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As if on cue, when Suhwan’s screen lights up with the red words of ‘DEFEAT’ on his screen, his phone rings.
He looks over, expecting his parents’ or siblings’ contact names to pop up. If not them, then perhaps Hyunjoon—Oner Hyunjoon—or Minseok, both of whom had gone on a convenience store run not too long ago; they liked to call the team in case anyone wanted anything. The last person, if it isn’t his family or the team, who would ever call him at this hour would be his agent, but that was reserved for contract season (which won’t be for another three years for Suhwan, since his contract with T1 is until the end of 2028) and if he had any scandals (which are next to none).
The caller is none of the above. Instead, the words ‘Deathcast’ stare back at him.
Suhwan stands up from his chair, and walks out of the practice room into the locker room. As he walks, he presses the green button. “Hello?”
A female voice comes from the other side of the phone. “Hello, I’m calling from Deathcast. Is this Kim Suhwan?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his tongue.
He considers saying no. It would be so easy to just say it. What would happen if he denied himself? If he said he wasn’t Kim Suhwan, would they hang up and move on? Would Death move on from his door? He might live. There could be a hundred other Kim Suhwans this call was meant for, after all.
But Deathcast has never been wrong. Since the grim reaper organization came to be, they’ve never made a single error on their calls. Every call they make has led to the victim’s promised death within twenty-four hours. If not within twenty-four hours, then eventually. There was a case in the United States, wasn’t there? Two boys who had lived past their twenty-four hour timer, but died almost immediately upon waking up the next day.
Even if he tried to deny it, Death would find him somehow.
He takes a breath. Then, he says, “Yes.”
“I’m sure you know what this call means, don’t you?”
“I do.”
His knees lock up, and he knows he should sit down before he passes out from the lack of adequate blood flow, but he can’t.
“I’m sorry to bring such unfortunate news,” the lady continues, and Suhwan closes his eyes.
Suhwan thought he would have more time. He’s only twenty-two, after all (twenty, based on the international age system), and he’s only three years in on his League of Legends career, which is going pretty well. He still needs to win Worlds. He hasn’t even had his first kiss. Twenty-something is too young, too early to die. Deathcast must have made a mistake.
“There are resources available on our website at death-cast.com to help you talk about your last day with the people around you, created by some of the best grief counselors in the world. There is also the ‘Last Friend’ app that can connect you with fellow Deckers—people on their last day, such as yourself—so that you do not have to spend your last day alone. Again, on behalf of Deathcast, we are sorry to lose you and we hope your last day is lived to the fullest.”
Deathcast doesn’t make mistakes.
Suhwan nods. He realizes a little late that the lady won’t even see it.
“Thank you.”
The line cuts.
Suhwan finally sits in his booth in the locker room, the fabric of his t-shirt brushing against his hair. He looks down at his phone. One a.m. Eighteen hours before the match they have scheduled today.
He needs to tell someone. Or, at least, that’s what the lady at Deathcast encouraged him to do. Talk to someone, find a ‘Last Friend’ with their app to spend his last day with. He should call his parents and his siblings. They’ll want to talk with him and spend time with him before he passes. He should probably tell the team, his agent, T1 management. They’ll want to negotiate contracts and any early closing conditions, things like severance, before he passes. He should call his past teammates—Wangho, Jihoon, Siwoo, Yechan, Xun, Zhuo—just to thank them for taking care of him. Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—should be on that list, too.
“We’re back!”
Hyunjoon enters first, bags of takeaway and drinks (non-alcoholic stuff, of course, which is mostly juices and teas and sodas) in his hands. He raises an eyebrow as he spots Suhwan in his booth. “Suhwan-ah? Are you okay?”
Suhwan quickly flips his phone around and puts on a smile. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just had a phone call.”
Hyunjoon hums, dismissing the excuse without much thought (why would he? They all get phone calls here and there). He heads into the practice room and announces his convenience store stash to the others.
Minseok follows behind Hyunjoon, his own bags in hand, though he pauses by the door to look at Suhwan for a moment.
“You look troubled,” Minseok says.
Suhwan looks at Minseok. It always surprises him how much makeup can change their expressions. Without makeup, Minseok looks so incredibly tired. His eyes look smaller, the bags under them more prominent under the lights. The lack of colour on his lips also makes him look sickly. Suhwan can only stare as he judges Minseok’s condition. He’d taken their most recent loss the hardest. Everyone knew that. Even the fans knew that. There were so many clips and screenshots of Minseok’s sighs, the side eyes, the simmering anger at how their last game went. Suhwan still feels bad about how it went.
But without the makeup, he looks softer, rounder. For a moment, Suhwan sees the Minseok he has always seen on the other side of the screen and on the other side of the Rift. Bright, youthful, and pretty Minseok. T1 Keria. The Genius Monster. The greatest support of the LCK—hell, the entire world, perhaps.
Minseok will be Suhwan’s last support and last lane partner.
A warm feeling spreads across his chest. Then, he shakes his head. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
The corners of Minseok’s lips curve up just a fraction. He hums. As he steps into the practice room, he says, “Come on, we need to test out a different champion of yours with Pyke support.”
He is already out the door by the time Suhwan smiles and responds with, “Of course.”
Suhwan decides not to tell anyone.
If he tells his parents and his siblings, they would immediately pull him out of tonight’s game and beg him to come home. They deserve to see their youngest son before he dies. Similarly, T1 management would probably just get a substitute from the academy to take his place. But that’s not what he wants at all.
If he tells the team about the phone call, Suhwan thinks they would react in one of two ways: one, they could be like T1 management and just call for him to be substituted out. It would be a bit of a cold blow, but he would understand. They still have a ‘Road to MSI’ place to contend for. Or two, they would ask to withdraw from the game altogether and spend his last day with him.
Suhwan doesn’t spend any time dreaming about that second option. He can’t let them, because he knows Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—will do it and fight with management about it. He’ll let them get a substitute for the top lane as long as he can spend Suhwan’s last day with him. Then, the rest would follow along out of mutual respect for both Hyeonjun and Suhwan.
If Deathcast calling him this morning was the knife in his stomach, then anything his parents, his siblings, and T1 would do would be twisting the knife deeper into the wound.
He wants to play one last game with his hyungs. Whether they win or lose, Suhwan doesn’t really care, though it would be great to win. He would leave behind a legacy, a good legacy, at the very least. Besides, it’s a well-known saying that one should never end on a loss, and they had a loss before today. But at the end of the day, regardless of the outcome, all he wants is to play one more game with the Hyeonjoons, Sanghyeok, and Minseok.
Minseok. He remembers how Minseok looked at one a.m. today, when he came back from his convenience store run with Oner. Tired, but still soft and kind, still checking in on Suhwan even though Suhwan knows Minseok has had it worse. This will be the last match Suhwan will ever have, the last two or three games he will ever play in his life, and Minseok will be the last support he ever plays with.
At least, if he doesn’t tell anyone, he can have this, he can have Minseok by his side one last time before he dies.
So, Suhwan continues on with his day like that phone call didn’t just turn his world upside-down.
