Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fnatic’s practice room is too loud for a Tuesday morning.

Kaajak is already screaming about some insane clutch from last night’s ranked game, Veqaj is half-listening with the polite confusion of someone who has heard this story three times already, and Alfa is arguing with the coffee machine like it personally wronged him.

Jake stands in the doorway for a second, just watching his team. His team. Even after all these years, the words still sit warm in his chest.

“Boys” he announces dramatically, pushing the door fully open “I have arrived. No need to mourn anymore, your emotional support IGL is here.”

“Who was mourning ?” Alfa asks without turning around. “I was kinda enjoying the peace.”

“Wow. Betrayal this early in the day ?” Jake clutches his chest, stepping inside with exaggerated hurt. “From my own sentinel ?”

“You’re fine” Veqaj says with a small smile. “We heard you singing in the hallway for like five minutes before you came in.”

“Had to warm up the vocal cords” Jake replies. “These comms don’t shout themselves.”

Milan appears from the side, tablet in hand, looking unfairly awake. “Good, everyone’s here” he says “We’ve got scrims at eleven, then some content, then a meeting with Riot about the… thing.”

“The thing ?” Jake echoes. “I love a good thing.”

“It’s about the new practice facility,” Milan explains. “And potential bootcamp partners.”

“Ohhh, business Boaster,” Kaajak says, spinning in his chair. “Gonna show up in a suit ?”

Jake pretends to consider it “If I wear a suit, I’ll outshine everyone and you’ll all feel insecure. I have to think about team morale, you know.”

Alfa snorts. “As if you need a suit for that.”

Jake beams. Compliment received.

He drops into his usual chair, the middle one, the IGL seat that everyone jokes is cursed and he privately thinks is the best place in the world. He starts logging in, headset around his neck, but part of his brain is already elsewhere – on schedules, on strats, on the weird email from management about “talent integration.”

Which probably means someone new.

He should probably have read that one more carefully last night, instead of falling asleep halfway through paragraph three with his phone on his face.

Milan claps his hands once. “Alright, quick thing before we jump in. Management wants us in the meeting room in ten. There’s going to be a call with the higher-ups.”

“Are we in trouble ?” Alfa asks.

“Always,” Jake mutters. “But this time I think it’s planned.”

Veqaj raises a brow. “Is this about … adding someone ? You mentioned something, Jake.”

Jake twirls his pen between his fingers, trying to look casual. “Maybe. Don’t panic yet. Worst case, we get someone cracked and I get more people to bully.”

“Is it another Brit ?” Alfa groans. “I can’t handle more of you.”

“I’m one of a kind,” Jake grins. “They broke the mould after me.”

Alfa opens his mouth to argue, then just sighs and shakes his head. Jake counts that as a win.

He stands up, stretching his arms over his head, joints popping. It’s instinct, the way he takes half a second to scan every face, mentally checking their moods. Alfa is wired as usual, Kaajak is buzzing, Veqaj looks a little tired but focused. Good. Stable.

He wonders briefly what it’s going to feel like to do this with someone new in the room.

Someone who doesn’t already know that when Jake starts pacing behind the chairs, it means he’s thinking through three rounds ahead. Someone who hasn’t already heard all his jokes twice.

Someone who might not laugh.

He shakes the thought away and claps his hands. “Come on then, my little goblins. Let’s go see what corporate joy they’ve got for us.”

The meeting room feels too white for Austin’s taste.

He doesn’t like rooms with walls that look like they’ve never been touched. No posters, no scuff marks, no personality. Just clean lines, a big logo on the wall, and a sterile kind of silence that makes his shoulders go even tighter than usual.

He sits at the end of the table, back straight, fingers laced together to stop them from fidgeting. His suitcase is parked by the door, half-unzipped - he didn’t have time to drop it off at the flat before Milan asked him to come straight to HQ.

“We’ll do introductions properly once everyone’s here,” Milan had said on the phone. “Just relax, Austin. We’re excited.”

Relax, yeah. Sure.

He stares at the Fnatic logo across from him instead. Big orange logo, bold and sharp. He’s seen it a thousand times on streams and photos and jerseys. Seeing it in person, on a wall he’s actually sitting under, does something strange and heavy behind his ribs.

This is real. He’s really here.

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside. Loud ones. Multiple. Someone is talking – loudly – and someone else is laughing in response. Austin straightens instinctively, shoulders rolling back, mouth pressing into a neutral line. The door swings open without much ceremony.

“-and then I told him, if you peak that again I’m uninstalling the game— oh!” The guy in the front stops mid-sentence when he sees Austin.

Austin recognizes him instantly. It’s impossible not to. Jake “Boaster” Howlett is exactly as chaotic in person as he is on stream. Bright orange hoodie, Fnatic joggers, messy curls that look like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway. There’s a light in his eyes that’s too much for a room this white.

For a beat, they just look at each other.

Jake’s eyes flick from Austin’s face to the suitcase by the door, to the contract folder on the table, and his whole expression lights up even more.

“You must be Austin,” he says, stepping inside, voice warm and easy. “Or did we just accidentally crash someone’s business meeting ?”

Austin clears his throat. “Yeah. I’m Austin.”

“Crashies” Alfa adds from behind Jake, peeking around his shoulder. “Damn, you’re shorter than I thought.”

Austin huffs a soft laugh before he can stop it. “I get that a lot.”

Milan appears from the corridor, slightly out of breath. “Okay, everyone’s here, good. Austin, welcome to London. We’ll go over paperwork in a bit, but for now I wanted you to meet the boys.”

He gestures around as everyone filters in.

“This is Alfa,” Milan says, nodding to the sentinel-duellist now spinning a keychain around his finger.

“Hi,” Alfa says. “I’m the one who’ll bait you into peaking stupid angles.”

“That’s a terrible introduction,” Veqaj mutters, slipping into a chair. “I’m Veqaj. Nice to meet you.”

“Kaajak,” the last one says, dropping into a seat with all the grace of a dropped bag. “I will flame you in scrims but I promise I love you.”

Austin blinks, then nods. “Got it.”

“And this,” Milan says, turning to the one still standing, “you obviously know. But let me pretend to be professional. Jake, our IGL, emotional support extrovert and occasional dancing clown.”

“Wow,” Jake says. “That’s slanderous and yet accurate.”

He steps forward, offering a hand. Up close, he has laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and a little scar near his eyebrow that Austin has never noticed on stream. Austin hates that he notices now.

“Jake,” he says simply. “Welcome to the chaos.”

“Austin,” he replies, taking the hand. “Thanks for… having me.”

Jake’s grip is firm, warm. He doesn’t squeeze too hard. His smile doesn’t falter for even a second.

Something in Austin’s chest unclenches by a fraction.

Jake drops into the chair opposite Austin, spinning it halfway with a heel and sitting backwards on it like a teenager in a bad high school drama. He can feel Milan’s exasperated stare on the back of his head. He ignores it.

“So,” he says, resting his arms on the chair back. “Crashies. Do I call you Crashies ? Austin ? Crash ? Mr. California ?”

“Austin’s fine,” Austin says. There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.

“Oooh, chill, we’re starting formal. Good, good. We’ll get you to the point of regretting that soon enough.”

That earns him a tiny huff of air, almost a laugh. Jake files it away as a win.

Milan starts the usual talk about expectations, roles, long-term plans. Jake zones in and out. He already had most of this conversation with management over the phone. He knows why they wanted Crashies – game sense, experience, calm under pressure. What he doesn’t know, yet, is how Austin fits here. In this room. With these people. With him.

Every time Milan says “duo with Alfa” or “mid-round calls with Jake,” Austin’s eyes flicker his way, like he’s checking if it’s really okay. Jake makes sure his expression always says yes.

When the formal part ends, Milan pushes his chair back. “Alright, boys. I’ll leave you to get to know each other. Austin, we’ll sort your housing details later. For now, Jake will show you the facilities.”

Jake salutes. “Tour guide mode activated.”

Once Milan leaves, there’s a few seconds of odd silence. Everyone glances at each other, then at Austin, then at Jake.

“Well,” Alfa says. “Are we taking him to see the good stuff or do we scare him first ?”

“You’re the scary stuff,” Jake says. “So we can’t really avoid that part.”

He stands up, clapping his hands. “Okay! Come on, Crash- Austin, sorry. Let me show you the important things.”

“Like the strats board ?” Veqaj asks.

“No,” Jake says. “Like the snack cupboard.”

The tour is ... a lot.

Austin follows Jake down hallways full of framed jerseys and trophies, past rooms with people he’s only ever seen through screens. Every person they meet, Jake greets by name, with a joke or a shoulder tap or a “how’s your day, mate ?”. Every single time, people smile back wider than they were already smiling. He’s like a walking sunbeam. It’s slightly exhausting.

“This is the gym,” Jake says, gesturing vaguely. “You won’t see me here unless someone lies and tells me they’re giving out free snacks inside.”

