Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a hand on a shoulder. A shared blanket during long overseas flights. Two coffees placed side by side on the morning scrim desk — one black, one sweetened, no milk. Subtle things. Easy to overlook. But if you spent enough time around them, you’d notice how their gravity bent toward each other. Quietly. Inevitably.

By the end of 2022, it was already an open secret within T1.

Keria and Gumayusi.

Minseok and Minhyung.

A duo on stage, a mess of blurred boundaries behind the scenes.

They weren’t dating. If you asked Minseok, he would laugh, scoff, roll his eyes — “Don’t be stupid. We’re just close.” But he would also flush red. He would glance at Minhyung out of the corner of his eye. And every time, Minhyung would just smile, like he didn’t mind the denial. Like he’d already accepted that being close was enough.

Because for Minhyung, closeness was a gift.

One he never expected would be returned.

It was easy to pity him. Oner, Doran, and even Sanghyeok saw it. Minhyung was wrapped so tightly around Minseok little finger that even Minseok seemed unaware of the power he held. Every morning, Minhyung brought him things. Drinks. Snacks. Warmth. Praise. Every night, he hovered like a shadow outside Minseok’s room, asking gently, “Can I sleep here tonight?” like it wasn’t already routine.

He was the one who adjusted. Who chased. Who apologized.

He was always the first to fold, even when the fault wasn’t his.

And Minseok… accepted it. Always. Sometimes with a smile. Sometimes with nothing at all. But he let Minhyung love him. Allowed it like oxygen — unspoken but essential.

There were moments, brief and golden, when Minseok reached back. When he’d brush his fingers against Minhyung’s without thinking. When he’d hold onto the hem of his hoodie as they walked. When he curled into him during cold nights and fell asleep without saying a word. These moments were crumbs. But to Minhyung, they were everything.

And so he stayed.

He loved.

He gave.

Without asking for more.

Because to him, loving Minseok was enough — even if Minseok never said it back.

Minhyung had always been T1 dependable bot laner — confident, mechanical, a cornerstone of their synergy. He was adored by fans, feared by rivals. And still, when 2025 arrived, the unimaginable happened.

He was benched.

No real reason. Just whispers in management, new blood rising, and the quiet shifting tides of decisions made behind closed doors. He found out via a meeting that lasted less than ten minutes. They told him to “rest,” that it wasn’t permanent, that he’d still be part of the team in spirit.

But he knew better.

He stopped scrimming. Stopped traveling with the team. His room at the T1 dorm shifted to a quieter corner. He no longer rode in the same car. He wasn’t in the group chats the same way. And worst of all — he didn’t see Minseok as often anymore.

But even then, he tried.

He came by the HQ early just to sneak a coffee onto Minseok’s desk. He waited outside the team’s post-practice rooms just to catch a glimpse. He still knocked on Minseok’s door on rare nights, hoping to be let in. And Minseok always did — let him in, accept the drink, curl beside him like nothing had changed.

But it had.

Minseok didn’t smile like he used to. He didn’t laugh at Minhyung’s jokes. He didn’t tease him with pink cheeks and shy glances. Everything felt mechanical. He wondered if Minseok was tired. Burnt out. Or maybe Minseok was just used to being loved so loudly, he forgot how to respond. Like he was still going through the motions — accepting the attention without feeling it.

Minhyung told himself it was stress. That Minseok was overwhelmed. But a deep, quiet ache had already begun carving into his chest.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Because Minseok was still his everything.

And he had always loved with the kind of devotion that asked for nothing in return.

Minseok didn’t fall out of love with Minhyung all at once.

It happened in pieces — slow, invisible fractures that spread like hairline cracks in glass.

It started with the exhaustion.

Too many games. Too many expectations. The pressure of being perfect, of always performing, of having fans who expected godhood every time he touched the mouse. He didn’t notice the way his smiles for Minhyung grew more mechanical. How the soft warmth he once felt during late-night cuddles turned to static.

He still let Minhyung in. Still accepted the lunch boxes. Still laid beside him in bed.

But he stopped looking at him like he used to.

He stopped feeling breathless.

And Minhyung noticed. 

He always noticed everything about Minseok. He noticed when Minseok didn’t laugh at his dumb meme in the group chat. When Minseok didn’t finish the snack he brought. When his fingers didn’t curl instinctively into Minhyung’s hoodie when they sat side by side on the couch.

The day Minhyung realized it — truly realized it — was a cloudy Tuesday in February. Only a few days before his birthday. 

He had brought lunch. His favorite spot, the one Minseok liked because they gave extra kimchi. He waited outside the scrim room, fiddling with his phone, nervous like a kid with a crush. The door opened. Minseok stepped out, exhausted, but paused when he saw Minhyung.

“You brought food?” Minseok asked. Not coldly, not warmly — just… flat.

“Yeah,” Minhyung said, holding the bag up. “Extra kimchi. I remembered.”

Minseok nodded once. “Thanks. I’ll eat later,” he said and walked past him.

Just like that.

No smile. No lingering look. No softening.

Minhyung stood there for a long time, holding that lunch.

It wasn’t anger that followed. Not even heartbreak.

It was numbness.

Because it hit him — painfully, cruelly, honestly — that Minseok didn’t love him.

Maybe he never had.

All those nights curled together… all those “dates” Minhyung planned, the little touches, the confessions hidden behind laughter — they were never returned. Minseok never chased him. Never fought for him. Never once tried to keep him when he pulled away.

And so, for the first time in years, Minhyung stopped.

No more coffee.

No more memes.

No more standing outside Minseok’s room, hoping to be needed.

He withdrew.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

And Minseok? He didn’t notice.

He was too numb to feel the absence. He’d grown used to it all — the constancy, the comfort — like background noise.

The days passed in silence. Scrims happened. Games were played. But Minseok found himself fidgeting. Looking around. Wondering why something felt off.

No good morning texts.

No snacks appearing at his desk.

No plans for lunch, no quiet knock at midnight.

Minhyung wasn’t… there anymore.

Minseok waited. Waited longer. Then started panicking.

He hadn’t been abandoned — not really. But the attention was gone. The love that had cradled him for years had simply vanished.

He tried to ignore the ache. Tried to convince himself it didn’t matter.

Until one night, when he lay in bed alone, facing the cold side that Minhyung usually slept on, and whispered to the dark:

“Why aren’t you here?”

That night, Minseok lay awake, blinking up at the ceiling. The room was quiet, too quiet. The air felt wrong — heavy and dry and cold.

He turned onto his side and stared at the empty space beside him. The blanket hadn’t been pulled back in days. The hoodie Minhyung used to wear still hung on the back of the chair, untouched.

And in the stillness, memories rose like ghosts.

He remembered the time he caught a fever the night before an important match. He could barely lift his head, let alone practice. But Minhyung had been there — wiping sweat from his skin with a damp cloth, feeding him porridge spoon by spoon, whispering softly through the night.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Sleep.”

