ll share that blazing heat of theirs with him so kindly and there’s only one sun that’ll let him pretend, for even a moment, that he’s shining too.

Sanghyeok’s eyes flick up, dark and burning, just as always, and Seongwoong shoots him a smile.

The plane lands in America and Seongwoong wonders if everyone else can hear the sound of trumpets and hoofbeats against the ground, scorching stone and earth. Does anyone else know? The sun is rising.

And the tournament…

The tournament is easy. They drop one game in the groups stage and sure, they get close in the semifinals, but the last series, the one that really matters, it’s a 3-0.

This time, Seongwoong looks to the side, and Sanghyeok is smiling. He’s calm, taking off his headset and jacket as if he can’t hear the crowd screaming or see the air beyond the floodlights glimmering like a sea of stars.

The rest of them follow. They smile, laugh, and Seongwoong bounces from person to person, a hug ready for each one, even as Piglet mock-glares at him for stealing the penta on accident.

Confetti falls from the ceiling, dusting Sanghyeok’s hair and this close, they’re not really star-like, just thin paper pretending to be silver. He’s not too disappointed. He knows real stars don’t look any less radiant up close.

Seongwoong can’t look away, not even as Sanghyeok turns, the lights below the platform holding the tables and PCs up briefly painting him a victor’s blue, stepping down to shake hands with Royal Club.

He looks into their faces and he doesn’t see people. He sees bodies, hands charred and shaking, the black remnants of skin and muscle clinging to soot-stained bone. Aurum flames lick at ribcages hollowed out by fire and their eyes are void of anything worth noting.

Sanghyeok burns bright in front of him and Seongwoong doesn’t dare look past him to see if the people ahead are whole or not.

He comes out the other side, looping back to their tables where everyone is waiting, and his hands are clean, unstained by ash.

Maybe it sounds cruel of him, but he can’t really find it in him to care. Sanghyeok is his sun, the trophy is waiting for them on stage around the corner, and they are all young gods.

The announcers shout something, one of the producers waves at them to go, and Eonyoung steps out, arms raised up to the spotlight.

Cameras, unblinking eyes, circle above and they raise the trophy above their heads. It’s heavy, but Seongwoong doesn’t actually carry much of it, the weight leaning back. Actually, none of them really do.

Jeonghyeon’s hands are wrapped lightly around the base, Eonyoung has four fingers beneath it, Seongwoong’s own hand is doing barely more than just touching it, and Gwangjin isn’t even trying, hovering behind Seongwoong.

It’s really only Sanghyeok, standing in the back, the same victor’s blue of the trophy’s gems shining in his eyes.

Eonyoung pulls them in, a grin stretched over his face and Seongwoong can only laugh when he manages to rope the other three in, forming a “T” and then a “1” with their arms, pointing up at the sky as if they weren’t already set up into the heavens.

But it’s not really right, and Seongwoong thinks the others can feel it too, for once. The gravity is off. They’re ushered back forward to the beginning, and Sanghyeok takes his place at the front.

Seongwoong knows he should look forward because there’s a crowd and there are spotlights, but he’s standing next to the sun so he looks left.

Beneath the lights, Sanghyeok is radiant.

His eyes shine and Seongwoong thinks there. Those are stars. That rare smile is still on his face and Seongwoong, for a moment, can’t breathe, the oxygen in his lungs taken out to feed the flames.

Sanghyeok doesn’t look to the side to meet his gaze, focused forward on the thousands of watching and snapping cameras, but that’s alright. Seongwoong knows he doesn’t have the same gravity.

After that, the producers lead Sanghyeok and Eonyoung off the stage for their interview, and Seongwoong finds himself herded back up the steps.

The rest of the night passes. Not in a blur—he can remember it almost with picture-perfect clarity, but time always passes. By the time they all get back to the hotel, they should be tired, but they’re all buzzing with energy.

Seongwoong doesn’t think the grin has dropped from any of their faces, even Sanghyeok’s, and that alone is reason enough for him to bear the teasing about the penta.

Still, as much as he loves his team, he finds himself stepping outside for a moment. Maybe he’d subconsciously realized that the room was just a little too dim. But he steps outside and he scarcely notices that there’s no moon in the sky, scarcely notices the darkness, and it’s not because of the city lights.

Sanghyeok turns around where he’d been gazing off the edge of the balcony, the faintest wind stirring his short hair. “Oh,” he says.

“Hey,” Seongwoong replies, moving close, nudging his shoulder gently.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then, “We’re world champions,” Seongwoong says, half breathless. He isn’t quite sure if it’s because of the fire crawling up his fingers where his hand is placed over Sanghyeok’s on the railing or if it’s because he still can’t quite believe it.

He’d expected to win, expected to come home with nothing less than a crown around their heads, the sun finally gaining the corona he deserves, but it’s still another feeling entirely to actually see the trophy in their room. It’s another feeling to actually be a young god here beneath aging midnight skies.

“Yeah, we are,” Sanghyeok says quietly, turning away. His hand slips out from under Seongwoong’s, and the railing is cold. “We won.” He steps back. “Let’s go back inside. It’s cold.”

And with the distance between them, the October wind seems to hear Sanghyeok’s words because it picks up. The railing is still cold, and Seongwoong lets go before frost can crawl up his arm to anchor him in place, forcing him to watch as the sun walks away.

In 2013, they win. It’s true for Worlds, and it’s true for the Winter split. The finals match is another 3-0 and that—

Well. That’s just expected, right? The crowned kings, the young ascended gods—why should they falter?

Except, the thing is, Seongwoong is wrong.

He lets himself be blinded by the light and he forgets that no matter how high he flies, gravity still has its hooks in his soul, and he’s dragged back down. They make it to Quarterfinals in Spring and they lose 3-1.

Disappointment is heavy, sobering, mortal.

And then it happens again.

Worlds happens in Korea this year, and Seongwoong watches from home. Sanghyeok refuses to. The dorms are cold the entire time.

In 2013, they win.

In 2014, they lose.

They lose, and it’s almost like every tale he’s ever heard about hubris. But he’ll be better, he promises to himself. He has to be.

He knows it’s his fault they lost. Maybe the blame isn’t solely his, but it’s still his fault. He could have done more, played better, died less and he could have just been better.

And he’s not the only one who knows that Sanghyeok is the sun now. He sees the comments online, hears them like ghosts even through his headphones, and he really can’t help but agree with them because Seongwoong knows that the reason they lost is because Sanghyeok’s trying to fly but they’re dragging him down.

So he will be better, he vows. He will see that victor’s blue in Sanghyeok’s eyes again, even if he has to build that stage and that platform for him, piece by piece, and hold it up on his own shoulders like Atlas.

Or—no. As much as he wishes he were strong enough to hold the sky up for Sanghyeok forever, he knows he isn’t. He’d briefly thought himself a young god and paid for it because he was too mortal. He won’t make that mistake again.

At most, he’s Heracles, just strong enough that people will notice. Just strong enough to hold up the sky for a few moments. But if he has to do those ten impossible tasks, those twelve because things are unfair sometimes, to atone, then he will.

He’ll do it, even if Jeonghyeong, Gwangjin, and Eonyoung all leave, scattering to China and America. And there. One. He stays. He doesn’t leave to sign on with another team, despite the offers, and he doesn’t retire like the burned man in the back of his mind begs him to. Hopefully that’s enough.

