Chapter Text
The flight back to Seoul felt longer than it should have. Jihoon sat in the window seat, forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching clouds drift past like ghosts. His teammates were scattered throughout the cabin: Geonbu a few rows ahead, Jaehyuk across the aisle with his headphones on, Minkyu asleep two rows back.
They hadn't spoken much since the Finals dinner. The silence between them had shifted from the tension of their post-elimination rage to something heavier, more exhausted. Like they were all too tired to keep pretending everything was fine.
Jihoon's phone buzzed. A message from Sanghyeok, he thought, oh, probably not. He checked. It was from his mother, asking when he would be home. He typed out a response, deleted it, and then put the phone away without replying.
Apologize to your teammates. Show me you've actually learned something from this.
The words had been circling in his head for days now, relentless. He knew what he needed to do. He had known since that bathroom conversation, since Wangho had emerged from the stall and shattered whatever fragile understanding he and Sanghyeok had been building.
But knowing and doing were different things entirely.
When they landed at Incheon, the team dispersed quickly. Kim coach gave them a week off before they would reconvene to discuss the off-season. Jihoon watched his teammates leave one by one, with quick goodbyes and tired waves, the universal body language of people who needed space from each other.
He should have stopped them. Should have asked them to wait, to talk. But his throat felt tight, and the words wouldn't come, so he let them go.
The subway ride to his apartment was a blur of fluorescent lights and tired faces. Jihoon kept his mask on, hood pulled low, even though the chances of being recognized were slim. He wasn't in the mood for fan interactions, for forced smiles and polite small talk about how "next year will be better."
His apartment felt smaller than he remembered. Stale air, dust on the surfaces, the faint smell of instant ramyeon that never quite went away. He dropped his luggage by the door and stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do with himself.
His phone buzzed again.
Sanghyeok: Made it back okay?
Jihoon stared at the message. The fact that Sanghyeok was still checking in, still reaching out after everything, made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Jihoon: yeah, just got home.
The response came almost immediately.
Sanghyeok: Good. Get some rest. We'll talk when you're ready.
When you're ready. As if there would ever be a "ready" for the conversation they needed to have. As if apologizing to people you had blamed for your own failures was something you could prepare for, rehearse in front of a mirror until the words sounded right.
Jihoon tossed his phone onto the couch and headed for the shower.
The hot water helped a little. He stood under the head of the shower until his skin turned pink, until the tension in his shoulders eased fractionally. When he finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel with steam fogging the mirror, he felt more human.
He made ramyeon because that's what he always made when he didn't want to think. The familiar routine, boiling water, tearing open the packet, the three-minute wait, was soothing in its monotony. He ate standing at the counter, scrolling through social media without really seeing it.
The esports news sites were already analyzing the off-season. Speculation about roster changes, contract renewals, and which players might be looking for new teams. He saw his own name mentioned in several articles, always with the same qualifier: talented but volatile, mechanically gifted but team cohesion issues, high ceiling, low floor.
He closed the app.
Sleep didn't come easily that night. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying moments from the season: Geonbu's frustrated sighs during scrims, Jaehyuk's increasingly clipped responses to his calls, Minkyu's careful neutrality that somehow felt worse than outright anger. And before them, the rotating door of supports who had tried and failed to mesh with his playstyle.
Apologize to your teammates.
But how? What did you even say? "Sorry, I blamed you for everything that went wrong"? "Sorry, I was so focused on being the best that I forgot we were supposed to be a team"? The words felt performative rather than genuine.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was still approaching this like a problem to solve, a strategy to optimize, rather than… what? What did Sanghyeok want from him?
Show me you've actually learned something from this.
Learned what, though? That carrying wasn't enough? He already knew that, intellectually, at least. That he needed his teammates? Also obvious. That his attitude had been making everything worse? Sure, fine, he could acknowledge that.
But acknowledgment and understanding were different things, and understanding and change were different still.
Jihoon rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. His room was too quiet. He was used to the constant background noise of the team house: Jaehyuk's music bleeding through the walls, Geonbu's alarm going off too early every morning.
He didn't realize he would miss it.
+ ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . +
The next few days passed in a haze. Jihoon barely left his apartment, surviving on delivery food and sleeping at odd hours. He played solo queue mechanically, maintaining his rank but feeling none of the usual satisfaction from winning. His friends from before his pro career texted occasionally, but he didn't have the energy to respond.
On the fourth day, his doorbell rang.
Jihoon almost didn't answer. He was in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, hadn't showered in two days, and definitely wasn't presentable for whoever was on the other side of that door. But the ringing persisted, followed by knocking, followed by a familiar voice.