He remembered the time he woke up crying from a nightmare, breathless and shaking — and how Minhyung had pulled him in without question, tucked his head under his chin, held him like the only thing that mattered.

“You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Minseok shut his eyes.

Had he ever done that for Minhyung?

Had he ever stayed up when Minhyung was tired? Brought him food first? Held him without being asked?

He couldn’t remember.

He had been so used to being loved. So used to being the center of Minhyung’s world that he never once questioned how one-sided the sun’s orbit had become.

Minseok tried to rationalize it.

He’s probably busy. Maybe he’s just giving me space.

But when he passed by Minhyung in the hall that evening, there was no flicker in his gaze. No soft smile. Just a quiet nod, as if they were teammates and nothing more.

It felt like being stabbed with a dull knife — slow, agonizing, unreal.

He curled up beneath the blanket, pulled it to his chin.

And waited.

For a knock. A message. A sign.

None came.

He refreshed Instagram. No story updates. He checked Discord. Minhyung was online, talking in other chats. Laughing with other friends. Posting selfies with captions like, “Grinding, don’t wait up.”

That stung.

Because Minhyung had always waited up for him.

Always.

Minseok scrolled up through their old texts. Hundreds of messages. Playful teasing. Memes. Midnight calls. Minhyung saying, “Did you eat?” “Come out, I brought your favorite drink,” “I don’t care if I’m tired, I just want to see your face.”

All of it stopped now. Like someone flipped a switch.

The effort was gone.

And the absence was louder than any scream.

For years, Minseok had been the one loved. Carried. Protected.

But now, standing in the vacuum left behind, he realized something gut-wrenching:

He doesn’t love me like he used to.

Or worse — he still loves me, but he’s finally given up.

The weight of that thought crushed him.

He buried his face in his hands and tried to remember the last time he looked at Minhyung and felt something real. Not comfort. Not habit. But love.

And for the first time, he couldn’t.

The next day at night, Minseok passed by the staff kitchen and froze.

Laughter echoed softly from inside.

He stepped closer.

Minhyung stood at the counter, laughing with a trainee player. His smile was bright, open — eyes crinkled at the corners, dimples deep. His voice was light. Unburdened.

He looked… happy.

That same smile — that ease — used to be reserved only for Minseok.

Now it belonged to someone else.

Minseok didn’t step inside. He just stood in the hallway, watching through the small glass window. Unseen. Forgotten.

He waited for jealousy.

For rage. For possessiveness.

But all he felt was grief.

Because that joy wasn’t his anymore.

Because Minhyung had stopped waiting for him.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

The next morning, Minseok was pale, sleepless, and quiet during scrims. He made mistakes. Forgot cooldowns. Played safe, like a ghost on the Rift.

Afterwards, he lingered in the lounge, unable to go back to his room. The walls felt too tight. The silence too loud.

That’s where Sanghyeok found him.

“You look so tired,” Sanghyeok said bluntly, sitting across from him.

Minseok gave a lifeless shrug.

There was a long silence.

And then, quietly, Minseok asked, “Hyung… do you think I pushed Minhyung away?”

Sanghyeok stared at him. Not unkindly. But with the sort of calm that came from having seen too much.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t push him away.”

Minseok blinked. For a second, he almost felt relief.

“You didn’t have to,” Sanghyeok added. “You just stopped reaching back. That was enough.”

That cut deeper than anything Minseok had prepared for.

But Sanghyeok wasn’t done. Sanghyeok leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“You don’t even realize how much he gave you,” he said, voice low but sharp. “He poured everything into you. Patience. Loyalty. Love. You didn’t even need to ask — he just gave. And you let him.”

“You let him love you like it was his job. Like it was expected. You took and took and never wondered what would happen if he ran out.”

Minseok’s breath caught in his throat.

“Now he’s tired. And instead of fighting, he’s resting. That’s what you’re feeling. Not absence — rest. For once, he’s putting that love somewhere else. Maybe even back into himself.”

Minseok’s hands trembled.

“Do you know the worst part?” Sanghyeok murmured, voice sharp now. “It’s not when they leave. It’s when they stay long enough to rot beside you. When you look at them and realize the light in their eyes isn’t yours anymore.”

Because every word was true.

He had stopped loving Minhyung like a person — and started loving him like a routine. He stopped appreciating him. Stopped noticing him. Stopped giving anything in return.

He just… took.

And now?

Now he was left with the shell of a bond he’d let rot in his hands.

He couldn’t even speak. Just sat there, shoulders shaking, vision blurred.

And in the broken silence, Sanghyeok said one last thing — the line that drove the knife all the way in:

“You always thought he’d stay. That was your biggest mistake.”

Minseok broke.

The sob came up from somewhere deep and ugly — all cracked ribs and ripped regret. He buried his face in his hands and wept like a child.

Because he had loved Minhyung.

He had. He still did.

But he loved him passively. Silently. And that kind of love — the quiet, selfish kind — was never enough to keep someone from leaving.

And now… it was too late.

Chapter Text

Minseok sat with his legs crossed on his bed, hunched over the open pages of a notebook. His pen was motionless in his hand. He had written, crossed out, and rewritten the same sentence so many times the paper had begun to curl from the pressure. His room was dim, the curtains drawn shut against the morning light, but outside he could hear the muffled sounds of the team getting ready for practice.

Laughter. Movement. Distant footsteps.

All of it felt like it was happening in a world he no longer fully belonged to.

His chest ached with something he didn’t know how to name — regret, maybe. Or grief. Or the bitter realization that love isn’t always loud and obvious. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s a boy kneeling to tie your shoelaces, over and over, without expecting anything back.

Minseok hadn’t seen it for what it was. Not until now.

And by the time he finally did, Minhyung had already started walking away.

How many years had you loved me like that?

Minseok pressed his forehead to his knees, breathing slowly.

How many years did I waste… waiting for something more obvious, when you were already doing everything?

That night, when the ache in his chest became unbearable, Minseok walked to Sanghyeok’s room.

Faker was still awake, quietly reviewing VODs on his screen. He paused the video as soon as Minseok entered.

“You want him back,” Sanghyeok said plainly.

Minseok could only nod.

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” Sanghyeok said after a long silence. “Not when someone’s heart has already been hurt. But maybe… the same way it was hard for him to reach you, maybe it has to be hard for you now.”

Minseok didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll take it. All of it. Even if I have to tie his shoes a hundred times.”

Sanghyeok smiled faintly, more sad than amused. “It’s not about the shoes, Minseok. It never was.”

The next day, Minseok woke up earlier than usual.

He typed and deleted a message five times before finally pressing send:

“Good morning, Lee Minhyung” 

No reply.

But he kept sending one every day.

He started showing up with Minhyung’s favorite drinks again — even when Minhyung didn’t look at him. He lingered outside scrims just to ask if Minhyung wanted to get lunch. No response.

Still, Minseok didn’t stop.

Sometimes he cried after Minhyung walked past him. Sometimes he laughed bitterly at how much effort it took just to earn a “thanks.”