“This is the content room,” he continues, pushing open a door full of cameras and lights. “This is where they make us do weird TikToks.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Austin mutters.

“It is,” Jake replies. “They say it’s good for the brand.”

He keeps going, talking constantly, filling the air so Austin doesn’t have to. It’s intentional. He remembers what it felt like, the first time he joined a big org, the way silence felt like an exam he was failing.

He doesn’t want Austin to feel that way.

Eventually, they end up back at the practice room. It looks different now that Austin’s bag is in the corner, his name freshly printed on the label by the door. CRASHIES in bold letters under the Fnatic logo. Jake watches him stare at it for a second too long.

“Surreal ?” he asks gently.

“A bit,” Austin admits.

“You’ll get used to it. Then you’ll start complaining about the chairs like the rest of us.”

“Are the chairs that bad ?”

“They’re fine,” Jake says. “We just like complaining.”

That earns a real laugh. Soft, but real.

Jake feels something unfold in his chest.

They scrim that afternoon.

It’s not perfect – of course it’s not. Sync takes time, synergy takes longer. There are miscalls and overlap and one round where Alfa and Austin both peek at the same time and die in the exact same way, like synchronized idiots.

But there are also moments where it clicks.

Austin plays more quietly than Jake expected, comms short and precise, but when he speaks up mid-round with a call, everyone listens instinctively. His read on rotations is sharp. His utility setups make things easier for Alfa and Kaajak without them even realizing it.

At one point, between rounds, when everyone is joking in comms about a stupid whiff, Jake glances at the new name on the scoreboard.

CRASHIES – 18/7/6.

He allows himself a small, private smile.

Yeah. This is going to work.

By the time they finish for the day, it’s dark outside.

People start drifting off – Alfa yelling something about food, Kaajak threatening to queue ranked, Veqaj claiming he’s going straight to bed and almost certainly lying.

Austin lingers at his desk, shutting down his PC with careful movements, wrapping his cable neatly. Jake watches from the doorway for a moment, leaning on the frame.

“You know we have like, a million spare cables, right ?” he says eventually. “You don’t have to treat that one like a rare artifact.”

Austin looks up, startled. “Habit, I guess.”

“From all your other teams ?” Jake asks, stepping back inside. “You can tell me I’m nosy, it won’t stop me, but at least I’ll be informed.” he winks.

That gets him a small smile. “Yeah. Kind of. I’m used to always… making sure everything’s in order. Take care of my stuff, don’t bother anyone, don’t make a fuss.”

Jake hums. He props himself against the side of one of the desks, watching him.

“You’re allowed to make a fuss here,” he says lightly.

Austin snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just ... new.

Jake tilts his head. “So. Be honest. How bad was today, on a scale of one to ‘I’m booking a flight back to NA.’”

Austin hesitates. His fingers twitch once over the mouse, then let go.

“It wasn’t bad,” he says finally. “Just… a lot. New faces. New setups. New calls. Trying not to mess up.”

“You didn’t,” Jake says immediately.

“I did,” Austin replies, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet honesty. “A few times.”

“Yeah. Good,” Jake says.

Austin blinks. “Good ?”

“Means you’re human. We can work with that. If you came in perfect, I’d be out of a job.”

Austin shakes his head, but there’s a faint flush at the base of his neck now.

Jake takes a breath, lets the jokes settle, and adds, softer:

“You did good today. Really good. The boys felt it. I felt it.”

Austin swallows. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” Jake says. “I know how you think in game. I know you don’t tilt easy. I know you care, probably too much. I know you comms clearly, even when things go wrong.”

He shrugs. “That’s already a lot.”

Austin’s gaze drops to the floor. When he looks back up, there’s something open and fragile in his eyes that makes Jake’s chest sting a little.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“Anytime,” Jake replies. He pushes off the desk, heading for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah ?”

“Tomorrow, I’m probably going to bully you in comms like I do with everyone else. Just so you know it’s love.”

A genuine laugh breaks out of Austin, surprised and bright. “Noted.”

“Good. See you, Crash- Austin.”

“Night, Jake.”

Jake steps out into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind him. For a second, he presses his hand flat against the Fnatic logo on the wall, right next to the practice room nameplate.

This is my team, he thinks.

Then his mind adds, uninvited but not unwelcome:

And now it’s his too.

Back in the empty room, Austin slings his backpack over his shoulder and glances one last time at the middle chair – the IGL seat. He imagines Jake there, loud and laughing, spinning in his chair as he talks through strats. He imagines what it would feel like to sit there himself one day. The thought scares him a little.

But then he pictures the way Jake looked at him earlier, steady and sure when he said 'you did good', the way he said we can work with that without a hint of doubt.

Something in his chest settles.

He steps out of the room, pulling the door gently closed behind him. Tomorrow, there will be more scrims. More mistakes. More learning. More Boaster, probably too loud and too much and somehow exactly right.

Tonight, there’s just this new, tentative feeling he can’t quite name.

Not yet.

He just knows one thing:

Fnatic doesn’t feel like someone else’s team anymore.

It feels like a beginning.

Chapter Text

When Austin steps into the apartment for the first time, he’s honestly not sure he’s got the right address.

He double-checks the number on the door, glances at the message from Milan:

Jake said you can stay with him for a bit, if you’re okay with that.
Less hotel time, more team time. We’ll sort a permanent place once you’re settled :)

and then at  Jake messages underneath:

pls don’t let him make you stay in that sad business hotel
come live with me instead 🧡
i have a couch. and snacks. and emotional damage.

He’d stared at that for a good five minutes in his sterile hotel room last night. Now he’s here, keycard still warm in his hand, suitcase behind him, and it feels ... weird. Intimate, almost. Staying at a hotel is detached. Staying with your new IGL is something else entirely.

He pushes the door open. The place smells faintly like laundry and something citrusy. There are shoes kicked off near the entryway, a Fnatic hoodie thrown over the arm of the couch, notebooks and a controller on the coffee table. It looks lived in, not curated. He drops his suitcase as quietly as he can and toes off his shoes.

“Hello ?” he calls, testing the word in the space.

A voice answers from somewhere deeper inside. “One sec !”

There’s a clatter, the sound of something being closed, and then Jake appears from the hallway, socked feet sliding a bit on the floor. His hair is damp, like he’s just showered, and he’s still tugging a hoodie over his head.

“Oh!” Jake grins. “You made it. Early, even. Overachiever energy, I respect it.”

“Checked out early” Austin says, shrugging one shoulder. “Didn’t feel like sitting in the hotel any longer.”

“Good,” Jake says. “That place is cursed. No one should have to emotionally process life changes under fluorescent lighting.”

Austin huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks again for ... this,” he adds, gesturing vaguely around. “Didn’t want to mess up your thing.”

Jake waves it off immediately. “You’re not messing anything up. Management suggested a hotel and I said absolutely not, we’re not leaving him to rot with tiny shampoo bottles and no kitchen. It’s easier this way. You get time to settle before dealing with apartment hunting and all that.”

It’s said casually, like it’s obvious. It still hits Austin harder than it should.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I appreciate it.”

Jake beams. “You can pay me back by carrying my sorry ass through scrims.”

“Deal,” Austin says before thinking too hard about it.

Ten minutes later, they’re in the kitchen. Jake is half leaning on the counter, watching Austin take in the space.

“So,” Jake says, clapping his hands together once. “Since we’re officially roommates now, there are rules.”

Austin blinks. “Rules ?”

“Of course,” Jake says, putting on an exaggeratedly serious expression. “Number one: if you ever see me sleepwalking, don’t wake me up. I once tried to knife imaginary Neon in my dreams and almost punched a lamp.”

Austin stares at him. “That sounds ... concerning.”

“I survived,” Jake says. “The lamp didn’t.”

Austin presses his lips together to avoid smiling.

“Rule two,” Jake continues, holding up another finger. “If you hear me singing in the shower, no you didn’t.”

“I’ve heard you singing in the hallways,” Austin deadpans. “The damage is already done.”

“That was a warm-up,” Jake says. “Showers are concert level. Different tier.”

Austin snorts.

“And rule three,” Jake finishes, pointing at him now, “if you reorganize the kitchen cabinets by height or alphabet or whatever weird American system you use, I will cry.”

Austin raises an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific.”

Jake puts a hand over his heart. “I’ve been hurt before.”

Austin shakes his head, but there’s a little warmth in his eyes now. “Noted. Any other rules ?”

Jake thinks for a second, then shrugs. “Nah. The rest we’ll improvise.”

The rest of the afternoon blurs a bit.

Milan swings by to drop off a spare key and go over a few logistical things. Austin drops his bag in the spare room- his room, he guesses now - and unzips it halfway, shirts and hoodies spilling over the edge. He doesn’t have the energy to unpack properly yet, but just seeing his stuff in a place that isn’t a sterile hotel dresser makes something in his chest loosen.

