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The journey to professional gaming was a realistic one, in Jiang Botao’s case. He wasn’t this striking talent who got picked up by a big team right from the get-go, nor was he flashy enough to be considered a striking talent at all. A talent, certainly, or else he wouldn’t have made it far in training camp, but nothing compared to the likes of Ye Qiu or Han Wenqing or Wang Jiexi.
He thought he would have an ordinary career in a mid-tier team. Of course, he dreamed of more, of bigger and better, greater, but those were dreams, and the world was a lot colder than imagination accounted for. So Jiang Botao learned to manage his expectations early on.
Then Samsara knocked on his door. Figuratively speaking; he didn’t have his own door. Dorm rooms housed three in Parade. The accommodations were as mediocre as the club itself.
What surprised him was how quickly it happened. He’d barely debuted, it felt like, but already, he garnered the notice of a top-tier team. Sure, Samsara wasn’t as competitive as some, but they could make it into playoffs. Zhou Zekai was a rising star whose potential nobody could shut up about. By all accounts, Samsara had a much more certain and glorious future than Parade.
So Jiang Botao took the plunge. It didn’t require that much convincing, and he was ready to give it his all. This early in his career, he figured he could afford a few risks.
His debut season passed in a whirlwind of adaptation and excitement.
In that time, Jiang Botao became quite used to Samsara’s way of doing things. To be specific, there was no explicit “way of doing things” around here. Because Zhou Zekai, despite being the captain, was mostly only the captain because he was the ace and everyone had to follow along with him anyway. He did not have translatable leadership skills, despite his ability to cooperate with others.
It was a bit tragic, to be honest. But Zhou Zekai was endlessly fascinating, and playing with him was an experience. Jiang Botao decided to stick by him in an effort to glean more than just the superficial understanding all his other teammates seemed to have of the guy.
Little did he know this would result in a promotion to vice-captain.
Just to clarify: Zhou Zekai did not speak more to Jiang Botao than he did to others. He did not make more of an effort to clearly communicate. It was just that Jiang Botao seemed to pick up on a lot more than everyone else did, and Zhou Zekai had subsequently developed a preference. During their scrimmages, and even their actual games, Zhou Zekai would pass more commands to Jiang Botao than to anyone else, relying on his comprehension.
So now, management figured they ought to just save the team the trouble of learning Zhou Zekai’s scant language and designate Jiang Botao as the interpreter. A mediator between the captain’s needs and the team’s ability to respond. A speaker of the captain’s will, in a way.
It seemed…strange. Almost insulting. Not to Jiang Botao, but to Zhou Zekai, who could be understood as long as people made the effort. Except not many did, evidently.
“You’re okay with this?” Jiang Botao asked.
Zhou Zekai gave him a smile filled with such warmth that Jiang Botao almost got heat stroke. It hurt how handsome he was.
“Okay,” said Zhou Zekai. He even signaled OK with his fingers. Still smiling.
“Right, then.” Jiang Botao fought down his blush. “You know what you’re doing. And if you trust me enough to let me speak up for you…”
“I do trust.”
Wow, this was too much. Wasn’t it too much? Jiang Botao considered Zhou Zekai a good friend by now—and unfortunately, he was nursing a crush—but this was on another level. Professionally speaking, trust was a mild term for what Jiang Botao would require from Zhou Zekai going forward.
He had to be worthy of it. He would ensure he was worthy of it.
Suddenly, Zhou Zekai stepped into his space, near enough for Jiang Botao to feel the faintest hint of his breath. Jiang Botao’s eyes went wide, and he turned his head to the open door of the training room—but they were alone. Nobody had arrived yet, and they probably still had a few minutes before someone did.
But wait—what was going on in his mind? They didn’t need to be alone. For any reason. Obviously.
“You will be the best vice-captain,” Zhou Zekai told him with utmost sincerity.
Aaand the blush was back.
“Thank you,” Jiang Botao replied, quiet with awe. He’d never felt as humbled as he did in that moment.
Zhou Zekai was no longer smiling, but his expression was soft. Before Jiang Botao could so much as flinch, he leaned in to press a quick kiss to his too-hot cheek.
Jiang Botao thought he must be undergoing some kind of system failure. He’d need to reboot. Maybe get some new parts.
“Hey…” he said weakly as Zhou Zekai stepped right back out of his space.
“Hm?”
They stared at each other, Zhou Zekai with bright-eyed innocence (fake) and Jiang Botao with a confused (and confusing) combination of panic and helplessness.
“…Never mind.”
It seemed his pure-hearted captain could be devious after all.