But the thing that hurt most wasn’t the silence — it was knowing Minhyung had once done all of this for him. With no promise of return. With a heart so wide open Minseok hadn’t even seen the edges of it.

Meanwhile, Minhyung watched all of it unfold like a dream he was too tired to believe in.

At first, he didn’t understand.

Why now?

After everything — after the chasing, the waiting, the quiet pain — why was Minseok suddenly showing up again, with bright smiles and morning texts?

Minhyung wanted to believe it. So badly.

But some small, terrified part of him whispered: What if he leaves again once he’s satisfied? What if I get hurt worse than last time?

So he stayed guarded.

He kept his replies short. He ducked away from Minseok’s glances.

He watched Minseok cry once, when he thought no one could see. That image carved itself into Minhyung’s heart like a permanent scar.

He wanted to reach out.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

It was only when Minseok stood up in the middle of a team meeting — voice trembling but steady — and spoke for him, that something shifted.

Minhyung had been benched for two weeks. He hadn’t touched the stage. The coaching staff hadn’t said much, but the message was clear: You’re not enough anymore.

Minseok, of all people, wouldn’t accept that.

“He’s not done,” Minseok said. “You think he’s slipping, but I’ve watched him. I’ve watched every scrim, every solo queue game, every path he takes. He’s still one of the best ADCs in this league.”

Silence.

Then: “If you want to give up on him, fine. But I won’t.”

The first sign that Minhyung was coming back was a shoot. Then a scrim. Then a quiet, almost unnoticed addition to the team’s car schedule.

And finally, his name appeared on the starting list.

Minseok saw it first. He stared at the board for a full thirty seconds, frozen.

Then he ran. All the way to the back hallway, where no one could see, and leaned against the cold wall, clutching his chest.

He’s coming back.

My Minhyung is coming back.

The van ride was quiet. Minhyung sat beside him, tense, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Minseok reached out, laced their fingers together without saying a word.

Minhyung looked at him.

“I’m nervous,” he whispered.

“I know,” Minseok replied, squeezing his hand. “You’re allowed to be.”

Later, in the players’ room, everything was a blur of cables and monitors and the soft hum of headsets being tested. Everyone was in their own zone.

Minseok wasn’t.

He was watching Minhyung. Watching his fingers tremble slightly. Watching the way he stared at the floor like it might open and swallow him.

Then Minseok looked down and saw it.

Minhyung’s shoelaces — slightly undone.

And he remembered.

The list. The last item.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

“Minseok?”

Minhyung blinked in surprise as Minseok knelt down in front of him.

“I’m tying your shoes.”

“What?”

Minseok was already fumbling with the laces. “You did it for me once. Remember?”

“Yeah, but—what if you tie them wrong?”

“Then trip. I’ll catch you.”

Minhyung let out a shaky laugh, watching as Minseok’s small hands struggled to form a proper knot.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m trying.”

Minhyung’s heart cracked at those two words.

Because he was trying. And not just at the shoelaces.

He was trying to show love the way Minhyung once had — fiercely, clumsily, and without pride.

Minseok looked up at him, flushed and determined. “I’m going to do everything you did for me. Even if I mess it up.”

“Minseok…”

Minseok stood up, leaned in close, stood on his toes—

And whispered, “I love you, Lee Minhyung.”

Then he pulled back, eyes shining, and ran toward the match hallway.

“LET’S FINISH THE MATCH!”

Minhyung stared after him, stunned.

He looked down at his shoelaces — awkwardly tied, slightly off-center, imperfect.

And he smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time… his heart felt tied to something again.

To someone.

To Minseok.

When the match ended and the crowd roared for their victory, Minhyung walked off the stage and found Minseok waiting in the hallway, eyes soft and proud.

Minhyung didn’t say anything.

He just walked up to him, took Minseok’s face in his hands, and kissed him like he had all the time in the world.

The cheers from LoL Park were still echoing in Minhyung’s ears as they stepped out of the van and returned to the dorms. The city outside was buzzing — fans, staff, reporters — but inside Minhyung felt quiet. Calmer than he’d felt in weeks. Not because they had won. Not even because he had played well.

But because Minseok had waited for him.

And not just waited — fought for him.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the T1 dorm dimmed to a soft hush. Most of the others wandered off — some heading to the kitchen, others to the gaming room. But Minhyung didn’t move from the hallway.

And Minseok didn’t either.

They stood there, still wearing their team jackets, shoes barely off, bags dropped at their feet.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Like everything unsaid had finally climbed its way to the surface, demanding to be felt.

Minhyung swallowed.

“Do you… want to talk in my room?”

Minseok nodded wordlessly, already blinking fast.

It looked exactly the same as it always had — a little messy, with old scrim notes piled on the desk and a faint scent of Minhyung’s shampoo lingering in the air.

But to Minseok, it felt like a sacred place.

A place he hadn’t been invited to in a long time.

They sat on the bed, side by side, knees touching. It took a moment before either of them spoke.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” Minseok said, voice already breaking.

Minhyung turned to him slowly, brows furrowed.

“For what?”

“For everything,” Minseok whispered. “For not seeing it sooner. For making you chase me for so long without ever giving you what you gave me. For just… standing still while you burned yourself out trying to love me.”

He laughed bitterly, tears already slipping down his cheek. “I didn’t even realize how much you were doing until you stopped.”

Minhyung looked at him, eyes wet too.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to love you anymore,” he said softly. “I just… I got tired of begging to be seen.”

Minseok’s chest caved inward, guilt slicing through his ribs.

“I know,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen you the whole time.”

“I kept thinking, ‘maybe today he’ll ask how I am,’ or ‘maybe today he’ll say he’s proud of me.’ But it never came.”

“I didn’t know how to say those things,” Minseok admitted. “I was scared. I thought… if I started saying it, you’d realize how much power you had over me.”

Minhyung stared. “Power?”

Minseok nodded. “You made me feel things. You always did. And I didn’t know how to handle that. So I acted cold. Distant. But the truth is…”

He turned to face Minhyung completely, their knees fully touching now.

“I loved you all along. I just didn’t know how to show it.”

Minhyung closed his eyes, breathing in the weight of those words.

“I loved you so loudly,” he whispered. “And it felt like I was the only one screaming.”

Minseok reached out, tentatively taking Minhyung’s hand.

“Then let me learn how to scream too.”

A pause. Then:

“I want to try,” Minseok said, voice trembling. “Like you did. I want to wake up and say good morning first. I want to check your ranked games, bring your coffee, tie your shoes — I want to be loud for you.”

Minhyung looked down at their joined hands. Slowly, he threaded their fingers together.

“I don’t want to be chased anymore,” he said quietly. “I want to be met. I want this to be two people — not one person doing all the work.”

“Then let’s meet in the middle,” Minseok said.

Tears ran down both of their faces. But they didn’t wipe them away.

They let them fall.

Minseok leaned forward slowly, heart pounding in his chest.

Minhyung met him halfway.