K and S shared a dorm before, so not much changes beyond practice. Seongwoong looks to his left and there’s Gyeonghwan instead of Eonyoung. Sanghyeok’s still to his right, but it’s not nearly as often anymore, not with Jihoon, and if he leans forward or backward to look down the line, it’s Junsik and Jaewan.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to look to the side. He’s not the only jungler. Jaehwan might have left for Europe, but Jaehyeon joins. Seongwoong plays most of Spring, though he only plays three of the eight playoffs games, but that’s fine. He made those three games count, with the reverse sweep, and that’s Two, he thinks.

Jaehyeon is good and Seongwoong doesn’t mind at all because he knows he failed in 2014. He’s not bitter in the slightest—not at all, not when he can sit in the booth with Jeonggyun and see exactly what the team—what Sanghyeok—needs.

The only problem is that the jungle isn’t the only spot with competition.

Sanghyeok plays in half of the playoffs games, but the half he doesn’t play in include the 3-0 finals series.

Instead, he spends the finals in the crowd, sitting ramrod straight in the plastic chair, face blank as if in a half-hearted attempt to convey the image of nonchalance. Seongwoong knows better.

He gently nudges Sanghyeok once, at the end of game 2 when the camera pans away from them, and he has to keep himself from jerking back. His fingers come back scorched, blisters bubbling on his skin, and if it isn’t a tight painful white, then it’s a deep red.

Sanghyeok doesn’t seem to notice, burning eyes turned unblinkingly toward the screen. Seongwoong shakes his hand, and he’s fine.

They go up on stage after the win and the silver of the spring trophy reflects in Sanghyeok’s eyes. It’s not the victor’s blue of the Worlds trophy and it’s clearly unsatisfying, but it’s better than the burning anger.

The win also means they go to the new tournament, the Mid-Season Invitational.

A year and a half. It takes a year and a half, but Seongwoong steps back onto American soil. If he strains his eyes hard enough, tries his best to listen in the middle of the night, he thinks he can still see the ghost of confetti drifting from the sky, slow falling stars that are silver reflecting victor’s blue and SKT red, and he thinks he can still hear the phantom roar of the crowd.

Jaehyeon goes with them, just like Yechan and Jongbeom, but none of them are going to play. They can only take six. So they take Jihoon and Seongwoong cannot touch Sanghyeok for the rest of the day for fear that the heat will strip the skin and muscle from his bones, fire roaring up his arms and burning off nerve endings too slow to stop the hot spark of pain.

Somehow, no one else has this problem, not even Jihoon. Seongwoong wonders if he’s the only one that can see the new blistering burns sprawling across Jihoon’s hands, an angry red too deep to match the color of the logo they all wear and quietly weeping gore over his keyboard and mouse.

He promises to himself that he’ll make MSI task Three.

For a moment, he thinks it is. Three of Ten, Three of Twelve. The round robin stage is easy. They don’t drop a single game.

But then they reach the bracket stage and Fnatic takes them to game five.

Fnatic wasn’t supposed to be hard, Seongwoong thinks. Not to SKT.

Jeonggyun is talking picks and bans in his ears and even if Seongwoong knows that he’s at fault for the two games they’ve lost, his hands don’t shake. It’s not a fun game if it isn’t hard and it isn’t as if Herculean tasks were easy.

He watches Reignover lock in Gragas immediately and in response, he takes Nunu.

And then, it’s out of his hands. Jeonggyun is moving around behind him, still speaking, but Seongwoong tunes him out, bowing his head.

He’s not praying, doesn’t really have a god to pray to unless the sun counts, but his mind quiets. Jeonggyun is talking to Junsik and there’s a camera panning around his right, besides Gyeonghwan, and the low roar of the crowd is constant, but he ignores all of it.

The game starts and Seongwoong nearly laughs at the TSM chant vibrating through his headphones.

Maybe it’s inappropriate, the laughter welling up in his chest as he steals away Reignover’s red buff, tailing him down to blue and catching first blood when Junsik flashes over the wall, but Gyeonghwan murmurs, “Good job,” and there’s the briefest flash of a grin on Sanghyeok’s lips when Seongwoong risks a glance over.

It sets the tone for the rest of the game, and by the time the nexus explodes, he’s got a KDA of 14. He has to lean back, head hitting against his headrest, hiding his face in his hands, the adrenaline keeping his fingers steady just seconds before crashing down.

When he passes by Fnatic for the customary handshake, pulling Reignover into a half-apologetic hug, he ignores the exposed charred bones, stained red-black, ignores the carmine flames eating up the orange of the logo on their uniforms.

He doesn’t want to count this as Three, but maybe he will. Three. And Four will be EDG, he swears.

They start off the series strong, Seongwoong’s Gragas going one death to eighteen takedowns and he’s happy, even if it’s not Sanghyeok’s Cassiopeia that goes 9-0-8.

Then EDG hits back, and by game four, Jihoon’s sitting back again, Sanghyeok now front and center.

Seongwoong lets himself hope when the familiar ring of Victory sounds through his headphones, the game ending with Sanghyeok’s Kassadin and Jaewan’s Alistar going deathless, perfect KDAs.

Game five, and there’s something in the air.

Heat radiates off of Sanghyeok as he looks intently at his screen, the unbanned LeBlanc displayed on all of their screens.

Sanghyeok locks her in.

Seongwoong risks a look to the side. Clearlove is smiling at his PC, firelight hollowing him out, the shape of his bones clear through his skin, but he’s not burning.

The flames roar higher.

Pawn is laughing when he selects Morgana.

Seongwoong thinks he’s the one burning this time.

EDG isn’t Four.

Confetti pours from the ceiling, a blue plastic color and far from the silver of Worlds.

He manages to stand up for the handshakes, trying to pretend he can’t feel the fire raging beside him, burning angry red in the shower of dull victory blue.

Backstage, Sanghyeok won’t look him in the eyes.

Flames sear morbidly beautiful whorls up Jaewan’s arms, reflecting in Junsik’s too-bright eyes, and Jeonggyun’s hands come away steaming when he comes around, patting their shoulders and murmuring encouragement. They’re all quiet. Even Gyeonghwan is silent, even when fire starts to eat through the side of his jaw, exposing bone and the blisters bubbling up on his tongue.

Later, Seongwoong manages to catch Sanghyeok in this hotel room. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, catching Sanghyeok’s wrist.

Sanghyeok looks up at him, phone dipping down and away from his face. The screen has something on it, something blue, and it reflects in his eyes in a mockery of the victory he should have had. “Okay,” he says curtly.

Gravity reverses, and Seongwoong lets go of Sanghyeok’s arm. His palm aches for the rest of the next day, but it’s warm with the memory of sunlight, no matter how painful.

MSI is Three, but not in the way that matters most, and it’s not Four.

They go home to the summer split, too-familiar taste of victory bitter on their tongues, mixing with the ash in the air.

This time, Seongwoong is the one playing. Jaehyeon only plays six of the forty one games. He wins all six of them, but it’s Seongwoong that keeps being told to play.

And it goes well. It’s a near-perfect split, dropping one series to CJ Entus and the finals against KT Rolster are a stomp. He supposes that counts as Four. It's good enough.

A victory and a first seed to Worlds still means something, even if the silver of the OGN trophy isn’t the gold of MSI and is missing the blue of the Worlds trophy.