Just before they’re about to leave for LoL Park, Suhwan looks at Hyunjoon’s—Oner Hyunjoon’s—outfit. He’s got their standard uniform on, with their white t-shirt, black jacket, black pants, and white sneakers. They usually don’t wear accessories simply because, 1) there’s no need for it and, 2) anything on their wrists would likely hinder their gameplay. But a necklace, as long as it wasn’t long enough to hit the table, was fair game.
Hyunjoon isn’t wearing his tiger necklace. “Hyunjoon-hyung,” Suhwan calls.
Hyunjoon doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yes?”
“Where’s your tiger necklace?”
Whatever’s so interesting on Hyunjoon’s phone delays him from answering straight away. “It’s in my room, I think.” Hyunjoon finally turns off his phone and looks up at Suhwan. “Why? Do you want me to wear it?”
Suhwan tries to hide the way his hands are shaking. “Yes, please.”
Hyunjoon chuckles and pockets his phone, walking back to his room as Suhwan vaguely hears him mumbling about how Suhwan keeps asking him about the necklace more often these days. Which—fair, considering their losing streak, the supposed luck the necklace brought was becoming more of a myth than an actual charm. Still, Suhwan figures it can’t be a bad idea to try and maximize his chances of winning today.
There’s another chuckle, and Suhwan turns to find Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—sitting on the couch, phone also in hand. “Suhwan-ie’s serious about today.”
Suhwan brings a hand to the back of his neck. “I just really want to do well today.”
The manager calls for them to head out. As everyone gets their bags and starts for the door, Suhwan turns to Minseok, who has just appeared from the hallway.
When Minseok gets close enough, Suhwan says, “Minseok-hyung.”
Minseok raises his eyebrows and looks up at Suhwan. “Hm?”
“I’ll win it for you today.”
Minseok blinks a few times. Then, “This kid…” He lets out a breathy exhale. His tone is light and it doesn’t sound like an insult. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
They win, just as Suhwan wanted. It takes much longer than he hoped, coming out to three full games with a final score of 2-1 to them, but a win is a win. He looks at the time on the monitor as soon as he comes back from the fist bumps and the bows. Three hours before his twenty-four hours are up.
How had twenty-one of his final hours already gone by so quickly? He had spent around three hours for the game, and then a few hours of practice beforehand. The commute to LoL Park wasn’t so long. Around seven hours had been sleep, because even if it was his last day, the coaches would not be pleased to hear that Suhwan had pulled an all-nighter. That still left around six hours unaccounted for. He panics a little. What else had he done in between everything?
Maybe he should go see his parents while he still can.
As they walk back to their green room for the debrief, Minseok taps his arm. Suhwan turns around.
Minseok smiles. “Good work today, Suhwan-ah.”
Suhwan can’t help the wide smile that comes onto his face. Minseok looks better when he smiles. Sometimes, the producers don’t do him justice with the lighting and angles. But when Minseok is like this, light-hearted, relaxed, and glowing from a win, Suhwan thinks he looks ethereal.
“Thank you, hyung,” he says, “I told you I wanted to win it for you today.”
Minseok’s smile grows a fraction bigger, then he looks away. “I guess you did.”
The staff are all over them, some even before they reach their green room. Minseok gets pulled away for their post-match interviews they post on the YouTube channel, as are the Hyeonjoons, leaving Suhwan and Sanghyeok to rest.
Suhwan is both relieved and conflicted. On one hand, he’s been in a lot of these interviews and it’s nice to not be chosen for once. He’ll run out of words to say about their wins before Worlds.
But he won’t even make it to Worlds now. This could be his last chance to give his last words. They would mostly be for the fans, but he would definitely leave a final message for his hyungs. They wouldn’t see it until it would be uploaded, perhaps hours later, by the time he has already passed. He wonders how they’ll react, how they’ll grieve. He imagines they’ll be upset, and a wave of relief washes over him at the thought.
Then, a second wave of guilt crashes onto him. How could he even be relieved to think about how they might grieve over him?
They do a quick review of the games, talk about tomorrow’s schedule, and then wrap up quickly. Suhwan looks everywhere, at the coaches’ faces, the manager’s face, the team’s faces.
Doran is sprawled out over one side of the couch, bangs pushed to the sides of his face as he visibly relaxes. Sanghyeok is beside him, rubbing circles into his own arm. Suhwan looks down at Sanghyeok’s wrist. Everyone knows about Sanghyeok’s wrist injury that had put him out of commission for a short while, during which T1 wasn’t in their best form. Had he exerted himself too much for Suhwan’s sake tonight? But his face remains even during the entire conversation. Suhwan hopes Sanghyeok’s wrist is still okay. T1 can’t lose another member so soon.
Oner is on one of the chairs beside the couch, hunched over with elbows on his knees. His tiger necklace, the one Suhwan obsesses over, hangs from his neck. Next to him, on another one of the chairs, is Minseok, ankles crossed one over the other as he swings it back and forth. The sight makes Suhwan smile. He remembers that one clip of Minseok that a fan took where they’d caught him swinging his feet because his shoes couldn’t even reach the floor. Minseok is the only one in the team who can ever do that, given his height. The rest of the team, Suhwan included, have to stretch their legs out almost to the edge of the table.
Suhwan will never get to Minseok swinging his legs again. Suhwan will never get to see any of this again.
The manager calls for all of them to head back to the van. They all grab their bags. As they all leave, Suhwan walks up to the manager.
They give him a look. “Suhwan-ah, will you not be returning to the dorm tonight?”
Suhwan shakes his head. “No, sorry, I wanted to go see my parents.” I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again if I don’t.
The manager simply nods. “Okay. Will you need any arrangements to go home?”
Suhwan shakes his head again. “I was just going to call a taxi.”
“Alright, make sure to come to practice tomorrow on time, then,” they say, “Be careful on your way.”
Suhwan nods. He won’t make it to practice tomorrow. He doesn’t know how to tell the manager that.
Suhwan throws on his extra jacket on top of his uniform and makes his way to the van. He peeks inside and gives them all a wave. Doran is in the middle row, the seat beside him empty where Suhwan normally sits. Sanghyeok is in the front row by himself. Oner and Minseok are already getting cozy in the back, watching something on their phones.
Doran tilts his head as he watches Suhwan hover by the door. Suhwan shakes his head. He gives the same excuse of meeting his parents (is it an excuse if he’s really going to try to see them before his time is up?) and promises along the way to see them tomorrow at practice, just as he told their manager.
Their manager comes up from behind and gives Suhwan a pat on the back just before they enter the passenger’s seat. “See you tomorrow, Suhwan!”
The others chime in. “Bye bye!”
“Be careful!” Doran says.
Suhwan smiles. He won’t make it to practice tomorrow. He doesn’t know how to tell his hyungs that.
The van lights up and the engine roars in the dead of the night. The doors close and Suhwan watches it leave.
It doesn’t take him long to find a taxi. He drops his bag into the backseat first as he tells the driver his parents’ address, then shuffles around as he puts on his seatbelt and the driver starts the car. Once settled, he puts his AirPods into his ears and opens his phone to play something on Spotify.