Their lips touched — soft, unhurried. The kiss wasn’t desperate like before. It wasn’t about reclaiming something lost. It was a quiet promise:

We’re here now.

After the kiss, they lay down on the bed, still fully clothed, facing each other on their sides. Minhyung’s fingers found Minseok’s hair, brushing it back gently. Minseok curled into his chest like a small animal, finally safe.

“I was so scared you’d never come back to me,” Minseok mumbled.

“I was scared I’d never be strong enough to leave,” Minhyung whispered back.

They lay there for a long time, breathing together. Heartbeats syncing.

“You’re not going to lose me again,” Minseok said. “I won’t let you.”

Minhyung nodded, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“And I’ll let you love me. However you want. However you can.”

The next morning, the rest of the T1 boys saw the difference immediately.

Minseok had his arm looped tightly through Minhyung’s as they walked into the kitchen. He was beaming. Minhyung looked relaxed for the first time in months.

“You guys…” Doran said, staring with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “You’re not just back together — you’re gross now.”

Oner groaned. “Not the full honeymoon arc. I just got used to not hearing them flirt every second.”

Faker glanced at the two and smiled faintly. He said nothing.

Later that afternoon, Minhyung found himself alone with Sanghyeok, who was watching a solo queue game on mute.

“You knew this would happen,” Minhyung said quietly.

Sanghyeok didn’t look away from the screen. “What do you mean?”

“You told me to distance myself. That it would hurt, but that it might be the only way Minseok wakes up.”

Sanghyeok nodded.

“You were right,” Minhyung said. “It hurt like hell.”

Sanghyeok finally turned to him.

“But it worked.”

Minhyung gave a small smile. “He tied my shoes.”

Sanghyeok snorted. “Romantic.”

“You have no idea.”

Later that week, Minseok sent Sanghyeok a quiet message.

Thank you for telling me to try.

Sanghyeok never replied.

But that evening, there was an extra bottle of Minhyung’s favorite coffee in the fridge with a note:

“It takes two.”

Back in their shared room, Minseok curled into Minhyung again, cheek resting against his chest.

“I want to be someone who makes you feel loved,” he whispered.

“You already are,” Minhyung replied, arms wrapped around him. “Just don’t stop showing it.”

“I won’t,” Minseok promised, and kissed the base of Minhyung’s throat. “Never again.”

Outside, the dorm was loud with laughter and keyboard clicks. But inside this room, it was quiet — soft, warm, safe.

Love didn’t have to be a chase anymore.

Now, they walked side by side.

Hand in hand.

Shoelaces tied.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed into the T1 dorm, painting everything in soft gold. The world seemed to pause in those precious moments when Minhyung's alarm went off, and he instinctively reached for the warmth beside him. Minseok had already beaten him to it. A sleepy giggle, followed by a sloppy kiss on Minhyung's cheek, greeted him.

“Good morning, Minhyungie,” Minseok mumbled, his voice muffled against Minhyung's shoulder. He nuzzled in closer, practically melting into him.

“Good morning, Minseokie,” Minhyung replied, eyes crinkling at the corners. He brushed a strand of hair off Minseok’s forehead and pressed his lips to the spot tenderly. “Did you sleep well?”

Minseok’s smile was small and shy, but his eyes glowed with love. “I always sleep well when you’re here,” he whispered, making Minhyung's heart flip.

They shared these mornings often now—no longer the days of one-sided effort or missed chances. Both of them had grown, learned to meet each other halfway.

Today was Minseok’s turn for coffee, so he’d woken up early—half an hour before Minhyung's alarm—to brew something he hoped would resemble coffee.

Minhyung accepted the mug with all the love in the world. He sipped and winced a little, but his grin never faltered. “Delicious,” he lied, because Minseok’s smile was more important than the bitter tang in his mouth.

“You liar,” Minseok teased, poking Minhyung cheek. “It’s okay, I know it tastes bad. But I tried really hard.”

Minhyung took his hand, pressing a kiss to Minseok’s knuckles. “It’s perfect because you made it for me,” he said sincerely.

Their hands stayed intertwined as they left the dorm room, heading to breakfast together. They didn’t care that the others were there—Oner rolling his eyes, Sanghyeok muttering under his breath about how “lovebirds are too bright this early in the morning,” or Doran dramatically shielding his eyes like a vampire.

At the breakfast table, Minseok clung to Minhyung's arm, feeding him bites of toast between laughs and stolen kisses. Oner dramatically dropped his spoon into his cereal with a loud clatter. “Seriously, you two—can you not do that in front of the food?”

Minseok stuck his tongue out, pressing a lingering forehead kiss to Minhyung's temple, eyes closed, as if he’d never let go. “We’re unstoppable,” he whispered. Minhyung's grin was so bright it could’ve powered the whole practice room.

Even Oner secretly smirked, hiding his fondness behind a sigh. Doran muttered under his breath, “It’s sweet, okay? I said it. Happy now?” Sanghyeok, from his seat across the table, tried to look annoyed but couldn’t help the small, knowing smile that curled at the corners of his mouth. Deep down, they were all happy—relieved, even—that the two of them had found their way back to each other.

In the practice room, Minhyung and Minseok settled into their seats side by side. Minhyung reached over to adjust Minseok’s headset, a small but intimate gesture. Minseok gave him a bright smile, his cheeks slightly pink.

“You always do that,” Minseok teased. “Like I’m a baby.”

Minhyung shrugged, a playful grin on his lips. “You are my baby,” he shot back.

Minseok’s laughter rang out, filling the room. Even the staff paused to watch the two of them—so at ease, so right together.

“Seriously, you two are acting like you own the world and we’re just renting it,” Oner groaned.

Minseok smirked, pressing another kiss to Minhyung's cheek. “We do own the world,” he said, grinning.

But deep down, Oner, Sanghyeok, and Doran were happy. They knew—everyone knew—that Minhyung and Minseok were soulmates, forged by fate and stubbornness and the fire of the Rift. Sanghyeok, watching from across the room, couldn’t help but smile too, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud. They’d fought so hard to get here—through tears, heartbreak, and misunderstandings. Now, finally, it seemed like everything was alright.

But it hadn’t always been this way.

There was a time when everything fell apart.

Flashback 

Sanghyeok had seen it all. The day the higher-ups called Minhyung in, cold faces told him he was benched. No apology. No explanation. Just a cold, calculated decision that there was a “young talent who’s better.”

No one even looked at Minhyung when he left the office. Not even Minseok. Not then.

Sanghyeok had protested, of course. He’d cornered the coach, demanded answers, even risked his standing to ask: “Why are you dropping Minhyung so suddenly?” But all he got was a dismissive, “We have a new plan. That’s all you need to know.”

Minhyung could still remember the day everything fell apart. He’d been benched without warning, replaced by a younger talent the higher-ups called a “rising star.” No one consulted him. No apology was offered. The fans were never told the real story. Everything he’d worked for—every scrim, every sacrifice—was swept under the rug like it had never existed.