He’d vowed that MSI would be a victory and failed. He won’t fail for Worlds.

They fly to Europe and they take Jihoon again, not Jaehyeon.

They roar into Worlds, clear favorites, and they don’t disappoint. Six games in the group stage, and they don’t drop a single one.

Sanghyeok plays both times against EDG. Clearlove isn’t smiling anymore and Seongwoong thinks he can see sparks hiss out of Sanghyeok’s mouth when he bares his teeth in a victorious smile.

They finish the group stage with a perfect score, and they finish Quarterfinals and Semifinals with 3-0s too. And that’s Five.

As always, the trophy is onstage for the Finals. Sanghyeok’s starting, and the blue glints in his eyes, feeding the hunger like oxygen to fire.

It’s hidden by the solemn face and the front roll Sanghyeok actually does on Junsik’s dare and Seongwoong has to duck his head before he bursts out laughing.

They’re going into the series confident, rightfully so, and he swears it won’t be hubris. Not this time. Not again.

Game 1 goes well, Junsik ending with a perfect score and the overall kills being 20 to 5.

Game 2, not so well. They still win, but they start off laneswapping, Gyeonghwan leashing while Jaewan annoys Smeb and Hojin and it’s a fight they should win. But Seongwoong messes up his second auto and dies for first blood, forcing Gyeonghwan to flash in to kill Smeb with Flamespitter.

His screen flashes briefly, death timers quick at three minutes in, and he looks up at the 1-2 score at the top of his screen. “Sorry,” he murmurs into his headset.

“It’s fine,” his teammates all reply.

A minute later, he’s leaning back, watching the last tower shot chase Gorilla while Gyeonghwan respawns and his own death timer ticks down again.

It isn’t until around twenty minutes where they start to claw their way back, picking a 4v3 fight that ends with Smeb and GorillA dead, Junsik splitpushing bot the entire time.

KOO Tigers lets them regain their footing. Their mistake. After that, with a baron fight they manage to take control of and a final fight down near tier three bot tower, they end the game.

He slides his headphones off, sighing and Junsik wanders over immediately. “Crazy Jarvan ults,” he says, grinning. Seongwoong laughs, managing to keep himself from glancing up and to the side where Sanghyeok’s smiling.

Gyeonghwan’s smiling too. “One more,” he adds, hand landing on Seongwoong’s shoulder heavily.

Sanghyeok nudges his arm, and flames follow, warm as sunlight. “Almost,” he whispers, eyes alight. “Almost there.” The trophy is at an angle, behind where KOO Tigers sit and at Sanghyeok’s back, but Seongwoong swears he can see victor’s blue flash in his burning eyes.

And Game 3 starts off worse. Seongwoong dies again, and everyone else follows, Hojin starting off with four kills. A three man gank a minute and a half later results in Sanghyeok dying again.

They don’t manage to claw back control this time. The 0-6-7 KDA stares down at Seongwoong, screen flashing red as the game announces Defeat into his ears.

They walk offstage quietly, Seongwoong trailing behind Sanghyeok and Jaewan, and he can practically see the annoyance radiating off of the former in waves of sparks and embers when he shakes out his wrists, rolling his neck.

Jeonggyun goes over what they did wrong, but he ends his lecture with, “One more game. We’re already up 2-1. Focus for the next one.”

“No more perfect Worlds run,” Junsik mutters, half an attempt at light-heartedness. But it works and Seongwoong can’t help but laugh, Gyeonghwan joining in with a soft snort.

Sanghyeok doesn’t say anything, eyes still burning.

They enter ban-pick, and Sanghyeok just says, “Ryze.”

The sounds of agreement rise through Seongwoong’s headphones, and Jaewan locks him in.

Flames scream up to the ceiling of the stadium, almost like MSI.

But Seongwoong’s not burning this time.

Sanghyeok brutally tears Kuro’s Kassadin down in a matter of seconds, perfect KDA going from 2-0-1 to 3-0-1 before Gyeonghwan’s Gnar can even finish teleporting and when Seongwoong glances at him, he’s almost radiant, face calm and gaze still locked unerringly to his screen.

They’re 8-0 in total, middle inhibitor down, and it's Junsik who cracks a rare mid-game joke when Gyeonghwan dies in a 1v3. “No more perfect game either.”

“Focus,” comes Sanghyeok’s clipped response.

Five kills later, the crowd is screaming, sound dulled to the low roar of a bonfire through Seongwoong’s headphones, and there is victory blue on his screen.

He takes them off, next exhale scattered with sparks and embers and he has to bury his face in his hands to hide the sudden shaking.

Junsik half-tackles him and it’s over.

Seongwoong doesn’t bother with the customary handshake and fistbumps this time, pulling each one into a hug. He ignores the way all of KOO Tigers laugh as if they can’t see their own skin and muscle bubbling up and melting away beneath Seongwoong’s touch, vaporizing altogether when Sanghyeok approaches after.

And then it’s the trophy.

Sanghyeok tilts his head up to the ceiling, distant steel bars painted white and red from the flashing lights, but it doesn’t matter because the trophy is sitting before him, there is a smile on his face, and that victory blue is finally, finally back where it belongs.

They’re all breathing a little hard, high from the energy of winning, and it's Sanghyeok who gestures at the trophy in the end.

“Take it,” he says, starry blue shining in his eyes. “It’s ours.”

Six. The trophy is heavy as ever, but Sanghyeok, pressed into Seongwoong’s side because there’s eight of them around it, somehow feels heavier. A true god, and for a moment, Seongwoong is tempted to look behind him to see if Sanghyeok’s footsteps have pressed themselves into the stage, smoking and burning and preserved forever.

The casters’ voices ring across the stadium, half-covered by the cheering crowd, but from the little Seongwoong can hear through the screaming and echo, he knows they’re talking about Sanghyeok.

How could they not? The sun blazing bright on the stage, lifting the trophy—all thirty-two kilograms of silver and blue—to his lips, finally crowned again with the fire of the glaring spotlights.

Seongwoong doesn’t even notice that it’s his turn until Sanghyeok puts a hand on his arm, burning like sunlight, burning like a brand.

Empyrean silver bounces off the trophy, painting Sanghyeok’s cheek and his eyes—his eyes—still shine, starry blue, victory blue. Seongwoong has to drag his gaze away.

The medal is heavy around his neck.

Six, he tells himself. Halfway, for both 2014 and for MSI.

The lights bounce off Sanghyeok’s glasses, false stars turned impossibly real by his very nature. At his every word, and Seongwoong doesn’t need more evidence that Sanghyeok will be his one and only god in this life but he gets it anyway, the crowd screams, sound like air to those ruby flames when the lights flare.

He moves through the interview, smooth and confident, words precise as always, but then, on the very last question, he raises the mic and he says in english, “Hi, guys.”

Seongwoong startles at that, looking up and to the side. Sanghyeok’s eyes sweep the crowd and Seongwoong doesn’t know how the strangers above don’t melt beneath that burning gaze.

“I have so much to tell you, but my English is not good, so, thank you, and—thank you for cheering and always loving me.”

Something clicks. Seongwoong doesn’t quite hear the crowd scream, too occupied with the buzzing in his own ears because is that what this is?

The fire winding around his heart, the gravity pulling him in, and the way he keeps reaching out for more, always more, even as he’s burned, over and over. Is that what this all is?