He wanders back to the kitchen eventually. Jake is rummaging in the fridge with the solemn focus of someone on a quest.

“The fridge is depressing,” Austin says.

“The fridge is fine,” Jake counters. “I just haven’t emotionally committed to groceries yet.”

“There’s like… ketchup. And an energy drink.”

“And ice,” Jake adds. “Minimalism.”

Austin leans against the counter. “You know they pay you, right ? You can afford actual food.”

Jake gasps. “Is this financial advice ? On my own turf ?”

“I’m just saying,” Austin says, fighting a smile, “I’ve seen healthier fridges.”

Jake shuts the door with his hip and turns back to him. “Alright, Mr. Responsible. I see how it is. Tell you what: I’ll take care of food tonight. That way you can’t judge me based on one sad fridge.”

“I already did,” Austin says.

“Wow. We’re starting from a place of honesty. I like that,” Jake replies.

They give up on cooking and end up with takeout.

There’s something almost surreal about sitting at a small kitchen table in Berlin, eating noodles with Jake like they’ve done this a hundred times. It’s too easy. Too natural. It should feel more ... formal. More careful. Instead, Jake starts telling a story about getting lost his first week in Berlin and almost ending up at the wrong studio, and Austin finds himself laughing, really laughing, at the image.

“-and then I’m standing in this random office, holding a keyboard, and the receptionist is just staring at me like I’ve broken into someone’s tax appointment,” Jake says. “Horrible. Traumatizing. Zero out of ten.”

“You’re hopeless,” Austin says.

“Took you less than twenty-four hours to figure that out. Impressive.”

They fall into an easy silence after that. The good kind. Austin stares at the condensation on his plastic cup, the way droplets slide down and pool at the bottom.

Jake wipes sauce off his thumb, glancing at him.

“So,” he says. “Tell me something weird about you.”

“What, like a fun fact ?”

“Yeah. I need material.”

“Material,” Austin repeats.

“To bully you with later,” Jake clarifies, as if that makes it better.

Austin thinks for a second.

“I hate when people knock on my door and then open it before I answer,” he says finally. “Like. Either you wait, or you don’t knock.”

Jake blinks in disbelief “Wow. That was immediate.”

“You asked,” Austin shrugs.

“No, I love it,” Jake says. “Hyper-specific. Good. So we’re pro-consent with doors. Dully noted.”

Austin huffs a laugh. “Think before you open. Revolutionary concept.”

Jake’s grin goes softer at the edges.

“Alright, my turn I guess” he says. “You'll be surprised : I get lonely easily.”

Indeed, Austin hadn’t expected that.

He looks up, really looks, but Jake’s face isn’t joking. His mouth is still curved, but his eyes are ... honest.

“You ?” Austin asks, skepticism automatic.

“Yes, me,” Jake says. “Contrary to popular belief, being loud doesn’t mean you like being alone. When it’s too quiet for too long, my brain goes all weird and echoey. Not a fan.”

Austin sits with that for a second.

“Good thing you invited me then,” he says, trying for light. “Built-in noise.”

“Exactly,” Jake says, smiling again. “Mutually beneficial arrangement. You don’t rot in a hotel, I don’t start talking to the furniture.”

“Do you talk to the furniture now ?” Austin asks.

“Not since you got here,” Jake answers, and Austin’s ears go strangely warm.

That night, after they’ve cleaned up and retreated to their respective rooms, Austin lies in bed staring at the ceiling. The room feels unfamiliar but not unfriendly. He can hear a faint thump through the wall – probably Jake bumping into something, if the muffled “ow” that follows is any indication.

His phone buzzes. He reaches over, expecting a message from back home. It’s Discord instead.

Jake :

did you survive the shower or did the boiler claim another victim

Austin exhales, a small smile tugging.

Austin :

water was fine
disappointed there was no boss fight

Jake :

tragic
will install ender dragon dlc later
you good ?

Austin hesitates, thumb hovering.

He could lie. Or be vague. He’s good at vague.

He types:

Austin :

yeah
just tired
still feels weird to be here tbh

He sends it before he can overthink.

A few seconds later:

Jake :

makes sense
big change
you’re allowed to need time

Another message pops up almost immediately.

also
if your brain starts spiralling
section 3 of the roommate contract says you have to knock on my door instead

Austin’s brows pinch.

Austin :

pretty sure that wasn’t in anything i signed

Jake :

it was in the fine print. very official. lawyers wept
i’m serious tho
you don’t have to do the “suffer alone in silence” thing here

Austin stares at that for a long moment.

Austin :

i’ll keep that in mind

Jake :

good
gnight, crashies 🧡

Austin’s chest squeezes at the little emoji he has no business reacting to this much.

Austin :

night jake

He puts the phone down, rolls onto his side, and closes his eyes. It still feels weird ; but slightly less alone.

The next morning, Austin wakes up to music and singing.

Bad singing.

He blinks blearily at his phone (too early, but jet lag doesn’t care), then at the wall. The sound’s coming from there - muffled but unmistakable. Jake is belting something poppy along with his speaker, voice drifting in and out of tune with alarming confidence. Austin pulls a hoodie over his head and wanders out. The apartment smells like coffee and toast, which is a surprise given the state of the fridge yesterday. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops.

Jake is at the counter, hair sticking up slightly, wearing plaid pajama pants and a Fnatic t-shirt. There’s a loaf of bread on the counter, a jar of jam, and a steaming mug. He’s also doing ... something that could be generously described as dancing.

“For a pro player, your rhythm is awful,” Austin rasps.

Jake yelps, nearly dropping the knife. “Jesus- don’t sneak up on me, I’m fragile in the mornings.”

“You were singing loud enough to wake the entire building,” Austin says, leaning against the frame. “Sneaking is impossible.”

Jake narrows his eyes, then grins. “Did I at least nail the chorus ?”

“No.”

“Rude.” He gestures at the table. “Sit. Look at me being responsible. I bought bread. I’m basically a functioning adult now.”

“You got up early to buy bread ?” Austin asks, moving to sit.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jake shrugs. “Brain was loud. Decided to make it someone else’s problem by making noise and carbs.”

Austin can’t help it. He smiles.

Jake sets a plate in front of him. Simple toast, jam, nothing fancy. It still knocks something loose in his chest.

"I'm gluten-free." he finally says, having contemplated not saying anything to not ruin the moment, but remembering he'll be sick the whole day if he does eat this.

"It's corn-bread, that's alright no ?" Jake answers immediately, not seeming bothered at all.

Austin is baffled for a second "Yes - how did you know ?"

"I didn't" Jake chuckles while looking at Austin "Just another proof we are meant to be" he winks.

“Thanks,” Austin says.

“Of course,” Jake replies. “Roommate benefits.”

Later, at the facility, everyone seems to treat the news that they’re living together like the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course you are,” Alfa says. “We literally called it.”

Austin frowns. “Called what ?”

“That you’d end up sharing a place with Jake,” Veqaj explains calmly, setting up his peripherals. “He gets weird if he lives alone. And you… tolerate him.”

Jake puts a hand over his heart. “You say the sweetest things.”

Kaajak spins his chair toward them. “Did he sing this morning ?”

“Yes,” Austin says, deadpan.

“Told you,” Kaajak says.

“This is slander,” Jake protests.

“This is fact,” Kaajak replies.

They go into scrims with a little more ease than the previous day. The calls are cleaner, the rotations sharper, the jokes louder. Every now and then, Jake glances over and catches Austin watching him, expression unreadable.

Once, between rounds, Jake mutes himself and leans over.

“You good ?”

Austin blinks. “Yeah. Why ?”

“You keep looking at me like I’ve got something on my face.”

“You always have something on your face,” Austin says. “It’s called emotion.”

Veqaj snorts into his mic.

Jake glares at him, then looks back at Austin. “Nah, for real.”

Austin hesitates, then shrugs lightly. “Just… getting used to your calls. That’s all.”

“You can tell me if something doesn’t work for you, you know,” Jake says. “I know I talk a lot. Like, a lot a lot. If you ever need clearer space to speak up, just say.”

Austin clicks his tongue against his teeth, thinking.

“I’m not used to… this much trust,” he says, quiet enough that only Jake hears it.

Jake’s hands go still on his keyboard for a second.

“Trust is kind of my thing,” he says softly. “I give it first. Then we fix the rest.”

Austin’s lips press together, like he’s holding something back. Then he nods once.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Jake repeats, more firmly. “Right, unmute, let’s win this one, yeah ?”

By the time they get home, Austin’s brain is fried. He drops his bag by the door and slumps onto the couch without even thinking about it.

Jake kicks his shoes off and follows, collapsing on the other end with a sigh. “I have no idea what day it is.”

“Scrim day,” Austin says.

“Deeply unhelpful.”

“True though.”

They end up ordering again - neither of them has the energy for groceries yet, despite the heroic toast run this morning. Food arrives, they eat straight from the containers, some random show playing quietly in the background more as moving wallpaper than actual entertainment. At some point, Austin leans his head back and closes his eyes.