Minhyung took it quietly—at least on the outside. But Sanghyeok saw the way his little brother’s shoulders trembled when he thought no one was watching.

Every day, Minhyung sat alone, playing solo queue until late into the night. And yet, no matter how tired he was, he’d always wake up before everyone else to make Minseok his favorite coffee. Sanghyeok saw him, bleary-eyed but determined, carefully placing the cup on Minseok’s desk before heading back to his solo queue grind.

He brought Minseok lunch, too. Even when Minseok barely acknowledged it—too busy building chemistry with the new ADC. Minhyung forced a smile even when Minseok started “building chemistry” with the new ADC—laughing together, staying late for extra practice, even joking like they’d known each other forever. Minhyung never blamed Minseok. He knew it was his job to build synergy with his new partner. But deep down, it hurt. Minhyung had always known what Minseok needed—he didn’t even need to ask. The new kid didn’t have that.

Everyone knew how Minseok was stressed—how he was trying so hard to make this new partnership work. It was exhausting. He didn’t want to disappoint the team, the coaches, the fans. But the truth was, no one could be a second Gumayusi. Minhyung's self-confidence, his sacrifices, his unwavering trust—those were things no one else could replicate.

Sanghyeok watched as Minseok started staying later, too—practicing endlessly with the new ADC. And in his frustration, his anger, his heartbreak, he took it out on the one person who didn’t deserve it.

Minhyung.

Sanghyeok saw it all: Minseok refusing Minhyung's offers, Minseok brushing past him in the hallway. Minhyung's helpless expression as he stood there, lunch tray cold in his hands. He even caught Minhyung sometimes staring at Minseok from a distance, eyes hollow, as if asking silently: Did I lose you too?

Sanghyeok wanted to step in—he’d done it before, coaching these two like unruly children. But this time, he hesitated. Sometimes, people needed to reach rock bottom before they could rise again.

Still, he sent Minhyung a message late one night: If you need help, my room is open.

Hours later, there was a hesitant knock. Sanghyeok’s heart twisted. “Come in,” he called, voice low but gentle.

The door opened slowly, revealing Minhyung. He was in his training clothes, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands. His hair was damp with sweat, but his eyes looked dead—like the light had been ripped out of them.

“Hyung,” Minhyung croaked, voice cracking. “I’m tired.”

Sanghyeok’s chest clenched. “Sit down,” he said softly.

Minhyung didn’t. He hovered by the door, trembling. His lips parted, but the words stuck.

Finally, his voice—hoarse and broken—emerged. “Hyung… I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

Sanghyeok’s breath caught. He’d never heard Minhyung sound so small. “Minhyung-ah…” He stood, crossing the room, but Minhyung flinched away.

“I’m trying, hyung,” Minhyung whispered. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’m practicing until my fingers are numb. I’m trying to smile even though I feel like I’m dying inside. I’m trying to make Minseok happy even though I—” His voice cracked, tears welling up. “Even though I can’t even make myself happy anymore.”

Sanghyeok felt his throat tighten. He reached out carefully. “Minhyung-ah, please—”

Minhyung shook his head. His tears finally fell, hot and unstoppable. “Why, hyung? Why wasn’t I good enough? Why did they just… toss me aside like trash? Why—” His voice broke again. “Why does he—why does Minseok look at him like that? Like… like I never mattered at all?”

Sanghyeok’s heart felt like it might break in two. “Minhyung, you do matter. To me, to Minseok, to everyone—”

“No!” Minhyung's voice rose—desperate, ragged. “Not like before! Not like when it was just us. When he’d smile at me like I was his everything. Now he’s smiling at someone else. And I—” He pressed a hand to his chest, like he was trying to hold himself together. “I don’t know how to breathe anymore.”

“Minhyung…” Sanghyeok’s own eyes were wet now. He pulled Minhyung into a hug. This time, the younger didn’t resist—he collapsed into Sanghyeok’s arms like a dying star. “Minhyung, please, listen to me. This isn’t the end, okay? You are not disposable. You’ve always been the strongest person I know. Even when you’re crying like this… you’re still the strongest.”

Minhyung's voice was muffled against Sanghyeok’s chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m the weakest? Like I’m the one who’s always left behind? Why does it feel like everyone moves on… except me?”

Sanghyeok’s tears fell too, soaking Minhyung's hair. “Because you care too much. Because you gave everything you had, even when no one asked you to. And that’s not weakness. That’s love, Minhyung. That’s what makes you you.”

Minhyung clutched at Sanghyeok’s shirt, his breath hitching. “I miss him so much. I miss being his everything. I miss… being enough.”

Sanghyeok held him tighter, voice trembling. “You are enough. You always have been. Minseok is lost too, he just doesn’t know it yet. Give him time. Give yourself time. And when he comes back—because he will come back—you’ll be ready. I’ll make sure of it.”

Minhyung let out a broken sob. “I’m so scared he won’t. That I’ll lose him forever.”

Sanghyeok’s heart shattered all over again. “You won’t,” he promised, voice fierce. “I’ll never let that happen. Not to you.”

Minhyung clung to him, his tears soaking through Sanghyeok’s shirt. “Hyung… don’t let me disappear.”

Sanghyeok squeezed his eyes shut. “Never,” he whispered. “I promise, Minhyung-ah. Never.”

Back to The Present

The higher-ups, after all their games, finally realized that there was no replacing Gumayusi. So, they brought him back—no apology, no acknowledgment of the pain they’d caused. Minhyung just accepted it, because he was Minhyung. No grudges, no revenge—just a smile and a quiet strength that said, I’m here for the team. I’m here for Minseok.

But Minseok wasn’t so forgiving. The little chihuahua by Minhyung's side wanted to bite every single higher-up who’d hurt his lover. Every time they passed, Minseok’s eyes narrowed in defiance, his hand gripping Minhyung as if to say, He’s mine. You can’t hurt him again.

Every morning, Minseok kissed Minhyung awake. Every morning, they alternated coffee duties, even if Minseok’s coffee still tasted like mud. And every morning, they walked into the practice room hand in hand, ignoring the eye rolls from Oner and Doran, and even Sanghyeok's sighs.

The practice room hummed with the quiet clicks of keyboards and the occasional laughter of teammates—familiar sounds that once blurred into routine. But now, every sound felt like a promise that they were still here, still together.

Minhyung's eyes drifted to Minseok, who was adjusting his headset with that same little frown that used to drive him crazy—and that he’d missed more than anything.

Minseok caught him staring and cocked his head. “What?” he asked, playful confusion in his voice.

Minhyung shook his head, unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Just… I’m so happy we’re here. Together. I don’t think I’ll ever take this for granted again.”

Minseok’s cheeks flushed pink, his smile soft and shy. “Yeah.” He reached for Minhyung's hand beneath the desk, giving it a firm squeeze. “Me too.”

The room was loud around them—Sanghyeok’s calm voice giving orders, Oner and Doran bickering like kids. But Minhyung only saw Minseok. He leaned in slowly, his breath catching in his throat.