Sanghyeok lowers the mic and there’s a proud smile on his face, a smile that grows when the crowd keeps screaming for him, for the god and the life-giving sun.

Seongwoong can’t breathe.

Sanghyeok hands him the mic, heated touches guiding him so that they swap and he’s standing by Sjokz and the translator. Somehow, he manages to keep the stutter out of his voice, for the most part.

And the rest of the night goes well, just like last time, in 2013. They cheer, they laugh over the broccoli incident beneath the red lights like fire, they go offstage to take photos, and then they pile into the van and drive over to the closest KBBQ place.

In the dim lights of the restaurant, and despite the fact that their medals have been squirreled away safely, away from the jumping and hissing oil and the drinks spilling from cups jostled just a little too hard, Sanghyeok’s eyes still shine.

Seongwoong can’t look away, even when Junsik steals the pork belly he’d been grilling off his plate.

Jaewan watches for a moment, then nudges him. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

Seongwoong tears his eyes away from where Sanghyeok is talking quietly to Jihoon, the fire of the grill throwing stars back onto his face and reflecting off his glasses, unaware of the way droplets of burning oil leap off and stick to Jihoon.

Beside them, Gyeonghwan joins in, leaning forward over the table with a grin on his face. Embers spill from his mouth, burning through his cheek slowly, despite the way victory should have protected him—should have protected all of them.

And oh, they aren’t staying, are they?

He remembers. Eonyoung, Gwangjin, and Jeonghyeong.

Jaewan is still looking at him expectantly, Junsik joining him, chewing on his stolen piece of meat. “Just…contracts,” he responds.

Junsik immediately rolls his eyes. “Come on, we just won! Besides, I’m staying, so,” he says through his mouthful of food. He gently punches Seongwoong’s shoulder, chopsticks rattling gently in his grip. “You? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving?”

“Ah, no,” Seongwoong says quickly, looking back across the table. The sun and two burning men, their only crime daring to be too close.

Is he too close?

No, he can’t entertain that possibility. Not when he’s still only on Six.

Jaewan’s eyes light up. “You’re staying?”

Six, and now Seven. “I’m staying.”

He tells Sanghyeok after they get back to the hotel, the knowledge that this is Seven thrumming under his skin. Sanghyeok just looks up at him, nods, and says, “Good.”

Then they receive their new uniforms, it's Sanghyeok that hands Seongwoong’s to him. “Thank you,” he says, “for staying.”

And then he smiles, eyes crinkling, baring white teeth and pointed canines, and Seongwoong has to choke back the feeling rising in his chest when his heart squeezes

Jihoon and Gyeonghwan don’t renew. Jaehyeon doesn’t either, and Seongwoong can see burns disappearing under his sleeves when he announces it. There’s no animosity in his voice when he tells Seongwoong.

Seongwoong thinks he might deserve it anyway.

But the selfish part, the part that revels in the flames, in the pain, laughs. It laughs when Jihoon and Gyeonghwan announce they’re leaving and Sanghyeok frowns and it laughs when Seongwoong reaches out for him but has to recoil from the heat rolling off of him. It laughs when Jeonghyeon rejoins, as a coach this time, half-faded scars flashing on his hands when he pats Sanghyeok on the shoulder.

It doesn’t laugh when Sungu joins. Two junglers again, but Sanghyeok is the one and only sun, brilliance finally recognized at the expense of Jihoon, and so Seongwoong’s not surprised when he’s told to sub out.

Sungu plays for all of the IEM and their tournament is flawless. Actually, they don’t even take Seongwoong, not officially.

He watches from backstage, video quality blurring the falling confetti until they’re just silver streaks blowing across the cameras and dusting across Sanghyeok’s hair, raining stars, just like in 2013.

Jeonggyun ushers him up and into the booth, but he stays there in the half-shadows, watching as the cameras pan around his team, medals glittering from their necks.

And the memory of the Worlds medal around his burns, like there had been acid woven into the blue cord, lying dormant for four months until now.

There’s enough light that he can still easily see the red he wears. Red like the SKT logo, red like fire.

They fly back from Poland for the rest of the Spring Split. Seongwoong is still benched.

So is Yechan. It’s only a matter of time before he decides to leave. Seongwoong just hugs him when Yechan announces it. He’s not surprised, not by Yechan’s decision, nor by the way the burns curling up his skin mirror Jihoon’s when he’d left. It still hurts though, just a little.

SKT make playoffs, and he’s not listed on the official roster for it.

“I’m sorry,” Sungu says, looking genuinely apologetic. Seongwoong can’t find it in him to be bitter—doesn’t want to find it in him to be bitter.

“It’s okay,” he says, uniform burning, fabric melding into open wounds and hidden acid eating through skin, layer by layer. “I wasn’t playing good enough anyway.”

He’s not playing, but they still put him in the teaser and he finds it ironic that the very first shot they ask him to film is one of him wrapping his hands.

To invoke Lee Sin, he supposes.

He can only think of bandages. Maybe he needs them.

Seongwoong tries not to think about it. The silly little skit they proceed to ask to film as well helps, especially when they hand him the script. It’s lighthearted and an attempt to include him and he supposes it’s not entirely inaccurate when it casts him in a behind-the-scenes role. It’s what he’s been doing for the better part of the split, though maybe not nearly as important as the skit makes it out to be.

They must play the skit and the teaser, but he doesn’t notice, seated in front of the screens and clicking through the playback of Game 1. That had gone well, the only member of SKT to suffer a death being Sanghyeok’s Zilean.

But Game 2 doesn’t go as well, and even backstage, Seongwoong can feel the heat radiating from the player booth.

Or maybe it’s not that.

How exactly had Heracles died again?

He stares at the screen, numbers flashing and casters talking about what went right for ROX Tigers and what went wrong for SKT.

It’s fine, he tells himself.

His faith is rewarded, and he slumps in his chair when the Nexus explodes in Game 4.

Victory, again, right after Worlds and with a place on the stage for only Sanghyeok. Jeonghyeon drags him onstage right on time for him to line up, right beside Jaewan, for the victor’s interview.

As predicted, they ask him about Sungu. He gives the honest truth and ignores the burned man in the back of his mind that doesn’t want to be there, doesn’t want to be up on the stage and beneath the scorching spotlights.

Leave, it begs him. Leave the unblinking cameras, leave, SKT, leave the scorching sunlight, leave Sanghyeok.

He finishes his section of the interview as fast as he can, biting down on his tongue, handing the mic to Jaewan, and clasping his hands behind his back.

He’s staying, he tells himself. Eight. He’s staying.

With the win, they go to MSI and…

Seongwoong’s still not on the roster.

His uniform, the most stable link between him and Sanghyeok and the one that had been given almost like a gift, burns, his own name branding into his back and the logo on front sinking in deep.

“It’s okay,” he tells a worried Sungu. “What matters more is winning, and you’re better. I don’t mind.” Seongwoong wonders if Sungu can see the way he’s slowly being flayed alive, epidermis already stripped away.

If Spring is Eight, then MSI has to be Nine because they win again and the burned man screams. Leave, leave, leave. They don’t need you.

But he’s not done, not yet.

“I’m staying,” he whispers to himself, when Sanghyeok and the others step up onto the stage against SuperMassive eSports, their first opponent. The air around Sanghyeok ripples, despite it only being around twenty four degrees and even cooler indoors.