“Tired ?” Jake asks.

“Yeah.”

“Jet lag ?”

“Jet lag. New stuff. Your voice.”

“My voice ?”

“You talk a lot,” Austin mutters, not opening his eyes.

Jake gasps. “How dare you. That’s slander.”

Austin’s lips twitch. “You know it’s true.”

“Yeah,” Jake concedes. “I kinda have to. If I shut up mid-round everyone thinks I died.”

Austin opens his eyes again, turning his head slightly to look at him.

“Do you ever get tired of it ?” he asks. “Of ... carrying everyone like that.”

Jake blinks. “Carrying ?”

“You don’t have to carry everyone’s feelings all the time,” Austin says. “You know that, right ?”

Jake goes very still.

Austin continues, quietly, picking at the edge of his container. “You’re always checking on everyone. Making sure they’re okay. Keeping the mood up. It’s a lot.”

Jake looks down at his hands, then at the TV, then back at Austin.

“It’s my job,” he says finally.

“Being IGL is your job,” Austin counters, voice still soft but steady. “Being everyone’s emotional support clown is something you decided to do.”

Jake huffs out a short laugh. “You really gonna throw my own words back at me ?”

“You said it,” Austin shrugs.

Jake lets his head fall back too, staring at the ceiling.

“Maybe I like it,” he says after a moment. “If they’re okay, I’m okay. Easier that way.”

“Until you’re not okay and no one notices,” Austin says.

It lands with more weight than he expects.

Jake doesn’t answer right away.

“I notice,” Austin adds, almost as an afterthought. “If that helps.”

Jake turns his head.

Austin is still looking at him, gaze direct but not invasive. Just… there.

Something warm and sharp twists under Jake’s ribs.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, that helps.”

They look at each other for a second longer than normal. Jake can feel it. The way Austin looks at people - fully, like he’s breaking them down into pieces and carefully learning each part.

The show’s dialogue blurs into background noise. Austin is the one to look away first, pushing himself up. “I should shower,” he says. “Before I fall asleep here.”

“Couch naps are a sacred art form,” Jake protests half-heartedly.

Austin just shakes his head, something almost fond in the motion, and disappears down the hallway. Jake stays there, staring at the empty space he left behind, feeling oddly raw and weirdly… seen.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

It’s almost midnight when Austin ends up in the hallway again, bare feet cold on the floorboards. He stands in front of Jake’s door for a full thirty seconds, mentally calling himself an idiot. He could try to sleep again. He could lie in bed and let his brain rerun every misplay, every too-slow rotate, every round they dropped. He’s good at that. He knows how to spiral alone.

Or.

He looks at the door handle. Section 3 of the roommate contract, he thinks, and his hand moves before he can talk himself out of it.

He knocks. Once. Lightly.

There’s a small shuffling sound, then Jake’s voice, a little muffled. “Yeah ?”

“It’s me,” Austin says, suddenly aware of how stupid this might look.

The door opens a crack. Jake peers through, hair sticking up on one side, hoodie thrown on over a t-shirt.

“Austin ?” he asks, then opens the door wider. “Hey. Everything okay ?”

Austin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah. Just ... brain won’t shut up.”

Jake steps back automatically. “Come in, then. Section 3 in action.”

Austin huffs a weak laugh and steps inside. Jake’s room is soft in the low light — LED strips glowing faintly, shadows rounded instead of sharp. There’s stuff everywhere, but it’s the comfortable kind of clutter; hoodies on a chair, notebooks on the desk, a mug with what might have been tea at some point. Austin hovers near the bed, unsure.

“You wanna talk or distract ?” Jake asks, sitting down on the edge of the mattress like this is normal.

“What’s the difference ?” Austin asks.

“Talking is you telling me what your brain is doing,” Jake says. “Distracting is me talking until you forget.”

Austin thinks, then shrugs. “Maybe ... a bit of both.”

Jake pats the space next to him. “Come on then.”

Austin sits. Not too close. Not far either. Just enough that their shoulders could bump if either of them moved a little.

“Alright,” Jake says. “Hit me with it. What’s the late-night special of intrusive thoughts ?”

“New team,” Austin says quietly. “New systems. I keep thinking of all the ways I could mess it up. All the ways I could prove everyone wrong for trusting me.”

Jake nods slowly.

“You didn’t mess it up today,” he says.

“Yet,” Austin answers, automatic, too fast.

Jake nudges his shoulder lightly. “You also didn’t solo-win us a trophy. Wild how the world doesn’t demand perfection from you on day two.” he says with a playful smile.

Austin huffs a breath. “Feels like it does.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, back to serious. “I know that feeling.”

He fiddles with the edge of his pillowcase for a second, then adds, softer:

“For what it’s worth, I meant what I said earlier. You don’t have to prove yourself over and over here. We picked you for a reason. I trust you. The boys trust you. You get to ... exist. Mess up. Learn. Be human.”

Austin swallows.

“Why do you care so much ?” he asks before he can swallow the question down. “About me being okay. You barely know me.”

Jake looks at him like he’s a bit silly.

“Because I know exactly what it feels like to be the new guy walking into an already existing thing,” he says. “To feel like you’re intruding on someone else’s team. It sucked. So I decided if I could make that easier for someone else one day, I would.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“I can’t fix past me,” he says. “But I can at least give present you a better time.”

Austin stares at him. The words are simple, but they land heavy.

“Thanks,” he says, voice a little rough.

“Anytime,” Jake replies, like he means it.

They sit like that for a while, the quiet between them less sharp than the one in Austin’s room.

Eventually, Jake lets out a tiny breath. “Alright. Talking portion complete. You want distraction now ?”

Austin snorts. “What, more singing ?”

“Wow, you wound me,” Jake says, pressing a hand to his chest. “But no. I’ll spare you tonight. We can save the Wicked indoctrination for another day.”

“Promise ?”

“Absolutely not,” Jake grins. “But for now we can just ... sit. If that’s okay.”

Austin leans back against the headboard, shoulders relaxing more than he’d admit.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.”

Outside, the city hums. Inside, in a dim room too small for all the things they don’t say yet, two people lean shoulder to shoulder, the space between them shrinking by inches.

Austin went to bed the night before feeling like he’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life. Sitting here now, listening to Jake’s breathing even out next to him, he thinks - for the first time -

that maybe, just maybe,

this could be his too.

Chapter Text

Austin decides, at 9:37 AM on a Thursday, that he might actually hate Jake.

Not in the rational way. Not in the “I truly despise this person” way. More ... in the “why does he exist like that” way. The “why is he talking again” way. The “why is my heart doing that” way.

Which is worse.

He’s sitting at his setup, half-awake, when Jake walks into the practice room like a human alarm clock - hoodie, curls, too-bright smile.

“Morning, my children!” Jake announces. “Who’s ready to emotionally recover from yesterday’s scrims by traumatising other teams instead ?”

Alfa groans. “I just woke up, man.”

“That’s what coffee is for,” Jake says. “And spite. Powerful combo.”

Austin keeps his eyes on his mousepad, pretending to adjust something. He’s aware of Jake. Very aware. He can feel him move around the room, hear every word, every laugh. It’s like his brain has locked onto Jake as a sound source and refuses to tune him out.

It’s annoying.

He hates it.

He hates that Jake’s voice is ... warm. That it does something to his chest when it turns soft. He hates that Jake spent the last few days making space for him, checking on him, letting him knock on his door in the middle of the night.

He hates that he remembers the exact cadence of “you’re allowed to need time.”

“Morning, Austin,” Jake says suddenly, right next to him now.

He’d like to say “good morning”, but that feels dangerously close to “I enjoy your presence on this earth,” and he is not ready to admit to that, even in basic greeting form. His head jerks up before he can stop it. Jake is standing there, leaning one hand on the back of Austin’s chair, grinning. His hoodie is slightly too big and his eyes are crinkled at the corners and Austin’s brain short-circuits.

“Morning,” Austin manages.

“You slept okay ?” Jake asks, voice a fraction quieter, just for him.

Austin hates that too. Hates that Jake keeps doing that - lowering his voice like they have a secret. Hates that he ... likes it.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Fine.”

Jake watches him for a second, like he’s trying to see through the word, then nods. “Good.”

He pats the top of Austin’s chair - unnecessary, completely, absolutely - and walks off to harass Kaajak about his crosshair or something. Austin stares at his screen.

God.

He hates him.

(He doesn’t. Not even a little. That’s the problem.)

Something is wrong. Jake notices quickly. He always does. He notices when someone types slower, when a joke lands flat, when a player’s shoulders sit a bit higher than usual. It’s part IGL instinct, part control freak, part whatever emotional curse he was born with.

So he notices Austin today.

Austin, who normally hovers on the quiet side of focused, is ... tense. Coiled. Eyes a little too wide. Very committed to staring at his monitor like it’s personally insulted him. And every time Jake goes near him, Austin jerks away like Jake’s made of electricity.

