Seong-hyeon’s ears rang as his teammates’ voices blinked out, one-by-one, replaced by the buzz of white noise being pumped into his headset to keep the audience inaudible. On the monitor in front of him, his nexus lay broken and shattered on cold hard stone.

To his right, Eon-yeong—Impact, the rock in the top lane was already standing up and unplugging his mouse. Their veteran, the cornerstone that braces Team Liquid’s foundation.

What? Where are you going?

Seong-hyeon turned to his left.

Eain. Oh Eain.

It was at that point that instinct forced Seong-hyeon’s hands up to remove his headset, and he saw the FlyQuest players laughing and smiling. Bwipo reaching over to give his rookies a big hug. Inspired already heading towards the opposing side of the stage.

When UmTi saw them bow, he felt his lip quiver.

Just like that? It’s over?

Spawn came into view, rounding the corner from the green room backstage. Reignover and Haitham followed quickly after.

It can’t be over. We’ve barely started.

The voice of the analysts piped in over the audience’s cheers. Seong-hyeon heard Jatt’s voice. Sjokz said something about how heartbreaking this must be for Team Liquid.

There must be some mistake. We get another chance, right?

He turned to his midlaner. Eain was stone-faced, but a pain seeped in through the wrinkles around his eyes, and that’s what broke UmTi. He choked back a sob, forcing it down with a sound that made it worse.

Seong-hyeon had been on the receiving end of Eain’s hugs more than he could count, but this one was different. And that scared him.

Any semblance of resolve Seong-hyeon had been maintaining fell away at that embrace, arms wrapping around his back in a familiar pattern, but the shapes were all wrong. Eain was stiff, a brick wall trying its best to comfort a sparrow with a broken wing. Stiff muscles cradling a knot of jagged bones. As his first tear since Spring Finals that year fell down his cheek, UmTi all of a sudden felt sickeningly wrong and a far, far ways from the home he had known for the last 25 years.

***

By the time they were finished with their post-series interviews, it was almost midnight in Berlin. Eain stepped out of the studio door of the LEC studio and caught a blast of October wind straight to the face, making his eyes water. The city was under a veil of inky darkness, dense clouds blocking out whatever moonlight might come through. He pulled his collar up closer to his chin to try and keep out the winter wind. They’d been there two weeks and Eain was only just starting to get used to the climate.

Sigh.

Eain knew he wore a number of faces. He wasn’t ashamed of that. He trash talked, sure, but he was humble in equal measure. He acted a certain way for the fans and for the audience, that was no secret, and he acted a different way when he was with his team.

The players filed into their van, the door locked, and the engine started before Eain let one of his masks fall.

“I’m sorry-”

“I don’t wanna hear it Eain.” Spawn cut him off before APA could take the blame. “You all gave it your best today and that’s all that matters.”

From where APA was sitting in the second row of the van, he could see Spawn’s fingers tense into a fist, flexing and unflexing. Flexing and unflexing. And that only made APA more mad. He looked next to him, expecting to see his teammates ready to argue, ready to talk about the series, ready to blame him, anything. Anything would’ve been better than this silence, but he was only met with the view of Core looking out the window and UmTi staring down at his hands. Silent.

As much as his teammates’ passivity pissed him off, APA had to admit, he still cared about them. But he wanted to fucking win. And it was his fault they lost game three, so why weren’t they blaming him? Why weren’t they yelling at him? Why?

Searching for answers, mind hot with frustration, APA found UmTi’s eyes. They weren’t wet, which APA was thankful for because he didn’t think he could handle that sight again, but almost worse, they were dry and bloodshot behind two panes of glass.

“Eain, it’s alright,” Umti said softly, almost in a whisper meant for just the two of them to hear.

All of them packed into the small van made the air too hot, and APA wished he’d taken his jacket off before getting in. He was about to protest, when UmTi put his hand on his knee in a silent plea.

The dark of the night began to lag behind them, replaced by the passing glow of yellow streetlights casting long shadows through the windows and across the players’ faces. APA began to replay the series’ critical moments in his head out of habit, noting moments when he knows he misplayed and created disadvantages, but he began to feel a sinking stone in his stomach.

As the buildings continued to pass them by in the cold night, APA began to realize that this year truly was over. It was done. Nothing could change that and there was another four months until next year started. And while they had all already signed contracts to be together next year…

…Nothing was ever guaranteed. Contracts could be bought out. Players could be traded. Entire leagues could be torn down and rebuilt in a single day.

And tomorrow they were flying home.