There’s a flash of bright light in the corner of his eye. When he looks up, the world goes white.
Suhwan wakes up with a jolt. When he breathes, a flash of hot, white pain blooms in his side. He moves his arm, gasping as another wave of pain slices into his side. He moves onto his back, stretching himself out as much as he can in the hopes that it will fade. The pain disappears as quickly as it came.
He opens his eyes. Light filters through the gaps in the curtains. He breathes.
For a moment, Suhwan is relieved. At least Death hadn’t come to take him in the middle of the night. He still wants to play and win his last game tonight. He wants to leave the team with the happy memory of a win. That’s what he decided on.
Suhwan goes through the motions of getting ready for the day, washing his face, cleaning up a little so that he looks somewhat presentable while he gets breakfast at T1 Bap. He talks to the chef and other staff at T1 like it’s a regular day because, to them, it is just another Sunday. To them, it’s just another day of finishing deadlines and completing whatever projects upper management wants them to do. Only Suhwan knows it’s his last day.
Six hours until tonight’s match.
He goes back to the dorm and puts on his T1 shirt and jacket for the last time. He stares at the text on the back of his shirt a little longer than normal. Peyz. The name he’d given himself when he started out as a trainee in the Gen.G Academy. He puts it on, then his jacket on top with the same name emblazoned on the back. He stares at himself in the mirror a little longer than normal. Seeing himself in black and red isn’t new; JDG had the same colours, minus the white, but there’s something special about the T1 uniform. It’s the reason he has managed to come back home, to Korea, after all.
This will be the last time he ever puts on this uniform.
He hears footsteps up and down the hallway, then some talking. Suhwan grabs his bag and looks around, checking for any equipment he needs before he leaves. He looks around at his room. It’s been lived in, of course, considering the unmade bed and the charging cables lying about, but it still looks bare, like he was hardly here at all. It’s alright, he thinks. Less for them to clean and fuss over when he passes.
Suhwan gives the room one last glance. With a breath, he closes the door.
He walks into the living room, eyes landing on Hyunjoon—Oner Hyunjoon—first. He’s on the couch with the other Hyeonjun, both of them looking at something on their phones. They all have their T1 uniform on, just as Suhwan does. The only thing that ever differentiates who owns what is the names on the backs of their clothes, and perhaps sizing, though most of them are similar in size.
Suhwan’s eyes land on Hyunjoon’s neck. “Hyunjoon-hyung,” he calls.
Hyunjoon doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yes?”
“Where’s your tiger necklace?”
It takes a few moments before Hyunjoon responds with, “It’s in my room, I think.” He puts down his phone and looks up at Suhwan. “Why? Do you want me to wear it?”
Suhwan tightens his grip on his bag. “Yes, please.”
Hyunjoon smiles and lets out an exhale as he does. As he leaves, the other Hyeonjun chuckles. “Suhwan-ie’s serious about today.”
Suhwan brings a hand to the back of his neck. “I just really want to do well today.”
Suhwan watches as Hyunjoon disappears down the hallway and back into his room. He can vaguely hear his hyung mumbling about the necklace. Suhwan’s name is thrown somewhere in that sentence, too, though he isn’t sure what Hyunjoon’s saying considering how far he is.
Minseok exits his own room and looks up at Suhwan. He follows Suhwan’s eyes and looks into Hyunjoon’s room. There’s an undiscernable expression on his face as he stares. Then, he walks towards the living room.
When Minseok gets close enough, Suhwan says, “Minseok-hyung.”
Minseok raises his eyebrows and looks up at Suhwan. “Hm?”
“I’ll win it for you today.”
Minseok blinks a few times. Then, “This kid…” He sighs. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
They win by a gruelling 2-1 match, but it’s a win regardless. Suhwan lags behind Minseok during the fist bumps and bows, having almost collapsed as soon as the blue ‘VICTORY’ lit up their screen. But he makes it across the stage and faces the fans one last time before he makes it back to their seats and packs away his equipment.
He looks at the time on the monitor. Three hours until his scheduled death. It’s enough time to at least see his parents, even if they won’t get to say goodbye. It’ll be enough. He should go see them.
The team walk back to their green room, bags in hand. Suhwan watches as everyone makes small talk, the coaches approaching Doran and Sanghyeok, another with a camera and microphone in hand as they hand it over to Oner. Victory makes them lighter, in a literal and figurative sense. Doran looks more relaxed than he did a couple of days ago after their loss. Sanghyeok is more playful and present with everyone, making eye contact with just about anyone who will reciprocate. Oner jokes around with the interviewer, putting the microphone they’d handed him in the most random places other than his shirt collar.
There’s a tap on Suhwan’s shoulder, and he turns around to look.
There, behind him, Minseok smiles. “Good work today, Suhwan-ah.”
Suhwan can’t help the wide smile that comes onto his face. It’s a mix of the fact that Minseok has just complimented him out in the open where everyone can hear, and also because Minseok just looks perfect when he smiles. He’s not sure why producers always give him dark lighting or angles that hide his face in the darkness, because Minseok is perfect like this, light-hearted, relaxed, and glowing from a win. It’s a pleasant change from a couple of days ago.
Suhwan is glad he gets to see this one last time.
“Thank you, hyung,” he says, “I told you I wanted to win it for you today.”
Minseok’s smile drops for a second, then he looks away. “I guess you did.”
Suhwan blinks. Before he can ask what happened, Minseok is pulled away by the same interviewer that got Oner and asks him to film for their post-match victory interviews. Minseok gives him a look, then takes the microphone and follows the staff member out of the hallway.
There’s not much Suhwan can do except go to the green room and wait.
It only takes a few more minutes before Minseok and Doran come inside and take a seat. Doran sits beside Sanghyeok on the couch, immediately laying himself over the armrest and stretching his legs until they're directly underneath the table in front of them. Sanghyeok looks over at him with a gentle smile, and Suhwan watches as Sangyeok massages his own arm.
Minseok drops himself into the chair next to Oner and immediately lays back and crosses his ankles together. It’s a direct contrast from Oner’s hunched over posture, elbows on his knees, and tiger necklace hanging from his neck. If it weren’t for the grin on Oner’s face, and the fact that Suhwan was on that stage alongside Oner, Suhwan would think they’d just lost.
Suhwan’s eyes are everywhere but the coaches as they go on their usual spiel about the gameplay, the drafts, and their schedule for tomorrow. He wants to remember them like this, happy, content, and beautiful.
Suhwan will never get to see any of this again.
As the conversation wraps up, the manager calls for all of them to head back to the van. They all grab their bags. But instead of following the others, Suhwan walks up to the manager.
The manager looks at Suhwan. “Will you not be returning to the dorm tonight?”
Suhwan shakes his head. “No, sorry, I wanted to go see my parents.”
He expects the manager to probe further, ask why he’s chosen today of all days to see them, but the manager simply nods. “Okay. Will you need any arrangements to go home?”
Suhwan shakes his head again. “I was just going to call a taxi.”