Which, okay, Jake knows he can be a lot, but this is new.

He walks behind the setups, checking everyone’s screens. When he reaches Austin, he leans down a little, out of habit.

“Mouse feeling okay ? DPI good ?” he asks.

Austin flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically, just a tiny twitch of his shoulders - but Jake feels it like a slap.

He straightens instantly. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to jump scare you.”

“It’s fine,” Austin mutters. “Just didn’t see you there.”

The words are neutral. The tone is ... not.

Jake forces a light laugh. “Ninja IGL. I’m evolving.”

Austin doesn’t laugh back.

Jake’s stomach drops.

Did I do something ?

He replays yesterday in his head. Late scrims, shared food, that talk on the couch where Austin told him he doesn’t have to carry everyone’s feelings, and Jake accidentally admitted more than he meant to. He went to bed weirdly raw and weirdly okay with it.

Maybe Austin didn’t. God. Did he overshare ? Make him uncomfortable ? Did Austin realize Jake is just one loose thread away from unraveling at all times and decide to pull back ?

“Alright, boys!” Milan claps at the front. “Scrim in five. Get ready.”

Jake shakes himself. Focus. He can sort out his personal emotional disaster later. He pulls on his headset, takes his seat, and slips into IGL mode. Mostly. He still feels Austin next to him like gravity.

First map goes about as well as a first map can. They lose some rounds they shouldn’t, win some they shouldn’t, trade momentum with the other team. It’s fine. It’s early. It’s practice.

Jake calls defaults, set plays, some stupid rushes just to see how the other side reacts. And the whole time, he feels Austin’s weirdness like a static field.

“Austin, swing with me here,” he says in one round.

Crackle.

The tiny buzz over the comms is not the first time Austin has sounded off, but it’s the first time Jake hears what’s under it.

Panic.

They swing. They win the duel. Quick, clean.

“Nice trades,” Jake says. “Love that.”

“Nice,” Alfa echoes.

Austin says nothing. Jake looks over ; Austin is staring at his screen, jaw clenched, ears pink.

Jake blinks.

Oh.

Wait.

Is that ... ?

No. No, that’s insane.

He files it away and keeps calling.

If Jake says “nice, Austin” one more time, Austin might actually explode.

He doesn’t know what his problem is. He’s played with loud IGLs before. He’s been shoulder-to-shoulder with teammates in high-pressure games. He’s heard people shout his name in comms with adrenaline crackling under the syllables.

But this feels different. Jake’s voice cuts through everything. It’s too… direct. Too warm. Too pleased.

“Good timing,” Jake says mid-round, and Austin’s chest does something that has nothing to do with the game.

He hates it.

He hates that he notices the shift in Jake’s tone depending on who he’s talking to, and that there’s a particular way he says “Austin” when things go well. Hates that his brain plays it back like a clip on rewind.

He hates that when Jake leans forward, his hoodie rides up just enough to see a sliver of skin at his lower back.

God. He hates that he looked.

He mis-times a utility once, just slightly, and immediately wants to put his head through the desk from the combination of embarrassment and relief - good, something to be actually mad at himself about instead of whatever this is.

“Bit early on that one,” Jake says, calm. “But idea’s good. We’ll fix the timing.”

No sigh. No snap. No judgement. Just that. Austin grits his teeth.

Who talks like that ? Who responds to mistakes with kind fucking feedback and patience and then goes home and makes you toast and doesn’t even demand anything for it ?

He loathes this. He loathes Jake’s kindness. He loathes how safe it feels.

He loathes that his heart keeps skipping.

He loathes himself more than anything.

They lose the map. Milan calls a pause almost immediately. “Okay,” he says, “let’s not go into the next one with brains on fire. Stretch. Bathroom. Reset.”

Chairs scrape. Headsets come off. Austin stands a bit too fast and nearly gets tangled in his own cables.

Alfa glances at him. “You alright, man ?”

“Yeah,” Austin says. “Bathroom.”

He escapes before anyone can say anything else.

The bathroom is mercifully empty. He grips the edge of the sink and leans forward, breathing hard. He looks at his reflection. He looks stressed, yes, but also ... not like himself. His eyes look too bright, like someone turned the saturation up.

“What the hell,” he mutters.

He feels too hot under his hoodie. Too tight in his skin. He splashes water on his face. It doesn’t help. The door creaks and he stiffens for a second - but no one comes in. It’s just the building shifting.

He drops his head. He can’t do this. This ... thing. Whatever this is. Not with Jake. Not with his IGL. Not with his roommate.

He can’t have a crush. Not now. Not here.

It’s ridiculous.

He splashes water again, as if he can drown the thought.

Jake sees him leave and something in his chest pinches. He wants to follow.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he paces behind the row of chairs, forcing himself to breathe. He’s overthinking. It’s probably just jet lag, or tiredness, or Austin hating his calls.

Him.

That thought hits like a truck. What if Austin hates him ?

Oh God.

He replayed the morning: the flinch, the silence, the way Austin wouldn’t look at him.

What if I’m annoying him ?
What if he regrets moving in ?
What if he thinks I’m too much ?

Jake chews the inside of his cheek. He has always been “too much” in some way. Too loud, too emotional, too expressive. He’d made peace with that. Mostly.

He hadn’t really considered what it would feel like for someone like Austin - quiet, contained, disciplined - to be subjected to constant Boaster energy. Maybe he’s suffocating him. Great. First week with the new teammate and he’s already achieved “walking sensory overload” status. Five stars, would not IGL me either.

Milan drops a hand on his shoulder as he passes. “You good ?” he asks.

“Yep!” Jake lies brightly. “Born good. Living good. Dying good.”

Milan squints. “Uh-huh. Take your own advice and breathe, yeah ? It’s scrims, not Champions.”

He pats him once and goes to talk to Alfa. Jake exhales.

Right.

He’s being ridiculous.

Probably.

Austin returns a moment later, face a little damp like he splashed water on himself. Jake watches him sit, headset in hand. He can’t help himself.

He leans down, keeping his voice low. “You sure you’re okay ?”

Austin’s jaw flexes. “I said I am.”

Jake hears the frustration, the edge. It stings more than it should.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He straightens. “If that changes, tell me.”

He moves back to his own seat, feeling ... weird. Prickly. Almost defensive. Fine. If Austin wants to loathe him today, he can loathe him.

(Jake tries very hard not to think about the part of the Wicked soundtrack where Glinda and Elphaba scream "I loathe her" at the same time over feelings they don’t understand.)

Second map is better. Not in the sense of results - they still lose more rounds than they’d like - but the game itself feels looser.

Jake forces himself to focus on the calls. He narrows his world down to minimap, economy, ult tracking, and refuses to let his brain narrate every microreaction from the person next to him.

He still notices things.

He notices that when Austin’s trying to clutch, his breathing slows instead of speeding up. That he hums quietly under his breath when he thinks, just once. That he flicks the mouse cable away when it snags without looking.

He hates that he notices that.

He hates that these are the details his brain chooses to keep. Why can’t he obsess over something useful, like the other team’s default patterns ?

He hates that Austin’s hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his forearms and he keeps seeing the same faint scar on his wrist, and he wonders how he got it, and then hates himself for wondering because that is not intel he needs as an IGL.

They win a round off a mid-round call from Austin, quick and clean.

“Good call,” Jake says, adrenaline making it louder. “Loved that, actually. So smart.”

Austin wants to turn around and say stop saying nice things like you’re reviewing my gameplay on Yelp, but that would require acknowledging that the compliments make his stomach flip, so he settles for silently reloading and pretending he’s immune. He just says, “Thanks,” short. His cheeks are pink again.

Jake squints slightly.

He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks ... overwhelmed.

Oh.

The thought slips back in. Dangerous. Sharp.

What if Austin doesn’t hate him ?

What if he hates that he likes him ?

Jake’s heart does something stupid.

He shuts it down immediately, shoving the idea into a mental box labeled DO NOT OPEN DURING SCRIMS.

After scrims, they go through some VOD notes, then Milan releases them with a “go rest, you’re all weird today” that feels a bit too accurate.

On the way out, the others are ahead, talking about food. Jake hangs back just enough to end up walking next to Austin in the hallway. The silence between them is stretched thin.

He can’t do it anymore.

“Austin,” he says quietly.

“Yeah ?”

Jake stops. So does Austin. They’re alone; the others turned the corner already. Jake turns to face him fully.

“Did I do something ?” he asks, straightforward. “Because you’ve been ... off. With me. If I said something or did anything that made you uncomfortable, I’d rather know than guess.”

Austin stiffens, every line in his body going tight.

“It’s not you,” he says, too fast.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “That’s what people say when it is.”

Austin huffs, looks away, looks back, like he’s physically fighting himself.

“It’s not you,” he repeats, slower this time. “You’re just ... you.”