“Minseok-ah,” he murmured, voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I love you. More than anything.”

Minseok’s breath hitched, his eyes brimming with emotion. “Minhyung…”

Before he could finish, Minhyung leaned in and pressed a searing, desperate kiss to Minseok’s lips. It was slow at first, but Minseok leaned into it with a quiet whimper, his hands fisting in Minhyung jersey. The world blurred—the practice room, their teammates, the Rift itself—until it was just the two of them, hearts pounding in time.

They parted for air, lips swollen, faces flushed. Minseok’s eyes shone with tears he didn’t bother to hide. “I love you too. So much.”

Oner pretended to gag dramatically, but his grin gave him away. Doran whooped from across the room, and even Sanghyeok let out a chuckle.

“Alright, you two lovebirds,” Sanghyeok said, rolling his eyes fondly, “queue up. Let’s win this one—together.”

Minhyung didn’t let go of Minseok’s hand as they turned back to their screens. The game would start, the team would bicker, and life would move forward. But this time, even the ordinary felt precious. Because no matter what happened, they had each other.

They were unstoppable now—together. Because no matter how much the world tried to tear them apart, no one, not even fate, could sever the bond between them.

And at the heart of it all was love—raw, unwavering, and unbreakable.

Chapter Text

Minhyung’s POV

Minhyung hadn’t expected much that Tuesday in February.

He sat alone on the cold, hard bench outside the practice room, shoulders slumped, head bowed low. His fingers idly spun the cap of his water bottle, though his hand ached—a dull, persistent throb that pulsed beneath the surface like a quiet reminder of everything he’d given, and everything he’d lost. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper. The kind of ache that settled into the bones of his heart.

Inside, the team was busy: scrims running, strategies debated, laughter echoing. Life carried on without pause.

Except for Minhyung, whose own life felt paused—benched, waiting for a chance that no longer seemed to come.

Through the practice room’s glass window, he could see Minseok leaning over the new kid’s monitor, voice low but tense. Minseok’s brows were furrowed, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. Minhyung couldn’t hear the words, but he’d seen that look before: the weight of responsibility, the exhaustion of carrying more than one should. The same look Minhyung used to hold Minseok through, the same look that used to bring a warm comfort between them.

But not today.

Not for weeks now.

Minseok was busy—busy with the rookie, busy teaching, busy learning to be the pillar Minhyung had always been. And maybe Minseok hadn’t noticed, because he was so used to Minhyung’s love pouring down like sunlight, so constant and warm, that he didn’t even realize when the sun stopped shining.

Minhyung flexed his fingers, testing the motion of his injured hand. The dull ache persisted, sharper than before. He’d been hiding it, downplaying it, because he didn’t want Minseok to worry. But it had been weeks since the pain started, and worse: weeks since Minseok had seemed to need him.

That Tuesday, only days before his birthday, everything felt heavier—heavier for Minhyung, heavier for Minseok.

The new kid couldn’t keep up. Their scrims faltered. The coach’s sharp voice cut through the room: “You’re not guiding him well enough.” The blame fell squarely on Minseok’s shoulders, like an avalanche burying him whole.

Minseok’s stomach twisted in knots, his head throbbed, and his heart felt like it might shatter under the pressure. Everything was too much.

Minseok’s POV

During lunch, Minseok slumped in his chair, head resting heavily on the table. The cafeteria buzzed around him—laughter, chatter, the clatter of trays—but all of it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

He didn’t notice Minhyung standing there until a shadow fell across his back.

“Hey,” Minhyung said softly, holding a tray with Minseok’s favorite meal: kimbap, miso soup, and a small side of strawberry yogurt. His fingers trembled slightly, the bandage on his wrist peeking from beneath his sleeve.

Minseok’s head shot up, throat suddenly dry. “What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, more than he intended. Too tired, too raw.

Minhyung hesitated. Then shrugged as if it was nothing. “Brought you lunch,” he said quietly. “You’ve been busy.”

Minseok blinked, mind spinning. He hated that Minhyung had to step back, was the reason he’d gotten scolded that morning. Maybe if Minhyung hadn’t pulled away, he wouldn’t have been left to carry the rookie alone. Maybe everything would have been easier.

“Just… leave it there,” Minseok muttered, unable to meet Minhyung’s eyes. His voice cracked slightly. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

Minhyung’s shoulders sagged, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “Okay.” He set the tray down gently. He wanted to say more—to reach out and fix the silence—but Minseok’s eyes were cold, closed off.

So Minhyung turned away.

Minseok exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

It’s not that I don’t love him, he told himself. I do. But I’m tired. I’m so tired.

He didn’t realize then that he was only thinking of himself. That he had forgotten this was their relationship, not just his burden to bear.

If he was tired, what about Minhyung? The one who’d been carrying them both, silently, all along?

He didn’t realize, then, how precious Minhyung really was.

The First Day Without Minhyung

Minseok tried not to think much of it. He’d been emotional the day before, still bitter and frustrated after practice. When Minhyung’s usual “good luck” message didn’t come, Minseok told himself: He’s probably busy.

He didn’t even touch the lunch Minhyung had left on his desk.

The Second Day

That’s when Minseok felt it—the hollow absence of Minhyung’s small rituals.

No one reminded him to eat. No one left a cup of coffee or a note. No gentle laugh in the hallway. No soft voice reminding him to breathe.

The rookie was still struggling. Minseok was still frustrated.

And he had no one to complain to anymore.

The Third Day

By now, the dorm felt cold. The practice room, an empty vacuum. Even his favorite chair was uncomfortable without Minhyung leaning over, joking about his posture or reminding him to stretch.

Every buzz from his phone sparked hope. Was it Minhyung?

It never was.

A Week Without Minhyung

Panic crept in. Minseok told himself: I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. But he wasn’t.

He searched his mind, desperate to remember the last time Minhyung had truly smiled at him, the last hug, the last “I love you.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

What did I do? Why did he leave me?

His mind went blank—then flooded with desperation.

I have to fix this. I have to get him back.

Sanghyeok’s voice was quiet, but each word hit like thunder.

“You just stopped reaching back. That was enough.”

His hand rested firmly on Minseok’s shoulder.

“You don’t even realize how much he gave you. Patience. Loyalty. Love. You didn’t even need to ask—he just gave. And you let him.”

“You always thought he’d stay. That was your biggest mistake.”

Minseok’s Room

Curled on his bed, knees hugged tight, tears tracked down his cheeks.

“Is this still possible?” he whispered to the empty room.

“Can Minhyung and I still be together? Does he still love me? Does he even miss me?”

His voice cracked, breaking apart.

I have to do something. I have to show him how much I love him. How sorry I am. How determined I am.

But when Minseok tried, the Minhyung who met him was different.

Minhyung smiled politely, but his eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners like they used to. He stood just far enough away that Minseok couldn’t reach him without taking a step—a step that felt impossible.

His words were careful, short. Like he’d built walls Minseok couldn’t see through.