“Alright, make sure to come to practice tomorrow on time, then,” they say. They give Suhwan a pat on the shoulder. “Be careful on your way.”
Suhwan nods. As he leaves, he throws the extra jacket he brought on top of his uniform and makes his way to the van.
He should say his goodbyes to the team.
The van door is still open, likely waiting for him to make his appearance. Suhwan peeks inside.
Doran is the first to notice him, probably because Suhwan normally sits next to him. The seat beside Doran is still empty. In front of their row, Sanghyeok is the one to ask why he’s not coming in. He gives the same excuse of meeting his parents (is it an excuse if he’s really going to try to see them before his time is up?) and promises along the way to see them tomorrow at practice, just as he told their manager.
Oner and Minseok peer over the headrests, with Oner waving as Suhwan says all his goodbyes. Suhwan looks over at Minseok and gives him a smile and wave. Minseok returns it with a small wave of his own, but his mouth stays shut.
“See you tomorrow, Suhwan!”
“Bye bye!”
“Be careful!” Doran says.
Suhwan steps away and the van door closes. He watches the lights turn on, he listens to the roar of the engine starting, and then stares as it disappears around the corner back to their dorm.
Suhwan doesn’t have to walk very far to find a taxi. He knocks on the door twice, opens it, and quickly goes through the formalities of checking they’re okay to take a ride and giving the driver his parents’ address. Despite the hour, the driver remains enthusiastic and starts the car without any delays.
Suhwan puts his AirPods into his ears and reaches into his pocket for his phone. He looks out the window and, before he can say anything to the driver, everything goes white.
“Hyunjoon-hyung.”
Hyunjoon—Oner Hyunjoon—doesn’t look up from his phone as he says, “Yes?”
“Where’s your tiger necklace?”
“It’s in my room, I think.” Hyunjoon puts down his phone and looks up at Suhwan. “Why? Do you want me to wear it?”
Suhwan tries to hide the way his hands are shaking. “Yes, please.”
With a wide smile on his face, Hyunjoon pockets his phone and pushes himself off the couch. As he disappears into the hallway, a breathy laugh comes from behind him.
Suhwan turns around and meets Hyeonjun’s—Doran Hyeonjun’s—eyes. Hyeonjun is slumped on the couch, one ankle on his knee and both hands on his phone. He simply turns his head to face Suhwan and gives the younger boy a smile.
“Suhwan-ie’s serious about today,” Hyeonjun says.
Suhwan brings a hand to the back of his neck and chuckles. “I just really want to do well today.”
Hyeonjun hums and turns his head back to his phone. He doesn’t get to stay in that position for long, though, as the managers call for them to come out and head into the van.
Suhwan adjusts his bag, bringing the one strap he has put on closer to his neck. It slides down his jacket soon after. He keeps one hand on the strap and one hand in his pockets. He looks around the living room.
Their living room is almost pristine and… bare. There’s a few blankets and snack packets lying about from some of their VOD reviews, drama marathons, and movie nights, but otherwise, the living room contains really only the bare necessities. Places to sit, a coffee table, a TV and console. There’s a few book stacks around the place, courtesy of Sanghyeok, but even the decorations are minimal.
The only evidence that the place has truly been lived in exists only in Suhwan’s memories. He remembers the zombie game they played, and how Hyunjoon—Oner Hyunjoon—insisted on putting on some scary music ‘for the vibes’. He remembers the many card games they’ve played, which Suhwan lost most days.
There was one particular day where Suhwan had the worst losing streak in solo queue in the afternoon. When everyone had come home and settled into the living room for some social bonding later that evening, Suhwan spent most of it zoning out, thinking about the game and how he could’ve done better. Whenever the hyungs asked him for his opinion on whatever conversation had just come up, it took a few seconds for him to react. Hyeonjun—Doran Hyeonjun—had eventually pulled the younger boy closer to him and let Suhwan rest his head on his hyung’s shoulder.
He had fallen asleep like that, just listening to them talk about anything, everything, and nothing all at once. Even when someone started yelling or laughing loudly, he didn’t stir. He had fallen asleep with Hyeonjun’s scent surrounding him and the sound of his hyungs talking and laughing and yelling.
Suhwan remembers being conscious later—still asleep, but body too heavy to open even his eyelids. He remembers the hyungs fussing over him, talking in hushed whispers, and then carrying him to his bed.
“Did Suhwanie fall asleep?”
“He must’ve been really tired.”
“I’ll bring him to his room.”
“No, hyung, I’ve got it.”
He remembers Hyunjoon’s—Oner Hyunjoon’s—big arms around his shoulders and beneath his knees as he was carried to his room. They don’t usually go into each other’s rooms out of respect for everyone’s private life, but that had been the rare day they made an exception.
Suhwan doesn’t mention it much, but he’s really grateful for the care his hyungs always give him, always looking out for him, always making sure he’s okay. He’s grateful for all of his hyungs, past and present, from all the teams he’s ever been in (which is only really three).
He’ll never be loved like that again.
The manager calls for them again, and this time, everyone pours out. Oner emerges with the tiger necklace Suhwan asked for. They exchange a grin as Oner takes his own bag and jacket from where he’d left it by the couch.
Suhwan hears a door click in the hallway. He turns around.
Minseok is the last to appear. Suhwan turns and makes a step towards him.
“Minseok-hyung,” he says.
“Hm?” Minseok hums. He looks up from the ground and meets Suhwan’s eyes.
Suhwan gives him a smile. “I’ll win it for you today.”
Suhwan expects him to say something, laugh about his declaration of victory, give him some encouragement, or anything. Minseok usually does. He’s a very responsive person.
But Minseok just stares, then looks away.
“Suhwan-ah.”
Had he not paid attention, he would’ve missed it. It’s easy to when there’s a lot of talking and yelling and cheering as staff from both LoL Park and T1 try to coordinate five (seven, if you include the coaches) tall men around the place. But how can he miss it? It’s Minseok’s voice. He doesn’t need to see Minseok’s face to know it’s him calling for Suhwan.
Suhwan turns around. It takes a few moments, considering the rush of bodies, some accompanied by bulky filming equipment, cameras, and mics trying to move through the hallway. But before Suhwan can call for him in return, Minseok emerges from the crowd and stands at his side.
Suhwan gives him a smile. “Yes?”
He expects Minseok to be smiley in return, to glow and jump around like an energetic puppy. Minseok is bright like that, and especially so when there’s good news. And today is especially good news. They’ve just won, after all, even if it wasn’t a clean 2-0. But a 2-1 win is still a win in the end.
Minseok doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he looks Suhwan up and down, brows stitched together and a darkness clouding his gaze. Suhwan waits, and he notices how all of Minseok’s pimples and scars are coming through the makeup, and his lips are paler than usual. Had he sweated off the foundation and concealer? Did he even get makeup to begin with? Suhwan doesn’t even remember who decided not to get makeup done.
Eventually, Minseok asks, “What’s your plan after this?”