“Wow,” Jake says. “Devastating review.”

“That’s not-” Austin cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t ... know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Jake asks, softer.

“Be around people who are like you,” Austin says finally, words pushed out through clenched teeth. “People who are- who say nice stuff and mean it. Who notice things. Who care. And then not… react to it.”

Jake’s breath catches.

Oh.

He looks at Austin - really looks - and suddenly the entire day rearranges itself in his head like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

The blushes. The flinches. The bathroom escape. The stiffness. The overly-controlled answers. The way Austin has been avoiding his eyes like they’re dangerous.

Oh.

This is not hate.

This is not annoyance.

This is what happens when someone whose emotional life is fortified like a bunker meets someone who keeps knocking and asking to be let in.

Jake’s lips twitch, involuntary.

“So,” he says, trying to keep his voice light but not mocking, “what you’re saying is… you loathe me." He gives it the full Glinda delivery too - bright, devastated, dramatic - because if he’s going to emotionally combust, he might as well commit to the bit.

Austin’s head snaps up. “What ?”

Jake spreads his hands. “You loathe my whole thing. My kindness, my caring, my checking-in, my loudness. You loathe the way it makes you feel weird.”

“That’s not-”

“Oh no, for sure.” Jake nods seriously. “Absolutely disgusting. The worst. Horrible, unbearable … feeling.”

Austin stares at him, somewhere between offended and confused. Jake’s grin softens around the edges. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the Wicked soundtrack presses play all on its own. What is this feeling, so sudden and new- He internally hits skip before he fully loses it.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, more gently now. “I get it.”

Austin swallows. “You do ?”

Jake shrugs. “Maybe not in the exact same way. But ... I know what it’s like to have someone get under your skin and it just-” he gestures vaguely at his chest, “-does things. And then your brain goes ‘I hate this’ because it doesn’t know what else to do.”

Austin doesn’t say anything. His throat moves.

Jake thinks, for a wild second, about saying too much. About telling him, I’ve had that with people before. And I think I might have it with you, too.

He doesn’t. It’s too soon. Too much. Too dangerous.

He just takes a tiny step back, giving Austin physical space even as he keeps closeness in his voice.

“Look,” Jake says. “You don’t have to name it. Or explain it. Or justify it. Just ... know I’m not mad at you for having feelings. Weird, inconvenient, annoying ones.”

Austin lets out a breath that sounds a lot like relief.

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly.

Jake smiles. “I know.”

“I just ...” Austin searches for words. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Jake’s heart flips over.

“Honestly ” he says. “Same.”

That gets him a quiet huff, almost a laugh. Jake pats his arm once, quick and light, before stepping away for real.

“Come on,” he says. “If we stand in this hallway any longer, Alfa’s going to come back to rescue us and then we’ll really be loathing something.”

Austin shakes his head, but there’s colour in his face now that isn’t just panic.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

They start walking again, shoulder to shoulder. This time when their arms brush, neither of them pulls away.

That night, the apartment feels different.

Not drastically. Nothing tangible has changed. The same couch. The same kitchen. The same two mugs by the sink from that morning’s coffee. Same roommate, unfortunately. Same stupid nice eyes. Same stupid warm voice. Zero progress on the “stop being affected by him” front.

But something in the air between them has shifted, like someone turned the volume down on the static and up on the clarity.

They don’t talk about the hallway conversation directly. Jake babbles about a weird Ranked game. Austin makes fun of his KDA. They argue over what to order for dinner. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

At one point, Jake walks behind Austin’s chair to get to the kitchen and automatically reaches out to ruffle his hair like he did to Alfa last week. His hand stops halfway. He changes the gesture mid-air into a tap on the back of the chair instead. Austin glances up anyway.

“You can just go past,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to Jake’s almost-hand. “I’m not gonna explode.”

“Noted,” Jake answers.

He goes to get water and leans on the counter, staring at the sink. He doesn’t know exactly what they are to each other now. Teammates. Roommates. Two people mutually experiencing a crisis about each other’s existence, probably.

It should scare him.
It does scare him.

But underneath that, buried deep, is a spark of something bright.

Hope, maybe.
He hates that too, a little.

He fills a glass, gulps, then goes back to the couch. Austin is already there, one leg folded under him, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He looks up when Jake comes in. Jake drops onto the other cushion, and they sit in silence, the TV glowing quietly.

Jake’s phone buzzes with some notification. He ignores it. His eyes drift sideways. Austin is staring straight ahead, eyes a little unfocused. Like he’s thinking himself into a knot.

Jake turns his head fully “Hey,” he says. “Brain loud again ?”

Austin hesitates.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“About scrims ?” Jake asks.

“About ... stuff.”

Jake nods. He leans his head back, looking at the ceiling.

“Just so you know,” he says, “for the record - you’re allowed to loathe me and still talk to me about it.”

Austin lets out a startled little sound that might be a laugh.

“I don’t loathe you,” he says again, more firmly now.

Jake smiles without looking at him. “I know. I just like saying it. Makes me feel very dramatic.”

“You don’t need help with that,” Austin mutters.

Jake turns his head. Their eyes meet.

For a second - just a beat - something else sits in the space between them. Something unnamed and unwilling to be looked at directly.

Jake’s chest tightens. He breaks eye contact with a practiced ease and reaches for the remote.

“Movie ?” he says. “Or music ? Or we can sit here and mutually hate each other’s existence in pure silence, your call.”

Austin exhales, shoulders loosening.

“Movie’s fine,” he says. Silence is dangerous anyway. If they sit in silence too long, Austin’s brain might start composing full musical numbers about Jake, and frankly he’s not emotionally prepared to be his own soundtrack.

Jake puts on something they both half-watch, half-ignore. Halfway through, Austin shifts and their knees bump.

He doesn’t pull away.

Jake doesn’t either.

He doesn’t look at Austin, but a small, private smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

Whatever this feeling is - loathing, liking, something in between - it’s here now.

And he’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe,

it’s not the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Text

Content Day at Fnatic is exactly as chaotic as Austin expected - which means it is, somehow, even worse.

He arrives at the studio still half-asleep, coffee in one hand, hoodie half-zipped, and is immediately greeted by a blast of bright lights and a swarm of camera crew who look far too energetic for 10AM.

Jake is already in the middle of the room, spinning in a slow circle like he’s presenting a runway collection.

“We’re making MAGIC today, boys !” he shouts dramatically.

Kaajak throws a prop frisbee at him ; Jake catches it with a flourish and bows.

Austin stops in the doorway. He hates this already. Jake sees him instantly - of course he does - and waves happily.

“Austin! Perfect timing ! Come on, mate, join the circus !”

“No,” Austin says automatically.

“Yes,” Jake replies just as fast.

And that’s how Austin finds himself dragged into the center of a room full of lighting rigs and color-coordinated backdrops, standing next to Jake, who is practically vibrating with excitement.

“We’ve got a dance segment,” Jake announces cheerfully, holding up a laminated schedule.

Austin narrows his eyes. “A what ?”

“Dance segment !” Jake repeats, delighted. “Well, movement segment. With rhythm. And cameras. And props.”

“So, a dance.” Austin says.

“So, a dance.” Jake concedes.

Milan passes by with a clipboard. “Don’t let Jake choreograph anything,” he warns the cameraman. “We cannot risk injury.”

Jake gasps. “My artistic vision is being restrained !”

Austin sighs. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” Jake says, grabbing his hoodie sleeve and gently tugging him back. “This is team bonding, mate.”

Austin’s eyes widen just a fraction at the contact, and he yanks the sleeve back subtly. Jake pretends not to notice - pretends, but absolutely notices.

“Let’s start with B-roll,” the director announces. “Walking shots, coordinated poses, playful interactions. Just natural energy."

Jake bounces on his heels, eyes sparkling like he’s about to burst into song. “Come on, boys,” he says, spreading his arms dramatically, “life’s more painless for the brainless. Let’s just vibe.”

“Natural energy ?” Jake repeats louder, turning toward the group with a wicked grin. “Boys. We are doomed.”

They line up for their first shot : walking toward the camera in slow motion. Simple. Easy. Nothing to panic about.

Except Jake keeps bumping into Austin on purpose.

Just a small shoulder brush. Barely noticeable. But every bump sends Austin’s heartbeat skittering up his spine.

“Stop,” he mutters under his breath.

“I’m adding dynamic movement,” Jake whispers back, grinning.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thank you.”

Austin exhales sharply through his nose.

The camera rolls. Jake leans into him again - not enough to push, just enough to warm the sleeve of his hoodie.

Austin hates how much he notices it. He clenches his jaw.

Jake is floating through the room like he’s dancing through life, and Austin is just trying not to self-destruct.

“Easy for him,” Austin thinks bitterly. “He was born gliding. I was born with anxiety.”

And then he really hates when the director shouts, “Perfect! Love the chemistry!”

Jake beams.

Austin almost walks off set.

