Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[GWS is goated they never stood a chance]

[2-1 you call that goated? they had to fight for it]

[iris 30k average per game but… damn. he couldve fought general next, thatd be interesting to watch]

[Asking for 1v1 but we already got a 1v9. Iris vs the world]

[no use being good if you’re playing alone]

Luocha walks through the empty hallway, eyes glued onto the phone in hand where a live chat is scrolling rapidly as comments one after another pop up. A chat notification slides into the upper half of his phone which he casually swipes away and switches his phone to vibrate mode.

He stops at a particularly deserted corner, away from people and security cameras, and leans against the wall. His free hand habitually searches through his pocket for something and it’s only after a second does he realise, and clicks his tongue. Because of the match, the coach had taken away his cigarette pack even though Luocha himself isn’t a heavy smoker in the first place.

[@kyle43248 its a teammm gameeee bruh, u should be playing witt ur team. just bc he got high acs doesnt mean jack shit with 1-2. ur goat cant do everything ur doing a lil 2 much for a one-trick pony—

Luocha pockets his phone and pushes himself off the wall, dragging his feet to search for a vending machine because, at the very least, he’d have something else to do other than watching the live chat.

“Nice game.”

A voice greets him just as he’s barely taken a few steps past a junction, and his fist curls inside his jacket’s pocket. He turns his head and meets golden eyes, the right one obscured by white hair and a mole placed underneath the left one, dark, as if a painter had accidentally let their brush drip over their otherwise clean canvas. Luocha glances back at the hallway he was heading down, then behind the newcomer, before fully turning his body to face him properly.

“Thanks,” he says, and belatedly realises how dry he sounds, so he continues with a clearing of his throat, “your game is next.”

The person nods towards somewhere past Luocha. “Getting some coffee.”

“Ah.”

An awkward silence falls over both of the men as they stare at each other, seemingly observing the other’s reaction. Luocha leaves nothing worth to be read on his face— well, at least he thinks so, because his face really does feel very stiff from both the cold and the tension. The white-haired newcomer isn’t much different; his usual smile, the slight uptick of the mouth’s corners, is unchangingly plastered on his face.

It is only after another beat of deafening silence that Luocha finally speaks up, “I’m getting some too.”

That earns him an instant response as the person’s smile widens, eyes crinkling. “Together, then.”

They both fall into step side by side, and it’s only now, not having to directly face the newcomer, that the sudden and strange pressure of awkwardness lifts itself from Luocha’s chest. He can’t help but steal a glance to his side, though, where the person walks with an easy smile on his face, pace languid with hands in his pockets.

He knows this person.

—well, if he said he didn't know, then he'd either be a terrible liar or he's been off the net for at least ten years. And Luocha is none of those. So, he knows this person.

Most players would have retired once they’ve reached the age 25, usually because of deteriorating skills and or being replaced by younger, sharper players still with untapped potential. Not just anyone can hold the title world champion and be considered as one of the highest rated players of all time in the esports scene, and, to top it all off, actively compete even past 25 years old. Only a handful has achieved this feat, and he’s walking next to one right now— LF’s star player and strategist, General.

Luocha’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He pays it no mind. “Shouldn’t you be hurrying along? Your game is starting soon.”

“It’s alright.” General lifts his hand up, glancing at his digital watch. “What are you getting? I’ll pay for it too.” He glances up and lets out a laugh. “What’s with the face? I’m being for real.”

“No, I just—” Luocha’s mouth opens and closes. Like a fish on land. “…why?”

They arrive at the coffee vending machine, and Luocha watches as General punches in the sweetest option available. A cup is placed, coffee trickles down, and taken from the small opening, steam wafting up before disappearing underneath a cup cover. General finally looks at him again and shrugs. “Just because. A quick good deed before I go in. For good luck.” He says, and motions his cup to Luocha. “Maybe for yours, too. In two days.”

Luocha blinks, then his eyelids droop as he turns towards the vending machine, the letters and lines of coffees and options clear and sharp, but he isn't looking. His hand comes up and pushes the buttons mechanically, registering his order without much thought. General glances at him, but lifts his phone up anyway to pay. Another cup is made. The coffee scalds Luocha’s tongue numb. It’s bitter and plain.