Suhwan hums. When they were still on stage packing up their equipment, he had taken a look at the time. He still had about three hours before his twenty-four hours were up. Once they finished debriefing, they’d probably just go back to headquarters or the dorm to warm down and rest. It would be easy to just go along with them, spend his final moments watching them do their routines one last time. But the final match, the final win he promised to himself, was done. Tomorrow, T1 won’t have Peyz as their bot laner. Who they’ll pick to replace him, he isn’t sure, but whoever it’ll be, Suhwan believes—knows T1 will be fine.
But today, he’s still T1 Peyz. Well, he’s finished his job for the day, technically, now that the match is over. In these final few hours, he’s just Kim Suhwan, the youngest child of his parents, and he thinks he has to go see them. His parents deserve that much, to spend a few moments with him before he passes.
Suhwan tells Minseok just that. “I was going to go see my parents.”
Minseok opens his mouth, and Suhwan waits. But Minseok’s eyes flit around nervously and no words follow, which is strange because Minseok has always been so talkative. Even this morning, he didn’t say anything when Suhwan told him he wanted to win it for him.
Suhwan tilts his head. “Is something wrong?”
There’s a few more moments of silence, a few more nervous glances everywhere and nowhere. But eventually, Minseok looks back up at him and gives him a small smile. “I was hoping you would grab dinner with us, or just me, if you prefer. But you should go see your parents.”
Minseok pauses. He looks Suhwan up and down again. “We can have that dinner tomorrow, if you want.”
Suhwan smiles. He still has to pretend. “That would be good. Thank you, hyung.” His voice only betrays him once when it cracks.
He wishes he could make it to tomorrow.
Minseok’s stare lingers only a moment longer before a staff member taps his shoulder and hands him a mic. Suhwan gives the staff member a polite nod and leaves.
“Hyunjoon-hyung.”
When Suhwan walks into the living room, Hyunjoon replies. “Yes?”
“Where’s your tiger necklace?” The words tumble out of Suhwan’s mouth.
“It’s in my room, I think.” Hyunjoon puts down his phone and looks at him. “Why? Do you want me to wear it?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
As Hyunjoon leaves, the other Hyeonjun chuckles. “Suhwan-ie’s serious about today.”
Suhwan tightens the grip on his bag strap. “I just really want to do well today.”
There’s a click as another door closes. Suhwan turns around.
“Minseok-hyung,” he says.
Minseok stops in the middle of the hallway.
Suhwan can’t help the grin that comes onto his face. “I’ll win it for you today.”
Minseok gives him a look. Suhwan expects him to say something, laugh about his declaration of victory, give him some encouragement or anything.
But Minseok just stares, then looks away.
Hyunjoon never found the tiger necklace.
Still, they win the game. A rough 2-1, but a win is a win regardless.
As they walk back to their room, staff buzz around them with their equipment. They don’t approach Suhwan with a mic, which means he’s exempt from a T1mitless interview today. Suhwan relaxes at that. He doesn’t mind doing media stuff—the things JDG made him do were worse, at times. But had he been given the mic, he thinks he would’ve taken the chance to say his last words. He would talk less about the actual match and more about his hyungs, the things they did and how much he appreciates them. They wouldn’t know it would be his last words, but at least they would have something to hold on to, a moment from their final day together, a proper farewell.
Amidst the noise, a voice Suhwan would recognise anywhere calls out to him.
“Suhwan-ah.”
He turns around. He doesn’t have to look very far, not when Minseok appears beside him, almost as if he was summoned.
Suhwan can’t help but melt as his eyes find Minseok. Even though Minseok’s makeup has long faded with the competition air and sweat, his skin is radiant underneath the hallway lights. There’s a brightness in his eyes that, paired together with his bright grin, tells Suhwan that Minseok has something to say. If Minseok really had ears and a tail, Suhwan thinks he’d look like an energetic puppy, tail wagging and ears flapping about and everything.
“Yes?” Suhwan asks, unable to hide the smile on his face.
“What’s your plan after this?”
Suhwan hums. He thinks of the decision he made while they were still on stage, how he counted how many hours he still had left. Three hours. For twenty-one hours, the world had T1 Peyz, AD Carry, and not so much Player of the Match but certainly a key one nonetheless. For twenty-one hours, he has been a member of T1, but he hasn’t been Kim Suhwan.
Kim Suhwan is the youngest child. He has two older siblings—one brother and one sister. His sister, in particular, is his loudest supporter, if not his parents. His parents are the most loving parents in the world, pouring everything they had into making his dream come true. He may not have a Worlds trophy, but he has an MSI trophy, a KeSPA trophy, multiple domestic titles, and even a few LPL titles, and for his age, those are an achievement already. But he thinks, even if he came home with less, they would still welcome him with open arms.
“I was going to go see my parents.”
For the final three hours of his last day, he would allow himself to be Kim Suhwan.
Minseok hums in return. “Come have dinner with me, instead.”
This does surprise Suhwan. He stops in the middle of the hallway and Minseok stops with him. Around them, the rest of the room continues to move. Staff still scramble around, making sure they don’t hit each other with their bulky gear. A few people bow to them as they pass and Suhwan bows on instinct. It would be disrespectful to not bow back when they acknowledged your presence.
The idea is nice, of course. Dinner with Minseok would be a dream. But a knot forms in his throat and the next thing that happens, he finds he can’t form the words to say no. His throat hurts.
Suhwan has already spent twenty-one hours by Minseok’s side, maybe not attached to the hip until the final few hours of their match, but they’ve been in the same building, the same room, the same desk. Minseok had all this time to do something with him if he wanted—but why would he? It’s just another Sunday, another match day, another work day.
His parents haven’t had that luxury—his sister, his brother haven't had that luxury. They’ve been in another building, in another part of Seoul for the last twenty-one hours. They’ve had their own jobs, their own work. But there’s a small window in Suhwan’s schedule where they’ll be able to meet one last time, even if they don’t know it.
“I already texted your parents. They said you should come,” Minseok urges, “They said they’ll call you another day.”
For a moment, Suhwan feels angry.
He doesn’t know how to tell Minseok that there won’t be another day. There will be no phone call. How could he just do that? How could he rip that opportunity, the last time he would ever see his family—the last time they would ever see him—from him? Minseok had all sorts of rights as a human being on earth because the United Nations and South Korea said so, but Minseok didn’t have this right. Minseok didn’t have the right to take this away from him.
But he can’t say that. He can’t be upset over this. Suhwan knows that if he gets angry now, Minseok will know something is wrong.
On the other hand, going out to dinner with Minseok would be a dream. They’ve had a rough season so far, and since the side lanes have gotten more of a priority in these recent patches, there’s more pressure on the two of them to perform. The fact that Minseok offered means that he hasn’t been lacking in his gameplay, at least, and that’s good news for Suhwan. They’re okay. Minseok still likes him.
So, he takes a breath. It’s Sunday, they’ve just won a match. Going out to dinner with your teammates is normal. Going out to dinner with your support as a bot laner is standard.
“Okay.”
It is also Kim Suhwan’s last day.