Minseok texted. Called. Left coffee, snacks, notes. But Minhyung’s replies stayed distant, modest—like a stranger’s.

One hectic day blurred past—meetings, interviews, content creation—and Minhyung was still on the bench, silent. The office lights glowed too bright; the world felt too loud.

Minseok searched everywhere. No Minhyung.

Finally, he caught Becker in the hallway.

“Becker, have you seen Minhyung?”

Becker looked up, casual. “Ah, he went to the hospital. Said his hand’s been hurting for weeks.”

Minseok’s heart stopped.

Minseok’s legs felt like they might give out right there in the hallway. His mind rewound over every moment he’d brushed Minhyung’s hand away when he reached for him. Every time he’d turned his head instead of looking at the worry in Minhyung’s eyes. He’d always assumed Minhyung would be there—steady, strong. Now he realized: Minhyung had been hurting all along, and Minseok hadn’t even asked.

“Weeks…? And I didn’t…?”

Becker shrugged. “Yeah, since last month. But he kept playing. Crazy, right?”

Minseok couldn’t breathe. His Minhyung—sick, hurting—all this time—and he hadn’t even known. Worse, he had broken his heart on top of that.

Guilt twisted sharp inside him.

Tears blurred his vision. He sank to the floor, trembling.

I have to fix this. I have to make this right.

Clenching his fists, he whispered to himself:

“Minhyung… please. Please wait for me. I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you.”

And in that moment, Minseok realized:

This wasn’t about his pain anymore.

It was about Minhyung’s.

It was about fighting for him the way Minhyung had always fought for Minseok.

Even if it took a lifetime.

That night, Minseok sat alone in his room, his heart heavy with guilt and regret. The soft glow of the city lights filtered through the window, but it felt like the world had gone dark inside him. Every breath was a reminder of his failures. Every heartbeat was an echo of Minhyung’s laughter—and Minseok’s own selfishness.

At that moment, Minseok felt unworthy of Minhyung.

Minhyung was too perfect, too good, too patient.

Too… everything Minseok wasn’t.

Minseok felt like he was made of flaws: too quick to anger, too selfish, too scared to admit how deeply he needed Minhyung.

He buried his face in his hands, tears slipping through his fingers.

I hurt him. I let him down. I’m not enough for him.

The guilt was so heavy he couldn’t stand to see Minhyung.

Without a word, he grabbed his bag and left the practice room early, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Back at the dorm, he shut himself in his room.

Silent. Still.

Lost.

Hours passed like lifetimes until Sanghyeok finally knocked, his voice quiet but firm.

“Minseok-ah,” he said, stepping in and sitting beside him. “Let’s talk for a while.”

Minseok’s voice trembled. “Hyung… should I just give up on Minhyung?”

His voice cracked, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Maybe he deserves someone better. Someone who isn’t so… so selfish. Someone who won’t hurt him like I did.”

Sanghyeok let out a sigh, his expression unreadable.

“If you’re ready for someone else to hold his heart,” he said softly, “then maybe you should.”

“Minseok, I’ve known you a long time. You’re stubborn and emotional, sure, but you’re not heartless.”

Minseok shook his head. “You don’t understand, hyung. I’m so selfish. I only think of myself. I hurt him because I couldn’t handle my own feelings. I made him feel like he wasn’t enough—and he’s… he’s everything. I’m the one who’s not enough.”

Sanghyeok’s gaze softened. “Minseok, who decided you’re not enough? Him? Or you?”

Minseok’s breath hitched. Memories flooded his mind:

—Minhyung’s quiet smiles when Minseok teased other ADCs, even though jealousy clouded his eyes.

—Minhyung’s easy laughter, pretending to be okay just so Minseok could feel at ease.

—Minhyung’s unwavering patience, the way he always put Minseok’s happiness before his own.

Minseok’s heart clenched, and tears streamed harder.

He loved me even when it hurt him. He never gave up on me. He never made me feel like I wasn’t enough.

Sanghyeok leaned forward, his tone quiet but firm. “Minhyung loves you because he sees something in you that you don’t see in yourself. He’s not perfect either, you know. He probably wonders every day if he’s enough for you, too.”

Minseok’s eyes widened, a new thought hitting him like a bolt of lightning.

Minhyung… worried about me leaving him?

Minhyung… wondering if he’s enough?

Sanghyeok continued, “You think he didn’t feel pain every time you talked about other ADCs? But he stayed because he knew you loved him. He fought for you, even when it hurt. That’s what love is, Minseok—fighting even when it’s hard.”

Minseok’s tears fell faster now, his chest tightening with a swirl of emotions: guilt, love, longing.

“Hyung… what if I’m too late? What if I already hurt him too much?”

Sanghyeok’s voice softened. “Then fight harder. Show him that he’s worth every single tear you’ve shed tonight—and every single step you’re about to take.”

Minseok’s breath hitched, and a small, shaky smile finally tugged at his lips.

He clenched his fists, determination flickering in his chest like a tiny flame that slowly grew stronger, brighter.

“Give up?” he whispered, shaking his head. “No. Never.”

He met Sanghyeok’s eyes, unwavering now.

“Minhyung is worth every single thing in this world. I’ll fight. I’ll do everything. Because he’s mine—and I’m his—and I won’t let him go. Not now. Not ever.”

Sanghyeok smiled faintly, giving Minseok’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“That’s the Minseok I know. Go get him.”

Minhyung wasn’t expecting much when he first saw Minseok’s name light up on his phone again.

Just a short message:

“hey.”

He stared at it for a while, eyes narrowed. No typing dots followed. No second message—

Wait.

Buzz.

“are you home?”

Then a third one:

“hope ur okay today.”

Minhyung locked his phone without replying.

Not out of anger.

Just… disbelief.

Because Minseok never messaged first. Not even when they were together. It was always Minhyung—always him, filling the silence with emojis and inside jokes and links to cute raccoon videos because he knew Minseok liked them but never said it out loud.

So when he saw that tiny, awkward text? His heart squeezed tight.

But he didn’t let himself answer. Not yet.

He didn’t trust it.

Not after everything.

Day after day, the small efforts piled up.

The next morning, there was coffee on the floor outside his door.

No knock. No name. Just a scribbled note on a sticky tab:

“thought you’d like this. no pressure. have a good scrim.”

It was his order. Not just some random coffee—iced americano, a splash of milk. No sugar.

How long had it been since someone remembered that?

The first few days, he threw the coffee out without drinking it.

But on the fourth day, after a long scrim loss and a headache that wouldn’t quit, he took a sip.

And it tasted exactly like before.

Then came the snacks.

Minhyung found a small bag of snacks on his chair—Minseok’s handwriting scrawled on the top:

“in case you didn’t have breakfast. take care.”

He didn’t even like that snack, but Minseok always used to bring it back when they were on the road—saying, “You might want it later.”

Minhyung stared at the snack for a long time, lips pressed together.

Other days, it was different.

A cold day.