“I’m staying,” he says, when RNG falls and they go to finals again, one step—one step—away from claiming the trophy denied to them last year.

“I’m staying,” he almost prays, still sitting backstage after they 3-0 CLG with shaking hands that would stop if he were starting, hands he hopes haven’t been permanently ruined by sunfire. Nine. This is Nine. It has to be Nine. It has to be.

Sanghyeok rushes ahead and he doesn’t waste time picking up the golden trophy by himself, hoisting it up into the air to the cheers of the crowd. The lights and camera focus in and he radiates sunlight, flecks of aurum stars splashed across his skin and over the floor from the reflections, and he’s beautiful.

It’s Byounghoon who pushes him up onto the stage this time, inviting him to lift it with everyone else as if he’d actually contributed to the win.

They take their turns, and Seongwoong nearly startles when Sanghyeok reaches over, that victorious smile on his face, and touches his shoulder. “Come on,” he says, tugging him closer, “you’re next.”

His hand moves down and presses into Seongwoong’s back, just beneath where his name is stamped, and he can feel the heat through his uniform.

He wants to say it. But acid seeps through the fabric slowly, and so he takes a step back, half a laugh escaping. “No, this one’s not really mine,” he replies instead, and Sanghyeok lets him go.

This MSI victory isn’t his, but he’s handed a medal anyway, cord just as blue as the Worlds medal, and it burns just like the lingering handprint on his back.

They have to recognize how little he contributed though, because the mic isn’t passed to him. They ask for Sungu and Seongwoong bites back the sigh of relief, even when the temperature spikes.

At least he starts a few games in Summer, but even so, Sungu starts more often than not, and when they enter playoffs, Seongwoong isn’t starting again and he’s sitting on a 57% win rate compared to Sungu’s 74%.

They start off in the semi-finals against KT Rolster and there’s something in the air, something beyond the summer heat.

Seongwoong’s hands keep shaking. “Good luck,” he says to them as they prepare to step out into the player’s booth.

Sanghyeok only nods.

The first two games go well, the second especially, with only Junsik dropping once, and Seongwoong tries to let himself think it's over.

But the flames keep burning and he remembers that first MSI finals, ruby flames turning on them. “Stay focused,” he says, clapping acid-scarred fingers onto Sungu’s shoulder.

Sungu gives him a smile, but it doesn’t ease the pit in Seongwoong’s stomach, the swooping feeling of standing high off the ground and looking down.

His gut feeling is right.

The crowd screams in tune with the dancing flames when KT Rolster reverse sweeps them.

“Maybe you should have subbed in,” Sungu says, eyes too bright, when they all shuffle into the back room.

“It’s okay,” Seongwoong replies, ignoring the way he can feel them both bleed when he pulls Sungu into a hug, skin splitting and melting beneath the acid-like-fire that’s been woven into their uniforms and the logo emblazoned on it. “It’s okay. If ROX wins, we still go to Worlds.”

“We still go to Worlds,” Sanghyeok murmurs, arms crossed tightly.

And that’s what really matters.

Worlds.

The burned man keeps sobbing, somewhere in the back of his mind, please, just leave.

But he’s still on Nine. There’s one more, he knows, one more at least.

So, Ten. He pictures the unshed tears in Sungu’s eyes from the loss and the burning anger in Sanghyeok’s later that night, sitting on his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, when he whispers to himself, “I’m staying, I’m staying, I’m staying.”

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep pretending.

This is how Heracles died, right? A gift from his lover, who’s only wish was for him to stay with her. A tunic, if he remembers correctly. A tunic, but made of poisoned threads because of blood-like-acid smeared onto the inside of it.

He wonders if the acid had dyed the cloth red. Blood close to the heart is a bright bold red—a strangely morbid fact he knows from somewhere, and the SKT colors he wears matches the shade.

Seongwoong thinks he’s burning alive. But he has to stay. He has to.

But this is Ten, he tells himself. This is Ten. And maybe, just like Heracles, once he’s done burning, he’ll ascend too.

He repeats it. “I’m staying, I’m staying, I’m staying.” He feels like crying. He doesn’t think he really believes it anymore, not the sentiment, at least, because he knows he will stay, at least for a little longer.

Ten means he’s done, right? Surely the title of “first ever two-time Worlds champion” pays for the first MSI and surely his lack of playtime in Summer absolves him of this loss?

Is he done?

Maybe.

He almost hopes they won’t put him in for Worlds because maybe then, he’ll have an excuse to stop wearing this poisoned jacket.

But that’s the funny part, he supposes. Heracles had put it on for love and he had been flayed alive for it. Seongwoong did the same thing.

But he gets no such luck. For the third time, he steps back down into America. And just like last time, he thinks he can hear the echo of cheers and see the phantom flash of silver out of the corners of his eyes.

He’s put in for the first game against C9, and when he looks down the stage at Eonyoung, he thinks he might almost see pity.

Seongwoong sits down at the PC, and his hands stop shaking. “Show them why you picked Elise for your skin last year,” Jeonggyun says in his ear.

To Hoseong and Jaewan’s amusement, he doesn’t pick his skin, but Meteos, on the other side and with Lee Sin does, and they start the game off with Junsik’s comment of, “Look, there’s two you.”

They also start the game off with a call from Sanghyeok at five and a half minutes that ends in Jensen falling to first blood. Hoseong laughs. “Nice! Did you see his tweet?”

Sanghyeok, concentrated as ever, bites out, “Focus.” A pause as he cleans up the minions. “And no.”

He’s clearly a little more relaxed as the game progresses though, despite Jeonggyun’s words to them before the game had begun. Hoseong is the only one who dies for a good twenty minutes, and when Sanghyeok joins him, score ticking from 10-2 to 10-3, there’s a slight smile on his face when he says, “My bad. Rumble one hp.”

Seongwoong nearly ends the series deathless, but his final death doesn’t matter. Sanghyeok, Jaewan, and Junsik clean up, and the Nexus falls.

And that sets the tone for the rest of the group stage. They only drop one game, one of six and Seongwoong’s a tiny bit glad that the loss wasn’t one of the two games he plays, and they move onto Quarterfinals.

It’s RNG again, and they repeat history. It’s a 3-1, and karma works quickly, he supposes, because this time, Seongwoong is the one playing during the singular loss they suffer.

He doesn’t let it get to him too badly. There’s already a precedent anyway, one set by the rest of the year. Backstage, eyes trained on the screen where ROX Tigers is ending their series against EDG. “This is good,” Jeonggyun repeats with a grin, words an echo of the conversation they’d had during the draw. “This is good.”

They enter the series, and Seongwoong isn’t surprised that he’s starting. The one thing he knows he’s good at is vision. Maybe not physically, with his prescription, but he knows how to gather information and he knows what to do with it.

It’s what they did for Quarterfinals.

It’s the first game. Lowest stakes. Seongwoong can hear Sungu cheer them on before he disappears backstage. There’ll be a headset waiting for him there where he’ll hear all of their comms.

“Let’s do this,” Wolf says.

His hands are steady, and the rest of his nerves drain with his next exhale. “And do it we must,” he murmurs back.

Game 1 doesn’t start off perfectly, Sanghyeok dying for first blood and Seongwoong following soon after, but he thinks they’re still up in gold anyway because of the mid tier one and a few minutes later, Hoseong, with Jaewan, take down GorillA.