The next part is wardrobe.

Which, apparently, means Jake gets access to racks of Fnatic merch and is therefore unstoppable. He pulls shirts, jackets, scarves, beanies, and throws them at Austin like an overexcited stylist.

Austin dodges a bucket hat. “Bro, stop.”

“No,” Jake says, handing him a bomber jacket. “This one. Try this. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You should ! In fashion, and also in life.”

Austin stares at him. “I trust you in-game. That’s it.”

Jake clutches his heart. “Wounded. Absolutely destroyed.”

The stylist clears her throat politely. “Actually, the bomber would look nice on him.”

Jake preens, turning to Austin with a triumphant smile. Austin snatches the jacket, muttering something about dramatic British men, and pulls it on.

Jake freezes.

Not dramatically, but enough that Austin notices the microbeat - the split second where Jake’s expression changes.

“Oh” Jake says softly, eyes trailing up and down once.

It’s barely audible.
Barely anything.

But it shoots straight into Austin’s spine like electricity.

“What ?” Austin says quickly.

“Nothing,” Jake answers too fast, cleating his throat. “Just - yeah. Good choice.”

Austin feels the heat crawl up the back of his neck. He hates this. He hates every second.

But he doesn’t take the jacket off.

“Alright,” the director says, “group movement shot !”

Jake practically levitates.

“Ah ! THIS is my moment.”

“Absolutely not,” Milan calls from across the room.

Jake ignores him with the professionalism of a man who has been ignoring Milan for five years.

“Okay, boys,” the choreographer says gently, “just follow Jake’s lead.”

Austin’s blood runs cold.

“Why?” he asks, genuinely distressed.

“Because you’ve got natural chemistry,” she says.

Austin nearly dies on the spot. Jake, meanwhile, glows like a lamp.

“I do have natural chemistry,” he repeats proudly. “With everyone- but especially with-”

“Don’t say it,” Austin warns.

“-my boy Crashies !” Jake finishes anyway, beaming.

Austin’s brain crashes like a Windows XP error.

They start with simple movements : stepping in, stepping back, turning, pointing at props. Nothing too terrible.

But then - because Jake is a menace - he tosses a foam ball directly at Austin. Austin catches it, barely.

“You trying to fight me ?” he mutters.

“No ! That was playful interaction !” Jake says.

“That was assault.”

“That was affection.”

Austin chokes on air. Jake smirks.

The director laughs. “Great, keep that energy!”

And then it happens.

Jake does something stupid - a spin. An actual spin. Too wide, too fast, overly dramatic. He nearly loses balance and waves his arms with a startled noise that sounds vaguely like a surprised cat.

Austin didn’t mean to laugh.
He didn’t plan to laugh.
He certainly didn’t expect to laugh loudly - the kind that bursts out unrestrained, warm, real, uncontrollable.

It’s a real laugh.
Honest.
Not the polite half-huffs he usually gives - a full, bright thing that seems to light up the entire room.

And Jake looks at him.
Not at the camera.
Not at the director.
At Austin.

He stops mid-recovery, mouth slightly open, eyes softening as if he’s watching something rare. Precious.

Austin tries to smother the rest of his laugh but it’s too late - it’s already escaped, echoing around the room like someone knocked a hole in the wall he keeps around himself.

Jake’s smile grows slowly.
Quietly.
Dangerously.

He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t joke.
Doesn’t tease.

Just looks.

And Austin feels it.

He feels Jake replaying that laugh in his head already.
He feels how frozen the air goes between them.
How bright Jake’s eyes are.
How seen he suddenly feels.

Which is horrible.
And also ... maybe not.

Austin clears his throat violently. “It wasn’t that funny,” he mutters.

Jake doesn’t look away.

“It was,” he says softly.

Austin’s entire soul crashes again.

For the rest of the shoot, Jake can’t think about anything else.

Not the choreography.
Not the outfits.
Not the director telling him to stop doing finger guns.
(Not even Milan threatening to confiscate his mic privileges.)

Just that laugh.

He replays it constantly - a loop, a glitch, something stuck.

Bright.
Soft.
Free.

He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear it until it happened.

And now?
He wants to hear it again.
Worse - he wants to be the reason for it again.

And that is dangerous.
So dangerous he has to physically turn away at one point and stare at a lighting rig to recover.

Alfa notices immediately. “Bro, why are you smiling like that?”

Jake snaps out of it. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in a romcom montage.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Shut up.”

Kaajak adds, “It’s because Austin laughed.”

Jake nearly drops a prop shield. “WHAT ?! How do you-”

“Bro, the whole room felt it,” Kaajak says. “He never laughs like that. I thought someone told him he won the lottery.”

Veqaj walks by holding a foam sword. “Jake went silent for like five seconds. That’s basically a medical emergency.”

Jake glares at all of them. “Mind your business.”

“Never,” Alfa says.

Austin spends the rest of the shoot avoiding Jake’s eyes like they are high-voltage.

Every time he accidentally meets Jake’s gaze, Jake is already looking at him. Already replaying it.

Austin narrows his eyes the same way cats do when they’re overwhelmed.
Knows it’s obvious.
Knows Jake knows.

And that knowledge makes his skin feel too tight, his hoodie too warm, his pulse too loud.

He hates it.
He hates how exposed he felt in that second.
He hates how good it felt.

Content day ends with group photos.

Everyone lines up, arms around shoulders. Jake’s arm goes around Austin’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Austin freezes.

Jake doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t press. Just rests his hand there lightly, warm and steady.

“You good?” Jake murmurs for only him to hear.

Austin swallows. “Yeah.”

Jake nods. “Good.”

They pose.

Flash.

And Austin thinks - unwilling, unprepared, completely undone - that maybe Jake’s hand on his shoulder feels like home.

That night, back at the apartment, Jake sits on the couch scrolling through the photos the media team sent him as samples.

He stops on the one where Austin is mid-laugh. His own smile softens, slow and small.

He taps the screen once.

“Yeah,” he whispers to himself.

“That one’s going in my brain forever.”

He tosses his phone aside, leans back against the couch, and whispers to himself : “Really should’ve expected this. Shouldn’t dance through life with someone unless you’re ready to fall on your face.”

And honestly ? He thinks he might already be mid-fall.

Austin sits in his room later, hoodie still smelling faintly like stage lights and hairspray from the shoot.

He presses his palms over his face.

He can still feel the ghost of Jake’s hand on his shoulder.
Still hear himself laughing.
Still see the way Jake looked at him afterward.

He lies back on the bed.
Exhales.
And admits, in the privacy of his own thoughts : “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

If someone had told Austin that Jake would break into the resting room, where he's trying to take a nap, at 11AM waving a hairbrush like a weapon, he would have moved back to LA.

He really would have.

But here they are.

Jake bursts through the doorway without knocking - sure, Austin mentionned "Knock and wait, or don't knock at all", but still - holding :

• a hairbrush
• a hoodie
• a stack of Fnatic merch
• something sparkly (why ?)
• and a facial expression that can only mean trouble.

“Austin,” Jake says, breathless like he sprinted down the hallway, “we have a crisis.”

Jake is staring at him like he came in here to solve world hunger, not pick an outfit.

Austin hates being looked at like that - hates the attention, hates the scrutiny.
He also hates (quietly, internally, violently) that when it’s Jake doing the looking, something in his stomach tightens in a way that is absolutely illegal.

“You're staring” he mutters.

Jake does not stop staring.

Austin, getting up from the couch he was laid on, sighs “What kind of crisis ? Like ... team crisis ? Tournament crisis ?”

“Worse,” Jake says gravely. “A fashion crisis.”

Austin closes his eyes. He inhales. He considers praying, despite not being religious.

“No,” he says.

“Yes,” Jake replies.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Jake steps forward. “We’re doing media day. Big interviews. Big photos. Massive visibility. And you-” he gestures in a wide circle around Austin, “-you cannot go on camera like ... that.”

Austin looks down at himself. Grey hoodie. Sweatpants. The usual.

“There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“There’s NOTHING right with this either !” Jake cries, scandalized. “You look like you just escaped a bunker.”

“I like this hoodie,” Austin argues.

“I like you” Jake fires back, immediate and unfiltered, and then freezes like someone unplugged his brain.

Austin blinks. “What ?”

“I MEAN I LIKE-” Jake waves his arms violently, “-your vibe. Your ... aura. Your human essence. Shut up. We’re doing Popular.”

“We’re doing what ?“

Jake climbs onto the bed like a gremlin and starts laying out clothes beside Austin like he’s preparing a ritual.

“Popular !” Jake repeats, hands flapping. “You know, like the Wicked song. Duh. I’m Glinda. You’re Elphaba. I fix you.”

Austin looks offended. “I don’t need-”

“You do,” Jake says gently. “I mean, no, you don't need fixing, you're perfect ; you need ... enhancement. A boost. A buff.”

Austin is baffled for a second, then snorts. “I don’t need a buff.”