Minseok stood by the practice room door with a jacket—just an old T1 hoodie Minhyung had left behind.

He looked so small, hugging the hoodie like a security blanket, before he finally held it out with both hands.

“It—uh—it looked cold today,” he mumbled, cheeks pink. “I thought… maybe you’d need it.”

He tripped on the hem of his own jeans as he handed it over.

Minhyung almost laughed. But instead, he just stood there, hoodie in hand, heart twisting with something he didn’t want to name.

And then the messages.

“Hey, you played really well today. Even if it didn’t go the way you wanted.”

“I’m proud of you.”

Sometimes, they arrived late at night. Sometimes, right after a loss.

Minseok didn’t flood him with words—just one or two lines that felt like they came from deep inside his chest.

They were simple. Honest.

And they made Minhyung pause.

It wasn’t just the big things, either.

It was Minseok’s eyes lingering on him during breaks, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

It was the way Minseok quietly placed a bottle of water on his desk before every practice—unsweetened, because Minhyung didn’t like sweet drinks.

It was how Minseok tried to clap and cheer during their scrims even though his voice trembled.

Little by little, all those efforts stacked up.

The dim light of the T1 practice room cast long shadows over the scattered gaming gear, but Minseok’s heart felt like it was glowing in its own private spotlight.

He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, cheeks burning as he glanced sideways at Minhyung, who was casually leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but attentive.

Minseok had spent the last ten minutes rehearsing what he wanted to say—how to make Minhyung notice him a little more, beyond the usual quick smiles and playful teasing. But now, standing there awkwardly with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he felt every word escape him, swallowed by nervousness.

“Uh, Minhyung,” he finally blurted out, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze darted to the floor and back again, like a shy bird unsure if it should take flight. “I… I was thinking maybe we could, um… watch a movie tonight? Just us.”

Minhyung’s lips curled into a slow, warm smile—the kind that could melt glaciers. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes sparkling with that soft, amused affection Minseok always secretly craved.

“You mean, just the two of us?” Minhyung teased gently, voice low and inviting.

Minseok’s breath caught, his hands clenching as if trying to hold himself together. “Yeah. I mean, if you want. No pressure. I just thought… maybe. You know.”

Minhyung laughed quietly, the sound like a balm on Minseok’s jittery nerves. “You’re such a dork,” he said fondly. “But I like it. I like you.”

Heat rushed through Minseok’s chest, a surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the room’s heater. He shuffled closer, heart pounding, and caught Minhyung’s hand with his own, fingers tangling like puzzle pieces finally fitting together.

Minhyung squeezed gently, his eyes locking on Minseok’s flushed face. “You trying this hard just to spend time with me?” His tone was teasing but full of genuine admiration.

Minseok nodded shyly, voice cracking, “I’m just… really into you.”

For a long moment, the world seemed to pause—the only sound their breathing, their quiet heartbeats syncing in the softly lit room. Then Minhyung’s smile widened, and he leaned in just enough for his forehead to brush against Minseok’s. “That’s all I ever wanted to hear.”

Minhyung wasn’t expecting much the day he saw Minseok crouched in the shoe cabinet area of the dorm, phone propped up on the bench with a YouTube tutorial playing softly.

Minseok was frowning intently, his small hands tangled around a pair of old sneakers, tongue poking out in concentration.

Minhyung blinked. He’d never seen Minseok so focused on something so… small.

“Is he… learning to tie shoelaces?” he murmured under his breath, watching from the hallway.

It was ridiculous — Minseok was a grown man, a professional player, the same guy who could 1v9 a game with confidence. And yet here he was, studying bunny loops like a middle schooler.

Minhyung’s chest squeezed unexpectedly.

Because he realized: he’d always been the one to do that for Minseok. Every time Minseok’s laces came undone before a match, Minhyung would kneel and tie them up without a second thought. It was one of those quiet, silly things that made their bond feel so natural.

And now Minseok — fumbling, stubborn, messy — was trying to learn it himself.

Minhyung turned away before Minseok could see him staring.

The next day — competition day.

It all came to a head the morning of the big competition.

The team was in the hallway, prepping to head to the stage. Nerves buzzed in the air.

Minhyung was adjusting his hoodie when suddenly:

“Minseok?”

He blinked in surprise as Minseok knelt down in front of him.

“I’m tying your shoes.”

“What?”

Minseok was already fumbling with the laces, cheeks pink, eyes bright with determination. “You did it for me once. Remember?”

“Yeah, but—what if you tie them wrong?”

Minseok’s hands shook. He looked up, a shy grin on his lips. “Then trip. I’ll catch you.”

Minhyung let out a shaky laugh, eyes misting. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m trying.”

Minhyung’s heart cracked at those two words.

Because he was trying. And not just at the shoelaces.

He was trying to show love the way Minhyung once had — fiercely, clumsily, and without pride.

Minseok looked up at him, flushed and determined. “I’m going to do everything you did for me. Even if I mess it up.”

“Minseok…”

Minseok stood up, leaned in close, stood on his toes—

And whispered, “I love you, Lee Minhyung.”

Then he pulled back, eyes shining, and ran toward the match hallway.

“LET’S FINISH THE MATCH!”

Minhyung stared after him, stunned.

He looked down at his shoelaces — awkwardly tied, slightly off-center, imperfect.

And he smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time… his heart felt tied to something again.

To someone.

To Minseok.

After everything that had happened in their relationship, they began to find their footing again, and this day off at T1 felt different—Minseok and Minhyung were finally official.

Sunlight filtered softly through the curtains as Minseok tiptoed quietly into the kitchen, determined to surprise Minhyung.

He had woken early, the thought of making breakfast for the person he adored filling him with shy excitement.

He carefully cracked eggs, chopped vegetables, and stirred batter, the small kitchen filling with the warm scent of pancakes and sizzling bacon.

Minutes later, Minhyung wandered in, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “What’s all this?” he asked, voice thick with just-woken-up charm.

Minseok’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. “I made breakfast. Just for you.”

Minhyung smiled wide, his eyes shining with affection. “You’re too cute.”

As Minhyung leaned over to press a gentle pat to Minseok’s head, the door creaked open—Oner peeked in, drawn by the smell.

“Hey, can I have some too?” he asked.

Minseok’s eyes widened in panic. “No! This is only for Minhyung!” he hissed, face flustered and voice high-pitched.

Oner chuckled, backing away as Minhyung laughed softly beside Minseok.

Minhyung gave Minseok another approving squeeze on the shoulder. “I love this. You.”

Minseok’s heart swelled until it almost burst. “I’m just trying,” he whispered, voice full of love and shyness.

Later that night, when they lay tangled up under the same blanket, Minhyung whispered into Minseok’s hair, “You really tied me back to you, huh?”

Minseok’s sleepy voice answered, muffled but certain, “I’ll never let you come undone again.”

Maybe not every effort Minseok made is written here, but after everything, they learned how to hold each other close—how to love and cherish one another like they’d always longed to.