Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Space He Left
Hyeonjoon had always known he was walking into someone else’s shadow.
When T1 approached him for the top lane position, it wasn’t just any vacancy—it was Zeus’s. The prodigy. The golden boy. The one everyone, especially the team, had rallied around for years. It felt like being handed a legend’s jersey and being asked to make it fit. Worse still, he knew that Zeus hadn’t left on bad terms. There was no scandal, no performance crash. Just the slow, inevitable turn of team direction and contract negotiations.
He was the one who had to fill the space Zeus left behind.
And that space was massive.
From day one, Hyeonjoon had felt it: the unspoken comparisons, the lingering looks during scrims, the absence of the easy rapport that had existed before he arrived. Hyeonjun, especially, seemed more distant than he’d expected. Not cold, not unfriendly—just unreadable.
But Hyunjoon saw the way Hyeonjun lit up when Zeus’s name came up in interviews. He’d seen the clips, the photos, the way the team had wrapped around Zeus like family.
He wasn’t trying to replace him.
But gods, it felt like that was all he was doing.
There were good days, of course. Scrims that clicked. Solo queue days where he stomped and earned a rare, approving nod from Sanghyeok hyung. Minseok laughed at his jokes sometimes, and Minhyung always made sure he wasn’t left out of post-practice dinner plans. But it wasn’t seamless. It wasn’t easy.
And it wasn’t home. Not yet.
Especially not with Hyeonjun.
Hyeonjun was polite. Cordial. Helpful, even, when Hyeonjoon asked about team-specific comms or jungle tracking preferences. But there was always something held back. A pause. A wall.
Hyeonjoon couldn’t blame him.
Still, he couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered during scrims when Hyeonjun leaned forward, focused and intent. Couldn’t stop how his chest twisted every time Hyeonjun laughed at something Minseok said. How his breath caught the first time Hyeonjun had touched his shoulder—just a casual pat after a good game—and how that touch had burned in his skin for hours after.
He hated it.
And he craved it.
Because no matter how he tried to bury it, there was something growing inside him. Something he didn’t know how to name, let alone share.
It all came to a head after one particularly brutal scrim. He had been off his game—missed timings, poor wave control, questionable TPs. He could feel it before they even left the room. The tension. The disappointment.
“Let’s reset,” Sanghyeok hyung said simply. But even his voice sounded tired.
The others filed out. Hyeonjoon lingered, needing a moment alone.
“Hey.”
He turned. Hyeonjun stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You okay?”
Hyeonjoon looked away. “Just tired.”
Hyeonjun didn’t respond right away. Then, a softer, unexpected tone: “It’s not easy, is it?”
“What?”
“Being new here.”
Hyeonjoon blinked at him, throat tightening.
“I know we don’t make it easy,” Hyeonjun continued, stepping closer. “It’s not fair, really. But… it’s not about you. Not really.”
Hyeonjoon finally met his eyes. There was no anger there. Just weariness. And maybe… something gentler.
“I’m not Zeus,” Hyeonjoon said, hating how small his voice sounded.
“I know,” Hyeonjun replied. “And no one’s asking you to be.”
That night, Hyeonjoon lay awake long after the others had gone to bed. The room was dark, the hum of Seoul barely audible through the dorm windows.
He stared at the ceiling, heart aching with something he still couldn’t name.
But for the first time, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—there was space for him, too.
Even if it had to be carved out of the edges left behind.
It was always the little things. The way laughter seemed to come so easily around the T1 house. The way the others slipped into camaraderie like it was second nature—jokes bouncing from Sanghyeok to Minseok, Minhyung tossing a grin over his shoulder, and Hyeonjun always in the center of it all. Hyeonjoon stood just outside of it. He watched from the kitchen doorway, fingers curled tight around the lip of a paper cup, steam rising from his untouched coffee.
They had finished scrims earlier, a brutal block that left Hyeonjoon drained. The post-scrim review hadn’t been too harsh—just the usual nitpicks and reminders—but the sting of not being quite good enough still clung to his skin like static. He had nodded, agreed, took notes, smiled. Always smiled.
But now, as the others lounged across couches, tossing snacks at each other and pulling up VODs from old matches for laughs, Hyeonjoon couldn’t bring himself to join. He’d never been on this team the same way they had. Not emotionally. Not wholly.
The warmth in the room didn't reach him. He watched Hyeonjun tip his head back with a laugh, arm slung over the back of the couch. His eyes shone, a quiet storm of energy, charisma, and something else Hyeonjoon could never quite define. Maybe that was what hurt the most—how effortlessly Hyeonjun drew people in.
Hyeonjoon shifted his weight, his sneaker squeaking slightly against the wooden floor. No one looked up.
He retreated.
The gym was always empty late at night. Hyeonjoon liked it that way. The soft hum of machines, the rhythmic clink of weights, and his own quiet breaths were the only things that kept him company. He didn’t need more. He told himself that.
But that night, the door creaked open midway through his second set.
Hyeonjun.
Hyeonjoon froze mid-rep, back arched on the bench, barbell halfway down.
“You’re not sleeping either?” Hyeonjun’s voice cut through the silence, easy and unbothered.
Hyeonjoon exhaled slowly, forced his muscles to finish the lift, and reracked the weight. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Hyeonjun wandered in, dropping a bottle of water onto the bench nearby. He didn’t change into gym clothes—still in his joggers and a hoodie, T1 logo catching the dim light. His presence felt too large in the small space.