Suhwan isn’t really sure what happens next. They get through debriefing, final reminders, and more instructions on their way out, not that he understands any of it. He stares at his phone the entire time, watching the seconds go by and the minutes go up. He thinks they say his name a few times, but nothing registers in his mind.
He doesn’t even realise everyone’s left until Minseok taps him on the shoulder.
Minseok tilts his head towards the door where their manager has just passed through. “Let’s go.”
They settle in a small restaurant just around the corner of LoL Park. It’s nothing fancy, nothing extravagant despite the occasion, but it’s nice. It’s quiet. The menu is small, which is fine. They don’t spend too long mulling over their options and, consequently, it doesn’t take long for their food to come out either.
They take a few bites in silence. The food is warm and hearty. He thinks about his mom’s cooking.
After a few moments, Suhwan swallows his last bite. “Did you want to talk about something, hyung?”
Minseok looks up from his food. “Hm? Ah, no, not really. I just… I don’t remember the last time we went out casually outside of work.”
That gets Suhwan thinking. Has it really been so long since they went out together? They’ve had meals together, yes, at T1Bap and some other content shooting that involved food. But when he really thinks about it, Minseok is right. They haven’t had a meal together in a while, not outside of company dinners with the rest of the team or half-baked convenience store meals they’ve given each other.
Suhwan would’ve died without ever having one last meal with Minseok. Ideally, he would have the time to have a meal with everyone he cared about before he passed—a meal with his family, his other teammates, his past teammates, his friends from his academy days, but that would be too much food for one day. Perhaps one shared meal together? But then it wouldn’t be as intimate as a one-on-one conversation.
He still wishes he could see his family, at the very least, but this is okay. Minseok is his last support and, while Minseok will have many more bot laners after Suhwan, Suhwan does appreciate that they will have one last meal together.
A few more bites. Then, Minseok asks, “Have you been adjusting well?”
Suhwan nods. “Yes, I think so. Everyone’s really supportive, and you’re an amazing support.” Then, his gaze drifts off to a corner of the wall behind Minseok. “I guess… I’m just struggling to keep up with everyone.”
“You’re doing great, Suhwan-ah,” Minseok says, “I think you’re keeping up just fine.”
Suhwan smiles, a slight warmth blooming across his cheeks and the back of his neck. “I’m just really glad we won today.”
Minseok smiles back. “Me too.”
The conversation flows more easily after that. They talk about normal things—different bot duo combinations, using champions outside of the regular bot pool because anything can be for the bot lane if you try hard enough, how drafting around the bot lane is their current win condition at the moment and how they’ll have to figure out alternatives once the other teams start picking up on it. Regular things. Suhwan is careful not to say anything that might give himself away.
They spend an hour and something in that restaurant. Suhwan looks at the time. It’s getting closer to one a.m. again, closer to the twenty-four hour mark. For twenty-one hours, the world had T1 Peyz. For the final three hours, Kim Suhwan had his last meal with Ryu Minseok.
They walk back out into the cold Seoul night. The spring air nips gently at Suhwan’s cheeks and fills his lungs with a cool breath. He looks up at the night sky, which is just a pitch black sky; Seoul is too bright to see any stars, but he imagines them anyway. Little sparkles littering the endless sea of black, the occasional shooting star and the wish that would come with it.
Suhwan wishes he still had more time.
He looks down at Minseok. “Thank you for dinner, hyung.”
“Of course,” Minseok says simply, “You’re our maknae, after all, and I asked you to eat with me.”
They exchange a smile. Then, Minseok starts towards the street. They’ll need a bus or taxi to get back to their dorms at this hour. Suhwan follows, staring out into the street. He doesn’t let himself dwell too much on Minseok’s maknae comment. The morbid question sits at the forefront of his mind now. How will he die?
In the corner of his eye, a white light burns brighter and brighter as the sound of tires squeal against the concrete.
People have always said that Suhwan has incredible reflexes. He never thought much of it. He is a pro player, after all, and a young one at that. Not that his hyungs’ reflexes are particularly bad—they’re all pro players—but people have always said that the younger you are, the better you are.
This time is no different.
He reaches out before he can even think.
“Minseok-hyung!”
People have also said that Suhwan’s positioning is incredibly aggressive.
His body swings as he shifts his weight. Minseok is lighter than he is, so it’s easy enough to pull him out of the way. But he steps a little too far to his left and tumbles backward.
The world goes white.
Suhwan walks into the room and spots Hyunjoon. His neck is bare.
“Hyunjoon-hyung.”
Hyunjoon doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yes?”
“Where’s your tiger necklace?”
“It’s in my room, I think. Why? Do you want me to wear it?”
Suhwan nods. “Yes, please.”
Hyunjoon gets up from his spot on the couch, and they exchange grins as the jungler goes back into his room
The other Hyeonjun is still on the couch. “Suhwan-ie’s serious about today,” he says.
Suhwan brings a hand to the back of his neck. “I just really want to do well today.”
He looks around. There are still two people missing.
Suhwan turns back to Hyeonjun. “Where’s Minseok-hyung?”
Hyeonjun hums. “He’ll be here in a second. He just had a rough sleep.”
As if on cue, another door opens to reveal Minseok. Suhwan beams.
“Minseok-hyung,” he calls.
Minseok looks at him with wide eyes. The bags under his eyes are more prominent, though Suhwan can’t tell if it’s just the darkness of the hallway making it darker.
Suhwan doesn’t dwell on it. “I’ll win it for you today,” he says.
The smile that graces Minseok’s face is small, almost unnoticeable if you don’t look closely enough. His eyes soften, but it still doesn’t hide the darkness under his eyes.
“I know you will,” Minseok says.
“Suhwan-ah.”
Suhwan turns around. He finds Minseok. “Yes?”
Minseok looks up at him. “Come have dinner with me.” His tone is confident, final, like he’s rehearsed this a million times before coming to Suhwan.
Suhwan blinks. “Ah, uh… Well, I was thinking of going to my parents—”
“I already texted your parents.” Minseok cuts in before Suhwan can explain himself. “They said you should come. They said they’ll call you another day.”
Suhwan is stunned. He wants to be angry, he wants to shout, he wants to ask Minseok why he would do this now. There is no other day waiting for him; he won’t even have tomorrow that’s supposed to come in a few hours.
But Minseok is there in front of him, the dark bags under his eyes concealed by the makeup alongside all his other pimple scars, and his skin glows under the lights. He has that fiery look in his eyes that he only ever uses when he stubbornly believes in something and, well, Suhwan doesn’t really want to fight Minseok right now, not when he looks charming like this.
So, Suhwan concedes. He won’t have his final moments with his family, but at least he’ll have one last meal with Minseok.
“You know you’re going to die today, don’t you?”
Suhwan stops half-way to his spoon.
When Minseok brought him out for dinner, he expected them to talk about… well, them, maybe. He expected the conversation to be about their synergy, their plays, their champion combos. Regular things. But this…
“What do you mean?” Suhwan asks, trying to keep his grip steady.
How did Minseok even know? Suhwan runs his mind back through the things he’s said all day. Was it something he said before they left for LoL Park? Was it something he said during practice? Was it something he said in their game comms? He thought he was being careful, so careful, about everything. When did he slip up?