They cling to their lead, killing three and taking bot tier one, even if Kuro’s backup results in another death for both Seongwoong and Sanghyeok.

“Nice,” Sanghyeok says, fire low and shimmering, waiting. “But don’t feed Smeb anymore.”

“We overchased,” Seongwoong agrees, mouse moving as his Olaf respawns. The dragon fight is messy, Peanut getting away with an unlucky ward, but Junsik gets a shutdown onto Smeb, so Seongwoong reassures, “It’s fine. It was worth it.”

Jaewan oversteps near ROX’s blue, but Sanghyeok retaliates, picking off GorillA. The crowd roars. “Focus,” Sanghyeok says, like the countless games before.

And the pace slows. Hoseong slowly pushes the side lanes and the rest of them hover in the jungle and in mid. Jaewan manages to set up a pick onto GorillA, and Seongwoong’s headset is suddenly filled with calls, including his own, to do baron.

Peanut gets infernal drake in the meantime, but the baron buff earns them three turrets and Junsik is an entire item up on PraY now.

They skirmish back and forth and ROX manage to snag baron, but it doesn’t matter because Seongwoong manages to pick up the elder dragon when it spawns a few minutes later, the teamfight ending with everyone but Smeb dead.

Jaewan and Seongwoong nearly die keeping him busy, but Hoseong, Junsik, and Sanghyeok push and they end.

Seongwoong leans forward, adrenaline ebbing again, and slides his headphones off to the cheering of the crowd.

He’s…satisfied, but not happy, not yet.

It’s only Game 1. ROX must know it too, because GorillA smiles at them from across the stage, flames licking between the gaps in his bared teeth.

They all head offstage, and Seongwoong’s not surprised when he finds out that Sungu’s starting next. He just claps a hand, shaking again, on Sungu’s shoulder and says, “Good luck.”

GorillA’s smile replays in his mind, an echo of Clearlove’s in 2015.

Seongwoong stays behind, sliding Sungu’s headset on, while the rest of them head onstage.

Something’s in the air again, the hiss-hiss of dry kindling filling the scarce stretches of silence as they all discuss bans and picks.

Junsik locks in Ekko for Hoseong, and GorillA immediately responds with Miss Fortune.

Seongwoong inhales, and finds nothing but fire eating up the oxygen that should be in his lungs. A chorus of shock rings through his ears. “Hey, they picked incorrectly,” Sanghyeok says.

Seongwoong can hear the frown in Jeonggyun’s voice. “That’s an accident, right?”

“Yeah,” comes the reply.

He can picture Jaewan’s head tilt perfectly. “Ah…are they trying to use that intentionally?”

“No, no, they made a mistake picking,” Sanghyeok reassures.

One of the match officials taps his shoulder, and Seongwoong hands over the headset obediently. GorillA’s smile haunts him. It wasn’t a mistake.

PraY’s arrow flies true.

The crowd roars, loud enough to shake the stadium as ROX Tigers takes Game 2. Seongwoong buries his face in his hands, shaking as if the phantom burns have really destroyed the nerves branching out through his fingers.

They file in, one by one, backstage. Burning heat heralds their arrival, and Seongwoong wonders how Jaewan can resist the urge to turn and face the scorching sun behind him.

“Guys, is Miss Fortune too hard to deal with?” Jaewan shakes his head, and Sanghyeok watches on with firestorm eyes.

They head back out, but ROX is still smiling.

The sound of kindling has been replaced now, the sharp snap and crack of embers filling the silence.

Sungu’s eyes are too bright again when Game 3 ends and Seongwoong’s reminded vividly of the summer season Semifinals.

Jeonggyun’s frowning, Jaewan looks frustrated to the point of tears, and Sanghyeok is burning, burning, burning. Seongwoong doesn’t know how Hoseong and Junsik can stand the heat.

Jeonggyun tells them they’re banning Miss Fortune this time, and Seongwoong knows that this is what ROX wants. A perfect pocket pick that gains them two games instead of the lucky one, and a ban slot in a possible final game.

Fire crawls up Jaewan’s hands as Jeonggyun scolds him. Seongwoong stays silent, even as Jaewan has to blink rapidly, but when they stand, he moves closer, putting a hand on his back. “It’s okay,” he tries. “We’ve come back from worse. It’s okay.” He gets a half-smile that doesn’t reassure Seongwoong the way he’s certain Jaewan wants it to, so he stays there, hand still pressed comfortingly against him.

He just hopes his touch doesn’t leave behind burning acid the way Sanghyeok’s seems to.

Seongwoong’s ready for Game 4 to start, moving to pick up the proffered headset, his usual encouragement of Fighting! at the ready, but Jeonggyun shakes his head, stopping him. “You’re starting,” he says. Behind him, Sungu nods, determination the only thing on his face.

“Win it, hyung,” he says, taking the headphones instead.

Cameras circle the moment he steps out of the safety of the room, but he ignores it, focusing on the burning heat radiating off of Sanghyeok behind him instead.

He was right.

Ten isn’t enough.

It’s not enough, no matter how much he wants it to be, but he can’t just leave now.

The three bans on his screen blink up at him. Miss Fortune, Jayce, and Aurelion Sol. Ten. And he’s been called up for Eleven. So he adjusts his mic as ROX Tigers bans Cassiopeia, and he asks, “Should we take the Nidalee?”

And Sanghyeok is there immediately, voice firm and full of conviction. “We can take the Nidalee.”

“Oh, Seongwoong-ah,” Jeonggyun says, half a laugh rolling through his words, “did you practice the Nidalee?” Hoseong turns his head to look at Seongwoong. “If it’s too much, we can give it over.”

Acid on his skin, fire in his bones. His hands steady when he puts them on his mouse and keyboard, sunlight hollowing him out, burning him clean, cold. “I’ll take it.”

“Alright, let’s take it.” Hoseong locks it in.

When ROX then takes the Ashe and Zyra, he registers Jeonggyun berating himself in the background.

“I’m sorry, Seongwoong-ah.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, eyes still focused on the screen before him. Bans and picks finish, and he is steadier than he has been for almost a year. He sighs, something like sparks escaping his mouth, and says, “Let’s do well!”

“Seongwoong-ah, Seongwoong-ah,” Jeonggyun says, the grin back in his voice. “Show them. Show them how scary your Nidalee is.”

He will. He has to. And for once, Sanghyeok turns to the side, away from his screen, to look at him.

Then Jeonggyun interrupts with the customary, “Fighting!” and Sanghyeok turns back. The trophy glints in the corner of his eye, a shadow of victory blue haunting his face.

And Seongwoong’s hands are still steady. “Fighting,” he choruses back with the rest of his teammates.

The crowd hadn’t screamed with the Nidalee pick. Why would they? It’s expected, especially unbanned and when the other jungler is Peanut.

The Summoner’s Rift blinks to life before him on his screen.

The crowd screams when his Javelin lands onto Kuro though, and it screams when he deftly dodges over walls and around hurled axes to safety.

It screams when he flashes over the top wall after his Javelin onto Smeb, cleaning Kuro up when Jaewan and Junsik show up for backup.

It screams when he executes GorillA, Kuro following soon after again, and Seongwoong doesn’t think the ROX support is smiling anymore. But he doesn’t risk looking up and away from his screen, not while his hands are still steady.