"I know you're in there, Jihoon. Open up."
Jaehyuk.
Jihoon's stomach dropped. He considered pretending he wasn't home, but that was childish, and besides, Jaehyuk had probably heard him moving around. With a resigned sigh, he shuffled to the door and opened it.
Jaehyuk stood in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"Can I come in?" He finally asked.
Jihoon stepped aside wordlessly, and Jaehyuk entered, taking in the state of the apartment with a single sweep of his eyes. Takeout containers on the coffee table, laundry piled on the couch, the general air of someone who had given up on basic maintenance.
"Looks like you're handling things well," Jaehyuk said dryly.
"What do you want?" Jihoon's voice came out rougher than he intended.
Jaehyuk moved to the couch, pushing aside laundry to make space to sit. He gestured for Jihoon to join him. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"About the fact that you've been avoiding all of us since we got back. About the fact that even the manager is worried. About the fact that we're a team, Jihoon, whether you like it or not, and we can't just pretend the last split didn't happen."
Jihoon remained standing, arms crossed defensively. "I thought we had a week off."
"We do. This isn't official team business." His expression softened slightly. "Look, I'm not here to lecture you. I'm just... I'm here because I think we need to clear the air. All of us. But that starts with you and me."
"Why you?"
"Because I say so. Because I've been patient when maybe I shouldn't have been. Because…" Jaehyuk paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Because I still think we can make this work, but not if we keep dancing around the real issues."
Jihoon felt his defenses rising instinctively. "I'm not…"
"You are," He interrupted, but his tone was gentle rather than accusatory. "We all are. The whole team. We've been tiptoeing around each other for months, and it's killing our synergy. So I'm here to stop tiptoeing."
Jihoon finally sat down, sinking into the armchair across from the couch. The weight of the moment settled over him like a heavy blanket. "Okay," he said quietly. "Say what you need to say."
Jaehyuk leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you know what it's like, playing for you?"
The question caught Jihoon off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" He gestured vaguely, as if trying to pull the right words from the air. "You're brilliant, Jihoon. Everyone knows that. Your mechanics, your game sense, your ability to read the map, it's all top-tier. But playing with you... It’s like being on a tightrope. One wrong move, one gank that doesn't work out perfectly, and I can feel your frustration radiating through the comms."
Jihoon opened his mouth to protest, but Jaehyuk held up a hand.
"I'm not saying you yell or flame or anything like that. You don't have to. It's in the silence, in the way you stop communicating, in how your calls get sharper and more demanding. It's exhausting, Jihoon. Constantly feeling like I'm one mistake away from disappointing you."
The words hit harder than Jihoon expected. He had never thought about it from that angle; he had never considered that his silence might be as damaging as actual criticism. "I didn't realize," he said, and it sounded weak even to his own ears.
"I know you didn't. That's part of the problem." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I get it. You have high standards. You push yourself hard, and you expect the same from everyone around you. That's not inherently bad. But there's a difference between pushing your team to improve and making them feel like they're constantly falling short."
Jihoon stared at his hands. "I just wanted us to be better. To win."
"We all want to win, Jihoon. That's why we're here. But winning isn't just about individual skill, you know that. It's about trust. And honestly?" Jaehyuk’s voice softened. "I'm not sure you trust any of us to do our jobs."
The accusation stung because it was true. Jihoon had spent so long believing he had to carry every game, had to be perfect because his teammates might not be, that he had forgotten what it meant to actually rely on someone else. Even in their best moments as a team, there had always been that underlying current of him taking over, of him trying to control every aspect of the game.
"I don't know how to stop," Jihoon admitted quietly. "I don't know how to just... trust that it'll work out."
"That's honest, at least." Jaehyuk leaned back against the couch. "But you're going to have to figure it out, because this, what we've been doing, it's not sustainable. We can't keep having supports leave because they can't mesh with you; only Siwoo knew how to handle you. We can't keep limping through splits hoping your individual brilliance will be enough."
"It almost was, though. We made the quarterfinals. We were close…"
"Close isn't good enough, and you know it." His tone was firm but not unkind. "We could have been there, Jihoon. Not just close. Actually competing for the title. But we fell apart when it mattered because our foundation was shaky from the start."
Jihoon felt something crack inside him, some careful facade he had been maintaining. "I know," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. "I know, okay? I know I fucked up. I know I made things harder for everyone. I just… I don't know how to fix it."
Jaehyuk studied him for a long moment. "Start by actually apologizing. Not a performative 'sorry for my attitude' thing, but a real apology. Tell us what you understand you did wrong. Tell us how you're going to do better."
"And if I don't know how to do better?"