Minseok swallows a bite of food. “You got a call from Deathcast this morning.”
Suhwan’s eyes go wide. How did he know that?
“You got a call from Deathcast, saying you would die in the next twenty-four hours.” Minseok puts down his spoon and chopsticks and pauses. Suhwan also stops eating; it feels inappropriate now to continue eating when his biggest secret is out in the open like this, like a bleeding wound that won’t clot no matter how hard he presses into it.
Minseok takes a few more moments to breathe. Eventually, he lets out a shaky, audible sigh. “You knew you were going to die today, and you decided to just go ahead with the game, pretend like it wasn’t happening at all. You played a bit more aggressively than usual, yes, but you didn’t tell anyone.”
“Why?” Minseok’s voice cracks.
Suhwan opens his mouth. “I just…”
The words die on his tongue. He finds all the excuses he made to himself seem feeble in comparison to Minseok’s tone. But what else can he say? It’s not like today’s match was important to get them in a solid spot for Road to MSI. It was just another spring split match, just like every other year and all the years after that. Nothing was special about it except for the fact that Suhwan won’t have another spring split, or summer, or off-season, not after today. But it was still just a regular spring split match. Not Road to MSI, not MSI, not play-offs, not Worlds. Just… spring.
Suhwan shakes his head. There’s only so much he can say. “I didn’t think it would be a good idea if I told any of you.”
Minseok frowns. “Why not, Suhwan?” He says Suhwan’s name with a firmness that isn’t condescending or angry, just resigned, sad, upset. “We would’ve withdrawn from that game if we knew it would be our last day with you.”
I know, he thinks. “Which is why I didn’t tell you.”
There’s a pause. Minseok looks at him with wide eyes. His scrutinising gaze casts a hot blaze throughout his skin, and Suhwan looks away. It eases the heat a little bit, but not enough. He can feel his palms sweating, but he can’t pull his hand fan out of his bag to cool them down. There’s no power point he can plug it into in this restaurant.
“Suhwan-ah,” Minseok says his name again, but this time more gently. Su-hwan-ah. “You deserved to have a last day surrounded by people who care about you, people who love you, not… not League or filming content or work.”
Suhwan sighs. “I know.”
There’s another pause, but it doesn’t last long. “Why aren’t you doing anything to stop your death?”
A brief flash of anger passes through Suhwan’s eyes. “I don’t even know how I’m going to die, hyung,” he scoffs, “How can I stop it if I don’t know?”
And isn’t that what’s been bothering him this whole time? Deathcast knew when he would die, but they couldn’t tell him how he would die. There were so many ways—and yet so little, too. Their dorm was a safe place, unless someone else on T1 got the same call he did. The van was a safe place because the rest of T1 was there, too. Could something have happened at LoL Park? Maybe. There were so many strangers in that arena, in the crowd, who could’ve easily snuck in a gun or jumped the barrier or thrown a knife. Something could’ve happened on their way here to this restaurant, but—no, nothing would, because Minseok is here. Minseok didn’t get the call. He is safe. He would live another day, and Suhwan wouldn’t.
When Suhwan looks back at Minseok, he finds his teammate looking in the opposite direction of the restaurant, away from Suhwan. He catches Minseok’s shaking figure, the uneven breaths, the glint of light on his cheeks as Suhwan realises he’s been crying.
Suhwan gasps. “I’m sorry, hyung.”
“Fifty-five times,” Minseok suddenly says.
Suhwan blinks. “Huh?”
Minseok takes a deep breath. “I’ve had to let you die fifty-five times.”
Suhwan blinks again. Minseok is still there in front of him, still looking in the opposite direction, still looking away from Suhwan.
Suhwan isn’t sure what his K/D/A stats are like, but it’s probably right for him to have died fifty-five times in his recent matches if you were to include KeSPA, LCK Cup, and the few matches they’ve done for the spring split. He’s not even sure why Minseok is keeping track. They die all the time in their games, after all.
He starts leaning towards Minseok. “Hyung—”
“I’ve been in this… time loop, and I kept thinking, it will be different this time,” Minseok says. He sighs, his lips curling into a pained smile. “He won’t ask Hyunjoon for that stupid tiger necklace of his. He won’t go to his parents’ house after the game. But you kept asking and you kept leaving and you kept dying.”
“I stopped going to sleep and just waited until they called to say you died. Every night at one a.m.”
Suhwan’s breath catches.
League of Legends lore has stuff about time travel, and he’s read a few short stories of the same sort. He thinks about the stories he’s read of time loops. They always write it from the perspective of the person actively trying to change something about the loop, wanting to find an alternative ending to everything, remembering every single past life before each new timeline. But Suhwan doesn’t remember anything before falling asleep after practice, after the phone call with Deathcast this morning. He’s only ever had this life.
How do time loops even work? He thinks about how Minseok looked at him this morning, how tired he looked. When Suhwan said, “I’ll win it for you today”, he hadn’t rehearsed it before he slept. He hadn’t even thought to say it until he saw Minseok in the hallway. If the time loop thing really was real, then Minseok knew he would say that.
Minseok finally turns back to face Suhwan. “And then, I started purposely changing things. I stole Hyunjoon’s necklace, I called your parents, I took you out for dinner like we’re doing now.”
Minseok doesn’t stop. “But then you would still die.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve had to watch you die, in front of me. And I couldn’t stop it.”
He opens his eyes and looks at Suhwan—really looks, now. “Why aren’t you doing anything to stop yourself from dying? Why, despite all the effort I put in, why won’t you stop dying?”
The stories always talk about time loops from the perspective of the person wanting something different from the timeline, but they don’t ever talk about what it’s like to be in the time loop. They don’t talk about what it’s like to unknowingly live through the same day and make the same choices over and over and over again.
Suhwan swallows his saliva. “Why are you in this time loop, hyung?” He asks carefully.
Minseok opens his mouth. It closes soon after without a single word.
Perhaps Suhwan would always make the same choices. Perhaps he would always keep the call to himself, play the game and talk to everyone like it was just another day because, for them, it certainly was. Perhaps he would always want to see his family at the end of the day after everything that’s happened.
But Minseok wasn’t satisfied with that. Minseok, who has painstakingly inflicted this time loop on himself without Suhwan knowing, without Suhwan realising, has tried to change things. But even then, Suhwan doesn’t remember anything being outside of his expectations today. If Hyunjoon couldn’t find his tiger necklace, Suhwan would’ve just waved it off. He still would’ve played as hard as he did, with or without the necklace. If Minseok hadn’t called his parents for him, he probably would’ve done it himself, to ask them to understand, to hear them one last time.
If this time loop thing really was real, had Suhwan done that in a previous loop? Does Minseok remember that?
Suhwan takes a deep breath. “I think… you just have to let me die.”
Minseok’s head shoots up.
For the first time today, and for the last he’ll ever feel for the rest of his life, Suhwan finds himself at peace with that.