And it screams when Junsik picks up the ace, shattered fragments of the Nexus reforming into the blazing blue Victory banner a few seconds later.

The brief grin plays at Sanghyeok’s mouth, and he rolls his head. Across the stage, ROX Tigers are burning. They’re smiling again, but it doesn’t matter because ruby flames hollow them out from the inside.

Seongwoong’s hands still don’t shake.

The crowd is roaring his name, but he just exhales steadily, keeping his head down.

Sungu is almost vibrating backstage, but he contains himself enough to settle for just a “Good job,” tugging Seongwoong down into a chair beside him.

Silver Scrapes blares across the speakers, red lights almost pulsing in tune with it.

“Let’s play this last game well,” Seongwoong says, back onstage.

“Even if we end up losing, let’s play without regrets.” Jeonggyun sounds happy—no, proud—through the headset when he adds his own reassurance, but Seongwoong focuses on the PC before him and the feeling of gentle sunlight to his right.

Playing without regrets won’t be enough, Seongwoong knows, fire curling harmlessly over his wrist. They’re here for the trophy. He can still see it, down the stage.

The next game is slower, both teams knowing exactly what’s at stake, and the score stays close until twenty two minutes.

ROX are taking baron again. Hoseong, Junsik, and Jaewan are behind him.

Seongwoong sees the angle.

He goes in.

And the inferno howls as Peanut goes down.

“Got them,” Sanghyeok hisses, a rare sentence that isn’t a command or a quick complement. Fire steals oxygen from ROX’s lungs, burning down to bone, and Seongwoong spares a moment to wonder when the flames had turned from that brilliant gold to this bloody red.

ROX never really get their feet back under them.

“End, end,” Sanghyeok calls, calm as ever.

Something in his chest, fragile and trembling, cracks apart, and his next breath isn’t quite as steady as he’d like it to be. He has to take his hands off his keyboard. Halfway up, he curls his fingers in, like a cheer or like a prayer.

He can’t quite decide.

The Nexus explodes.

And Seongwoong laughs, the sound kept in that broken thing in his chest bubbling out as Junsik rushes over, Hoseong standing as well, and the sound of footsteps heralds Jeonggyun as he runs up. Sanghyeok turns to him, a radiant smile on his face, and his breathing stutters.

Before he gets fully swarmed, Seongwoong tugs his arms out of Junsik’s grasp, standing, and—

It’s a lot.

The strobing red lights, the screaming in his ears, and flurry of arms and hands as they tug at him. The broken thing in his chest burns, fire winding around his bones and stealing what little air left in his chest now.

He’s shaking again, even as Byounghoon lets him duck his head into his chest, wrapping him up into an embrace, even as Sungu tackles him hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps, lifting him up into the air for a moment.

“You did it,” he shouts over the roar of the crowd. “You did it, hyung!” And there’s nothing bitter in his voice, in his laugh.

Eleven.

This is Eleven, but whatever’s broken in his chest isn’t done. Embers sneak through the cracks, smoke filling his lungs, searching for his all too flammable heart. But he’s not burning, not yet. Victory is a second skin, stretched over burns yet to emerge.

Just like always, the camera watches.

And Jeonggyun’s is there too. Seongwoong wonders if he can feel the trembling when he lunges forward for a hug that also sends Seongwoong back a few steps. “You did good, Seongwoong-ah,” Jeonggyun says in his ear, holding him tight, a hand on the back of his head and another around his back. “One more series.”

One more. One more.

The camera follows him out, off the stage and into the elevator.

Eleven, Eleven, Eleven.

There’s an energy he doesn’t know what to do with, concentrated in his bones, hot and almost burning.

He still can’t breathe quite right.

“Relief?” Seongwoong turns to the expectant face of the camera man, and every word he can come up with burns to ashes on his tongue.

Just relief doesn’t quite cover it, he thinks, but his legs nearly give out as he tries to catch his breath. The camera follows him down to the floor. Just relief, as if that one word can cover up the shattered thing in his chest, glittering glass edges red from the heat of the flames.

His hands are still shaking, so he presses them to his chest, right over his now unprotected heart made of kindling.

Back at their hotel for one final night before they’re going back to the Staples Center, Sanghyeok tugs him aside, sparks in his eyes. “One more,” he says, fervor on his face. “One more series.”

Seongwoong says nothing, just nods. Is Sanghyeok aware that he doesn’t need another title to be set into the sky? What point is there of being a constellation when you are already the sun?

The life-giving sun, the scorching sun.

Seongwoong thinks he can see handprints burning down through his wrists when Sanghyeok steps away.

They fly back to Los Angeles.

If they win, this will be Twelve, he knows. And maybe then, maybe, he’ll stop burning, the tingle of acid still slowly stripping away his skin down to the subcutaneous tissue halted by a third victory.

Beneath the bright stage lights, the trophy glitters, bright as ever.

Seongwoong looks ahead and meets Ambition’s eyes.

He still remembers what he’d thought after their debut match as SKT T1 2.

Even ambition will crumble before the sun.

History will repeat itself, he promises. He hides his shaking hands behind his back.

“One more,” Sanghyeok says, eyes trained on his screen. Seongwoong wonders if Sangheyok’s thinking the same thing he is.

Steel gray greets him when he lifts his eyes up, blocking his view of Samsung Galaxy, across the stage. “Leave nothing behind,” Olaf snarls in Seongwoong’s ears when he locks him in.

“Leave nothing behind and play with no regrets,” he murmurs to himself.

Hoseong turns his head, a small frown on his face. “What did you say?”

Seongwoong shakes his head, hands steadying. “Nothing.”

Game 1 is close, too close, but they claw out a victory and there’s the literal roar of flames as the line of pyrotechnics goes off out of sight.

Seongwoong turns around and the crowd is still bathed in ruby light, shade just a little more violent than the hue of normal fire.

The five of them are silent when they file off the stage.

Sungu still stays backstage for Game 2.

And they’re all still mostly silent as the game begins. He thinks he hears someone, maybe Jaewan, let out a huff of laughter when they load onto the rift and instead of the massive scroll, Ryze is carrying the Summoner’s Cup.

There’s a close call at around six minutes where Sanghyeok has to ghost away, but it ends up being Seongwoong who’s killed first, Ruler’s Ace in the Hole with a few final arrows from Ambition causing his screen to gray out mere pixels away from the edge of the Lamb’s Respite.

They trade CoreJJ back, but Crown lingers in bot lane as Ambition takes the Mountain Dragon. “No flash,” Junsik says, and moments later, Jaewan echoes him.

“It’s fine,” Hoseong calls from top, pinging CuVee’s ultimate.

“Play safe,” Sanghyeok orders.

Seongwoong rotates up top with Sanghyeok not long after, easily taking CuVee down and the game gets a little easier. They trade two for two bot and skirmish a bit around the map. It’s a slow kind of game, but that’s fine.

For posterity’s sake, he says aloud, “Slow and steady, everyone.”

Sounds of agreement chorus in his ears, and Ambition dies for the fourth time.

The suffocating style pays off—SSG can barely walk through their own jungle, much less contest for baron.

The buff dies right as Seongwoong dives at CoreJJ, Sanghyeok teleporting in after him. Hoseong loses his GA, but it’s a clean ace and the nexus doesn’t last much longer.