Hyeonjoon wiped sweat from his brow, avoiding Hyeonjun’s gaze. “You?”
“Same.” A pause. “Scrims were rough today.”
Hyeonjoon nodded. Of course. That’s what he’d say. That’s what any of them would say. But for Hyeonjun to say it… it almost sounded like an apology. Or maybe he just wanted to connect.
He should’ve said something back. Should’ve agreed or laughed or nodded again. But his throat closed around the words, and he picked up a dumbbell instead, letting silence blanket the room again.
Hyeonjun didn’t leave.
Instead, he sat down beside him, close enough that Hyeonjoon could feel the brush of his sleeve against his own. They stayed like that for a long moment—Hyeonjoon lifting, Hyeonjun watching. And then:
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
It wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it was soft, almost hesitant. That made it worse. Hyeonjoon focused on the repetition, counting it out in his head. Three. Four. Five—
“I’m always quiet,” he said flatly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hyeonjoon dropped the weight with a gentle thud, not meeting his eyes. He could feel the question lingering in the air between them, but he didn’t answer it. Not really. “It’s nothing.”
“Hyeonjoon…”
The way Hyeonjun said his name made something twist in his chest. He stood abruptly, grabbing his towel. “I should shower.”
He left before he could see the look on Hyeonjun’s face.
The dreams started again.
They weren’t explicit, not really. But they left him breathless, heart hammering, sheets tangled around his legs like vines. In them, he could feel the press of Hyeonjun’s palm against his jaw, the heat of his breath, the way their foreheads might touch, tentative and afraid.
He woke up aching. Not just with want—but with guilt.
Because this wasn’t something he could have. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
They were teammates. Professionals. Rivals, even, if you twisted the lens just right. And Hyeonjun didn’t see him. Not like that.
He was one of the crowd, a body in the line-up, someone to thank after a good match and shoulder after a bad one. He didn’t get to want more. He didn’t deserve to.
So he buried it. Like always.
T1’s rhythm was off.
It started small—missed timings in jungle rotations, hesitation in objective calls, miscommunication in skirmishes. Hyeonjoon could feel the disconnect like a draft in a sealed room. They weren’t syncing. Not fully. Not yet.
Everyone seemed to be pressing harder, trying to fix something they couldn’t quite name. Sanghyeok's reviews grew sharper. Minhyung was quieter than usual, brows always knit in thought. Minseok still joked but his laughter felt thinner, more like a distraction than real ease.
And Hyeonjun… Hyeonjun had grown distant again. Not cold. Just unreachable. When they passed in the halls, it was with polite nods, not banter. In practice, their synergy was mechanical—efficient but hollow.
The pressure weighed most heavily on Hyeonjoon.
He felt it every time he logged into solo queue, grinding away for hours into the early morning. Felt it in the messages he didn’t answer, the fan comparisons he tried not to read but always did. “Zeus would’ve clutched that,” one comment read. Another: “T1’s top gap is the weakest it’s ever been.”
Then came the match announcement: T1 vs HLE.
Zeus. Its not like he doesn't like the guy, he actually wants to be friends with him but the constant comparisons has been draining him and for once he just want's to prove them wrong.
His old teammates. His old life.
It was supposed to be just another series. But it wasn’t.
He doubled down. More VODs. More scrims. Even Sanghyeok had to pull him aside and tell him to sleep. He didn’t listen.
The fever came quietly. It was a slow ache at first, a chill that wouldn’t go away. Then a heat that settled deep in his bones. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Not with the whole world watching.
Game day arrived and Hyeonjoon pushed through the sickness like it was just another lane opponent.
The first match was brutal.
But Hyeonjoon was sharper than he’d ever been. Every movement in lane was crisp. He danced around Zeus’s Aatrox like he could read his mind. He held the lead—CS, plates, pressure. But even with the top gap, the team couldn’t convert. HLE outplayed them in macro and mid-game fights. The loss was suffocating.
Between games, Hyeonjoon leaned back in his chair, pressing a hand to his forehead. The room spun.
Then his nose began to bleed.
Minseok was the first to notice. “Hyung—”
The call for a pause was immediate. Staff rushed in. Tissue. Water. Confusion.
“You don’t look good,” one coach said. “We can sub in—”
“No.”
Everyone stopped.
Hyeonjoon wiped his face, eyes burning. “I’m playing. I’m fine.”
Silence. Then, a slow nod. The game resumed.
Game two was a war of attrition. Hyeonjoon held top like a fortress. His Ornn engages turned fights, his patience outlasting every HLE attempt to crack his lane. T1 tied the series.
The third game was chaos.
From start to finish, it was a bloodbath. Hyeonjoon laned like a man possessed—he out-traded, out-rotated, and forced Zeus onto the back foot the entire game. But mistakes happened elsewhere. A dragon steal gone wrong. A failed teamfight engage. HLE capitalized.
T1 lost. But it wasn’t a stomp.
It was close.
Too close.
As they lined up for the handshakes, Hyeonjoon's knees felt like water. He reached Peanut, who stopped, frowned.
“Your hand’s too warm,” Peanut said.
“I’m okay,” Hyeonjoon whispered.
Peanut sighed and hugged him briefly. “Take care of yourself, Hyeonjoon-ah.”
Backstage, the team returned to the briefing room. No one spoke. Minseok looked worried. Hyeonjun hovered near Hyeonjoon but didn’t speak.
Hyeonjoon sat.
Then collapsed.
“Hyeonjoon!”
The room exploded into chaos.