“You can’t heal me back to full HP every time,” Suhwan says, “Sometimes, you’re too far. Sometimes, I’m under an enemy turret and can’t get out fast enough. Sometimes, you’re not playing a champion with healing abilities. We have to make trades all the time.”
“This isn’t a trade I’m willing to make!”
Minseok yells. Like, really yells. It catches both of them off guard. They’re lucky the restaurant is mostly empty, but it is small, which means everyone has just heard Minseok’s outburst. Minseok quickly looks down. Suhwan stares.
Eventually, Minseok says. “You dying in-game isn’t the same as you dying in real life.” His voice is so small, so heartbroken, but Suhwan’s heart hears it all the same.
He smiles, resigned. “I know.”
The clock ticks away, filling the space between them. Living and dying. Beginning and ending.
In another life, they might have laughed over that analogy. In another life, Minseok might tease him about using LoL terms to simplify real-life scenarios. Suhwan might even laugh with him. Even off the Rift, they used terms from the game to describe their lives. It was easy to understand because they had spent their whole lives learning it, breathing it until it became muscle memory. The game would always be part of them.
“So why won’t you stop yourself from dying in real life?” Minseok asks. There are tears streaming down his face now.
Here they were now. They weren’t sitting here as T1 Peyz and T1 Keria. They were simply here as Kim Suhwan and Ryu Minseok. Ryu Minseok and Kim Suhwan, eating at a restaurant after a match on Kim Suhwan’s last day. And even though there’s so much more that Suhwan would’ve loved to do before dying, at least he’s here with Minseok now, sharing one last meal with his last support, with the name of a team he’s always dreamed of being in since he was fourteen.
Perhaps he would always make this choice.
He picks up a tissue and folds it between his fingers. Then, he pats at the skin underneath Minseok’s eyes gently. The tears don’t stop, but he continues anyway. “We’re all going to die eventually, aren’t we, hyung?”
Minseok sighs. “I know. I just…”
“I thought we had more time.”
Me too, he thinks. He continues patting away at Minseok’s cheeks until the tear streaks are less shiny. It’s an amusing sight, Suhwan reaching over the table and trying to keep his sleeve from falling into their forgotten bowls of food while wiping away Minseok’s tears. Minseok is fully capable of wiping his own tears, of course, but he lets Suhwan do it anyway.
Evenetually, when the tissue is too damp to catch any more tears, Suhwan pulls away and squishes it into a ball.
Minseok watches it all. He sighs. “Why did it have to be you?”
For a moment, Suhwan freezes. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
Despite Suhwan’s best efforts, Minseok pays for the meal. Suhwan thought he had a pretty convincing argument with “I’m going to die, anyway. My money isn’t going to spend itself”, but Minseok was not impressed. Sure, Minseok is much shorter than Suhwan, but he’s also older and, therefore, by Korean standards, Minseok is practically obligated to pay for the meal. So, Suhwan lets him. He schedules a bank transfer to Minseok’s account, specifically a few hours later when Minseok can’t fight him about sending it back.
The last remnants of winter cling to the night air as they step back out into the streets of Seoul. It’s a welcome breath of fresh air after their stuffy conversation. Suhwan looks around. They’ll need to take a bus or a taxi home now, since the subway won’t be running any services this late. He starts taking his phone out of his pocket to check their route before Minseok stops him.
“Just a moment.”
Minseok places a hand on his arm. Then, Minseok’s hand moves down his wrist and starts intertwining his fingers with Suhwan’s. Suhwan’s eyes go wide.
Minseok smiles, his cheekbones reaching his eyes this time. He gives Suhwan’s hand a squeeze. “I’m going to miss you, Suhwan-ah.”
Suhwan returns the smile, though not as widely as Minseok’s. He sighs. “I’m sorry we didn’t get more time together. But thank you for everything, hyung.”
They stand in silence like that for a beat longer, eyes locked onto each other. A warmth spreads across the back of his neck despite the spring chill. They filmed that variety content with SOOP a while ago, where they did a staring contest. Suhwan didn’t last very long then. But back then, there was always another chance, another time to look into Minseok’s eyes, another time to admire Minseok. He keeps his eyes on Minseok this time, looking at the mole underneath his eye, his nose, his lips, then back to his eyes and repeat.
Minseok’s gaze remains steady. “Can you say my name, one last time?”
Suhwan clears his throat. Then, he says, “Minseok-hyung.”
Every syllable comes out in a steady outflow of breath. Minseok-hyung, he says.
Then, Minseok’s gaze shifts slightly downward, though not far enough to leave his face. It’s only a breath before Minseok looks back at Suhwan and says, “I love you, Kim Suhwan.”
Suhwan’s eyes widen.
A while ago, he would’ve only been allowed to say Keria-seonsu, Player Keria. There was this massive wall between them that Suhwan never thought he’d be able to cross. Suhwan was on the rival team from the beginning after all, in an enemy region for a year, too. But somehow, as if the universe knew he wouldn’t live for long, they gave him the chance to cross that.
He didn’t think he’d get very far even after being able to call Minseok by his name. Minseok had a long history with Gumayusi, a history spanning five or more years, a history even before Suhwan climbed the ranks to Tier 1. But it was easy to love Minseok. How could he not? Minseok was every bot laner’s dream support, someone who pushed the limits and would help you push your own, someone who could flip games with the right play in a teamfight, someone you could trust both in and out of the Rift. Minseok spoiled him, as did all the hyungs of course, but Minseok especially spoiled him. He still remembers when he told Hyeonjun about the crab Minseok bought for him, and the shell-shocked (pun intended) expression on Hyeonjun’s face when he reminded Suhwan that the type of crab Minseok brought was expensive.
Suhwan thought that he’d only be able to ever say something along those lines to interviewers, where his words could easily be molded into the usual ‘the ADC loves their support’ stereotype and nothing more.
A squeeze. “You don’t have to say it back. I just…” Minseok trails off. “If this time loop really ends, and I never get to see you again, then at least I’ve said it once.”
Suhwan looks at Minseok again, tries to remember the mole under his eye and the shape of his nose and his soft lips that he takes care of with that lip balm he uses. The moonlight casts its glow over Minseok’s skin and, well, if he’s dying today, what does he have to lose?
Suhwan smiles, brighter and lighter this time. “I love you, too, Minseok-hyung,” he whispers loud enough for only the two of them to hear.
They don’t kiss, but Suhwan thinks about it. This is the part in his stories where they usually do, after a big confession. But he can’t find it in himself to move, to ask, to meet Minseok half-way. His feet stay rooted to the floor. Maybe it’s not right to kiss, not when Suhwan will die in the next hour or so.
A squeeze. Then, Minseok smiles. Suhwan smiles back and squeezes Minseok’s hand in return. Maybe saying ‘I love you’ is enough.
Minseok knows.
That is enough.
They turn back to the road, fingers still somewhat intertwined but their grasp loose. They start towards the crossing.
Suhwan looks in one direction, eyes widening as the lights get brighter and brighter. He turns to Minseok, untangling their fingers and, then, he places his hands around Minseok’s shoulders and chest. He pushes.
There’s a sharp, searing pain in his side before everything goes white.