It’s 2-0, and maybe they should be happier, but Seongwoong’s the one who seems the most relaxed when he glances at his teammates. They all know it's not really over, not yet, but the game was a lot more decisive than the last one, so he lets himself dance idly to the swelling victory music spilling from the speaker above when he walks away from the stage.

Junsik makes a joke about the score backstage, sprawled out in a chair while Sanghyeok curls up into his customary ball in another chair beside him. “You think we can pull off the 3-0 this time?”

His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Seongwoong shrugs, even if some part of him knows, somehow, it won’t be that easy. “Don’t jinx it.”

Maybe he should have said it before Junsik finished his sentence though.

Game 3 starts out well enough, and by thirty minutes or so, it's 6-1 in towers, 9-2 in kills in favor of them. But then they start baron and SSG hits back.

When Sanghyeok dies, Seongwoong hears him shift backward, away from his keyboard, frustration palpable.

They take six towers before the buff runs out and now it's SKT trying to cling onto the game. The elder they manage to take doesn’t do much and when the baron respawns, Wolf dies when they try to go for it so they back off.

The game bounces between them, team fights swinging either way, but SSG keep the tower lead up and it all finally tips over when Ambition manages to dash into dragon pit, stealing Elder away.

SSG gets baron not long after and when the nexus falls, it’s been well over an hour.

“I’m sorry,” Seongwoong says backstage. “Shouldn’t have gotten outsmited.”

He’s not surprised when Sungu’s called up as jungle for the next game.

His hands are still steady, even when he sits before the monitor, hands clasped in something like a prayer.

SSG wins again, and Seongwoong can feel the heat even through the screen, through the walls.

Acid slowly burns twisting patterns down his fingers.

Sanghyeok grabs Seongwoong wrist when he makes his way backstage. “I need you,” he says, and there’s the shadow of his hand wrapped around Seongwoong’s arm when he lets go.

It’s his turn to turn to Sungu, his turn to say, “I’m sorry.”

And it’s Sungu’s turn to say, “It’s okay. I wasn’t playing good enough anyway,” as if this wasn’t luck. A fluke. A last burst of adrenaline before the body went out altogether.

A swan song.

Unexpectedly, he calms. That’s all this is. A swan song. He’s done after this. He’s done after Twelve.

He nods, and he steps out onto the stage as Silver Scrapes screams away above him for the second time in nine days.

His headset goes on and the roar of the crowds, of the flames, dies.

And unlike the past few games, this one is bloody from the beginning, but it’s close, just like the last two. 3-3, 4-4, 5-5, whatever kills they get, they’re traded back and the towers stay more or less even too.

Still, he’s not worried, somehow. He knows this has to be Twelve.

So he’s calm, even when Sanghyeok gets caught out and Hoseong dies trying to back off. He knows this dance now, after over six hours in this arena. Just back and forth, trying to win a concrete lead.

Baron and elder help—they push up to the tier threes, but it’s not over yet.

Yet.

It takes the second baron and elder.

The second nexus tower falls and static crackles in his ears from the force of Jaewan’s yell and he can’t help but slump backward a little, laughter bursting from his chest. There’s a sharp movement and he thinks Junsik might have just thrown his mousepad.

Blue flashes across his screen and Hoseong slams into him with a hug he matches.

And just like with ROX, the moment Hoseong steps away, Sungu’s there, and there are hands everywhere, the screaming of the crowd roaring loud in his ears until he can’t hear anything.

Somehow, in the chaos, he finds himself standing face to face with Sanghyeok.

Sanghyeok moves first, a radiant smile on his face, the lights glinting in his eyes, refracting off his glasses and Seongwoong lets himself fall into the open arms.

The burning doesn’t stop, Sanghyeok’s heat merging with the jacket and Jaewan is warm when he joins in but Seongwoong doesn’t care.

He’s done. It’s over.

Twelve.

He buries his head in Sanghyeok’s chest, laughing, laughing, laughing.

And for once, for one final damning time, Sanghyeok just holds him.

There’s something special this time, when they lift the trophy. Maybe it's the culmination of all the symbolism they’ve borne. Or maybe it’s something more physical—the spotlights that set the silver-and-blue aflame and crown Sanghyeok when he lifts the trophy.

There isn’t confetti this time, no false plastic and paper stars. Seongwoong thinks there might be a shower of sparks above them instead, tiny embers that die before they can land on his skin, but it doesn’t matter.

The one star that matters is still here, the glow of victory alight on his face and that’s enough.

Twelve, Twelve, Twelve.

He barely raises the trophy this time, pushing Sungu toward it ahead of him and maybe it's for the better because the spotlights are searing when he puts a hand on the trophy.

Something drifts across his vision and oh, maybe there is confetti. Junsik and Sanghyeok both crane their heads up, the former jumping as he tries to catch the falling stars.

Sanghyeok just puts his hand out, and the small silver strips settle in his palm. He lets them sit there for a moment before tilting his hand, the confetti drifting down to the floor. Seongwoong’s not surprised when he’s unburnt.

What a far cry from Seongwoong, who must be the perfect portrait of a man on fire, nothing but charred bones held together by the thing that left him like this.

None of the others notice.

So Seongwoong doesn’t say anything then.

He doesn’t say anything when they drive to the KBBQ place and he doesn’t say anything during the celebratory dinner either, even if it’s to his fingers that the burning oil sticks to this time.

He waits. He waits until they’re back in Korea and Sanghyeok folds himself into a corner of the couch, shooting him a glance before he pulls out his phone, scrolling idly.

Seongwoong thinks he still might see a hint of that victory blue in there.

He could leave. But he has to do this.

“I’m leaving.”

Gravity tugs at his bones, at his heart, burned as it is, and Sanghyeok looks up at him, eyes wide and phone now forgotten. “What?”

Seongwoong folds his arms behind his back, hiding the shaking of his scorched hands. “I’m leaving,” he repeats, the words scratching their way out of his too-dry throat. “I’m not going to try and re-sign.”

“What? Why? Seongwoong—” Sanghyeok reaches forward, and he has to keep himself from flinching when Sanghyeok’s fingers, hot like brands, wrap around his arms. “Why would you leave?”

Acid eats through his sleeves, through his skin and through muscle down to bone. I can’t keep doing this, he wants to say. You’re killing me, and I’ll let you, if I stay. I can’t keep loving you like this.

But if he says it, all that’ll do is make clear what kind of person he is.

A coward.

Heracles was a hero, one who built his own pyre to die in when his lover’s tunic flayed him alive and Seongwoong knows his pyre waits for him. It looks innocuous, just the words I’ll stay said to a god named Lee Sanghyeok.

He takes a step back. Fire curls gently around his wrists, up his arms, asking him to stay in a voice of destruction. “I’m sticking to this decision,” he says, voice hollow but steady. His hands shake. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

“Why? We—we just won again, why are you leaving? Stay,” and Sanghyeok’s voice is a command. Beautiful, terrible.

A command.

Another step back. The one time he can find the Herculean strength to fight gravity. “I can’t.”

Sanghyeok’s expression breaks. “What—Seongwoong, why? Please, stay, I…” and his breath catches. Seongwoong takes a third step back. “Please, stay. I love you.”

Seongwoong wants to scream. I wanted you to say that for so long, he wants to cry, but the words burn to ash in his throat. “No,” he manages to croak out. “No, you don’t. You just want me to stay.”

He turns, and he runs. Sanghyeok doesn’t chase after him.