"Then you figure it out. You work on it. You let us help you." Jaehyuk stood up, stretching. "That's what teammates do, Jihoon. They help each other. But you have to let us in first."
Jihoon nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. "Did the others send you here? To talk to me?"
"No. This was my decision. But…" He paused at the door. "They care, you know. Geonbu, Minkyu, Giin, and even our coaches. They're frustrated, but they haven't given up on you. Don't make them regret that."
After Jaehyuk left, Jihoon sat in the silence of his apartment for a long time. The conversation kept replaying in his head, each word cutting deeper with repetition. It's exhausting. I'm not sure you trust any of us. Close isn't good enough.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through his messages. There were a few from Jaehyuk in the team group chat, mostly memes and complaints about the solo queue. Giin had shared a clip of an insane play he had made. Normal team banter, the kind of thing Jihoon usually ignored or responded to with a single emoji.
He thought about Sanghyeok's words again. Show me you've actually learned something from this.
What had he learned? That carrying wasn't enough; he had already known that, intellectually. But knowing it and feeling it, understanding it in a way that actually changed his behavior. He had spent his entire career believing that if he just played well enough, was good enough, it would make up for everything else. But that wasn't how teams worked. That wasn't how trust worked.
Jihoon opened his notes app and started typing. Not a speech, not a prepared apology, just thoughts: raw and unfiltered. About what Jaehyuk had said. About the pattern he could see now, looking back over the season. About how many times he had blamed a lost fight on someone else's positioning without considering whether his own aggressive play had forced them into a bad situation. About how he had stopped communicating when things went wrong instead of helping his team adapt.
The words came slowly at first, then faster. He wrote about specific moments, the game where he had flamed Geonbu for a failed dive, without acknowledging that his own wave management had been off. The scrim where he had gone silent after Giin missed a crucial ultimate, making the rest of the session unbearably tense. The countless times he had overextended and expected Minkyu to die saving him, then been frustrated when they couldn't.
He wrote until his fingers cramped and his eyes burned from staring at the screen. When he finally stopped, he had several pages of notes, a catalog of his failures, yes, but also a roadmap of sorts. Things he needed to acknowledge. Things he needed to change.
It wasn't a solution. It wasn't even close to enough. But it was a start.
+ ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . + ° . ๑・° ⊹ . +
The next morning, Jihoon woke up early for the first time in days. He showered, cleaned his apartment, and made actual breakfast instead of just grabbing whatever was easiest. Small things, maybe, but they felt significant, like he was taking control of something, even if it was just his immediate environment.
He opened his laptop and started researching. Articles about team communication in esports. Videos of successful teams talking about their dynamics. He even watched some of T1's content, seeing how Sanghyeok interacted with his teammates: the easy banter, the trust, the way they moved as a unit both in and out of game.
It made something ache in Jihoon's chest. Not jealousy, exactly, though there was some of that. More like... longing. For what he'd been missing. For what he'd been too blind or too stubborn to build with his own team.
His phone buzzed. A message in the team group chat from their coach: Meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. Everyone needs to be there. We're talking about the next split.
Jihoon's stomach clenched. This was it, then. The moment where they would all have to confront what had happened, decide whether they could move forward together, or whether changes needed to be made.
He typed out a response: I'll be there.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added: I have some things I need to say to everyone.
The message sat there, read receipts appearing one by one. Jaehyuk replied with a thumbs up. Minkyu sent a simple "okay." Geonbu's response came last: Good.
Jihoon spent the rest of the day preparing. Not rehearsing, that felt wrong, too performative. But organizing his thoughts, making sure he understood what he needed to say and why. This wasn't about making excuses or trying to convince them he had changed overnight. It was about honesty. About acknowledgment. About taking the first real step toward becoming the teammate they deserved.
That evening, as the sun set, Jihoon received one more message. From Sanghyeok.
Heard you have a team meeting tomorrow. Good luck. Remember: actions matter more than words, but you have to start somewhere.
Jihoon smiled slightly, typing back: I know. Thank you. For everything.
He set his phone down and looked at his reflection in the darkening window. He looked tired, worn down by the season and its aftermath. But there was something else there too, something he hadn't seen in a while.
Determination. Not the desperate, clawing need to prove himself that had defined his play all split. Something quieter, more sustainable. The resolve to do the work, even when it was uncomfortable. Even when it meant confronting his own failures.
Tomorrow would be difficult. He knew that. His teammates had every right to be skeptical, to demand more than just words. But for the first time in weeks, Jihoon felt like he might actually have something real to offer them.
Not perfection. Not promises he couldn't keep.
Just honesty and the willingness to try.