“Thank you. Good luck on your match,” Luocha says. His tongue hurts.

“Let’s see each other again?” General asks. “In-game. On the stage.”

Luocha’s brows raise. With his recent loss of today, his team has fallen down to the lower bracket, set to fight against other teams who had lost the previous rounds as well as the bottom two teams of the whole regional playoffs.

“So eager to lose and join us lower bracket bots? LF would curse you to death.”

General chokes on his coffee. “You know that’s not what I meant— the Grand Final. Let’s meet at the finale.”

The Grand Final, he says, as if it’s the easiest thing ever to reach. In Luocha’s case, because he’s currently in the lower bracket of the current playoffs, he would have to fight his way back up again, win against the upper bracket’s final round’s losing team, and then they would be qualified to fight in the Grand Final… in other words, after falling down from the comfortable upper bracket, a straight road leading to podium, they’ll have to fight tooth and nail like dogs to even get a glimpse of the shiny regional trophy. That is, assuming their asses won’t be beat in two days by fellow upper bracket losers.

Then, assuming General’s own team doesn’t fall, smoothly winning their matches up until the final match, then their next meeting would really be in the Grand Final.

Luocha knows what he means, of course, and knows very well it’s all empty, small talk, so he simply plays along. “Sure. Grand Final it is. See you later.”

General’s small smile remains glued onto his face even as Luocha excuses himself, and he finds himself believing the empty promise they had just made; that they will meet again in the Grand Final, playing a full 5 games for the BO5, going neck and neck with both teams qualifying for the upcoming international Masters tournament.

Two days pass. In the second round of the lower brackets, the first match of the day, Luocha’s team loses with a clean 0-2, knocking them out of the regional kickoffs tournament.

General’s LF, on the other hand, while they won the match the day Luocha had bumped into him, had lost their next match, dragging them down into the lower bracket. In the end, they lost against the finalist of the bracket, the dark horse who had fought their way from dead last all the way to the top, the Grand Final just teasingly brushing against LF’s fingertips. 

However, despite the loss, their position as the fourth team with the most points accumulated granted their qualifications for Masters as one of the representatives of the PAC region. As for Luocha’s team…

Luocha stares at the red defeat overlay flashing over his screen, displaying the final statistics of his team, with his chosen Agent placed right in the middle, standing proud with the highest combat score in the team. He clicks out, not even bothering to look at the overall game statistics, and swiftly exits the game client. His gaze flits to the corner of the screen. 3:54AM.

Luocha stretches in his seat as he glances at his friends list, all greyed out and offline. Just as he’s about to queue into another game, he casually glances to the side and jolts in his seat when he sees a figure standing at the door. He relaxes right after when he realises it’s their coach, a retired player.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Luocha tosses out a question, looking back at his screen to cancel his queue. He opens up a new search tab and enters a bunch of keywords.

“I was gaming. I almost died when I saw there was someone in the training room, but turns out it was just you, Iris.” The coach yawns as he waves his hand. “Don’t forget to sleep, I know you’re used to it, but regularly scheduled sleep feels really good, y’know… oh. You’re watching Masters?

“Yes.” Luocha adjusts the headphones over his head as he opens a livestream. He waves at the man, though he never moves his eyes away from the screen. “Good night, coach.”

He hears the coach sigh with his own good night and footsteps fading away, leaving Luocha all alone again in the training room.

He curls into the chair, hugging his knees close to his chest and watches the players step onto the stage one by one before taking their seats, debugging their peripherals. As the live commentators go through the players one by one, the camera lingers on a certain white-haired player whose hair is pulled back in a messy low ponytail.

When the game ends, Luocha is still in his curled up position, staring as the losing group walks off stage, until even the white-haired man disappears backstage.

The host pulls over the MVP of the game for a brief post-game interview, but Luocha barely hears any of it, moving to close the window. He then turns off the computer, tidies up his desk and heads off to bed.

When he wakes up with the sun high up in the sky, his Twitter timeline is filled with news of LF’s loss, mourning fans and—