“You need a confidence buff,” Jake says, tapping Austin’s chest lightly with the hairbrush. “And lucky for you, baby, I am MAXED OUT in charisma.”

Austin chokes on air. “Don’t call me baby.”

Jake throws a shirt at his face.

Jake starts building a mountain of clothes on the couch :

Hoodies.
Jackets.
Overshirts.
Shirts that definitely came from the youth section.
A necklace ??
A hat that should be illegal.

Austin watches in horror.

“Stop. Stop. Jake, STOP-”

“No,” Jake replies calmly, still tossing clothing. “I’m in my makeover era. I can’t be stopped.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes,” Jake says brightly. “But stylish.”

Austin groans. “This is humiliating.”

“No, THIS-” Jake says, holding up a pair of jeans like a trophy, “-is character development.”

He’s glowing. Actually glowing. Austin can feel the warmth radiating off him.

It’s overwhelming.
It’s… weirdly nice.

“Come on,” Jake says, nudging him. “Up. Stand. I need your torso.”

Austin stands reluctantly. “I swear to God, if you make me wear glitter-”

“I won't !” Jake promises. “Yet.”

Austin narrows his eyes. Jake holds up a t-shirt to his chest, squints, hums, shakes his head like a dissatisfied fashion judge.

“No. Too beige.”

He tries another.

“No. Too ‘I code for a living’.”

Another.

“No. Too married.”

“What does that mean ?” Austin sputters.

Jake ignores him.

He holds up one last long-sleeves nice-collar shirt - black, fitted, clean lines, simple but flattering.

“This,” Jake says softly, “is the one.”

Austin swallows.

Jake steps closer, taking the hem of the hoodie Austin is wearing.

“Take it off.”

Jake’s voice is steady, but his eyes betray him - too bright, too focused, too intent.
It’s the look of a man who has forgotten he’s allowed to blink.

Austin feels it like a touch.
Hates that he notices.
Hates even more that he likes being the center of Jake’s focus this much.

His soul leaves his body.

“Wh- I-”

“Your hoodie,” Jake clarifies. “Not your dignity. That ship sailed long ago.”

Austin groans but pulls off his hoodie, revealing a plain white t-shirt.

Jake stares at him.
Stares.
Too long.

“Get on the move, champ,” Austin mutters, flustered beyond repair.

Jake blinks rapidly like he rebooted. “Right ! Shirt. Clothes. Fashion. Haha.”

He helps Austin into the black shirt - actually helps, tugging the hem down, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders, fixing the collar, pressing lightly at his waist to settle it. Austin stops breathing. Jake’s fingers trail over his ribs for a second too long.

“Okay,” Jake says quietly. “Well. Great. Amazing. Perfect.”

He steps back.
He looks at Austin.
He blinks.

He’d expected “better,” maybe “cleaned up,” but not this.
Not Austin standing there looking accidentally gorgeous and unaware of it.

He has the brief, horrifying urge to tell him ; instead, he whispers a quiet "Oh".

He drags Austin to the mirror. Austin resists halfway ; then, looks. And pauses.

“... Oh,” he murmurs.

Because yes - he looks like himself, but ...

Cleaner.
Sharper.
Sure of himself in a way he usually hides.

He looks like someone who belongs on the stage.
Someone who belongs next to Jake.

Austin swallows the thought before it finishes forming.

Jake stands behind him in the reflection, smiling slowly.

“See ?” Jake says. “Told you.”

Austin stares. Not at himself.

At Jake in the mirror.
Jake holding his breath.

And for a second - just one, stupid, dangerous second - he wonders if this is what Jake sees in him every day.

The thought hits him so hard he forgets to breathe.

Because if this is what Jake sees ...
if Jake looks at him like this all the time-

Austin looks away fast.

“I don’t look that different,” he mutters.

“Oh, you do,” Jake breathes. “You absolutely do.”

Austin feels heat crawl into his ears.

He hates it.
He loves it.
He hates that he loves it.

They’re in the middle of testing outfits (and by “testing outfits” Jake means “forcing Austin to try on jackets while circling him like a stylist on caffeine”) when the rest of the team walks in.

Kaajak freezes.
Alfa stops mid-step.
Veqaj opens his mouth and immediately closes it again.
All three stare.

Jake and Austin turn in unison.

“What the hell are you two doing ?” Alfa finally asks.

Jake drops the hairbrush he was using as a pointer. “It’s not what it looks like-”

He stops.

Thinks.

Shrugs.

“Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

Austin covers his face with both hands.

Kaajak grins. “Jake's giving you a makeover ?”

“No” Austin says through his fingers.

“Yes” Jake says proudly.

“Bro,” Alfa chuckles at Jake, “he looks good tho.”

Austin drops his hands. “Shut up.”

“No seriously,” Veqaj agrees. “You look like you’re about to drop a solo album.”

Austin glares ; Jake beams like a proud mother.

“I KNOW, RIGHT ?!” Jake says, nearly vibrating. “Look at him ! Look at this man !” and everyone can hear the pride and tenderness in Jake's voice. 

Austin wants the floor to open and swallow him.

The team continues roasting them with the affection of siblings :

Kaajak: “You’re glowing.”

Alfa: “Is that blush ? Austin, be honest.”

Veqaj: “This is definitely couple-coded.”

Austin dies internally ; Jake has never been happier in his life.

Milan walks in last, freezes, takes one look at everyone, sighs and backs off the room while saying “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see this.”

As soon as the door shuts behind the boys, the room feels full again - not with noise, but with everything unsaid.

Austin tries to breathe normally.
Fails.

Jake is still looking at him, softer now, like the teasing was fun but this - this - matters more.

Austin doesn’t know how to hold that kind of attention without dropping it. He stands by the mirror, the jacket Jake picked still hanging loose in his hands. Jake moves beside him, bumping shoulders lightly.

“You okay ?” Jake asks.

Austin nods.
But then he shakes his head.
But then he nods again.

Jake smiles gently. “You should try to use words, mate.”

Austin exhales. “I didn’t ... think I’d like this.”

He’s never let anyone do this for him.
Never let anyone close enough to try.

But with Jake - annoyingly, confusingly, terrifyingly - it doesn’t feel like something being taken.
It feels like something being given.

And Austin’s chest aches with the weight of realizing he wants it.

“Like what ?” Jake asks

Austin gestures vaguely at himself. “Being ... fussed over.”

Jake’s expression softens.

“Ah” he says softly. “Well. I like fussing over you.”

Jake doesn’t say it as a flirt.
Doesn’t say it as a joke.
He says it like a confession slipped between jokes - gentle, unguarded, meant only for Austin to hear.

Austin feels it land somewhere deep, somewhere he isn’t sure he’s allowed to acknowledge yet. He stares at him, startled.

Jake looks down at the sleeves of the jacket. “I mean- I like helping. It feels nice. Seeing you ... see yourself.” Jake's smile is so geniune and fond that Austin’s chest tightens painfully.

He looks away, voice rough. “Thanks. For ... that.”

Jake nudges him again. “Anytime.”

Austin looks back at the mirror. He sees a version of himself he’s almost proud of.

Jake looks at him in the mirror, and his breath catches again.

Austin sees it.
Feels it.
And for once?
It doesn’t scare him.

They head out the door for media day. Austin walks ahead a little, still tugging at the hem of the shirt Jake picked. Jake watches him for a second, smile building, something warm blooming under his ribs.

Austin’s hand brushes the hall wall as he walks, trying to ground himself.

He told himself this makeover thing was stupid. Pointless. Embarrassing.

But the truth is humming under his skin now, impossible to ignore :

He likes who he is when Jake looks at him like that.
He likes this version of himself - the one Jake sees.

And that realization terrifies him almost as much as it thrills him.

Kaajak yells from down the hall: “HEY, FASHION COUPLE, WE'RE LATE !”

Jake rolls his eyes fondly.

Austin mutters, “I hate them.”

“You don’t” Jake says. “You love us.”

Austin bumps his shoulder lightly. “I’m working on it.”

Jake grins.

This is dangerous.

And good.

And exactly where he wants to be.

Chapter Text

Austin knows something is wrong with him the moment he walks into the facility the next morning and feels his chest tighten at the sound of Jake laughing.

Not teasing laughter.
Not chaotic, IGL-in-the-wild laughter.
A soft one - warm and unguarded - the same laugh Jake gave him yesterday when he told him he looked good in that black shirt.

Except today, that laughter isn’t pointed at him. It’s pointed at Kaajak, who’s doing some ridiculous impression of their coach, waving a clipboard around and mimicking Milan’s accent. Jake’s eyes are crinkled, head thrown back, curls bouncing, hand clutching his stomach like he can’t catch his breath.

Austin freezes in the doorway.

It’s ridiculous - he knows it is - but Jake’s laugh hits him with the same force as a punch.

It’s too much.
Too bright.
Too warm.

And none of it is for him.

He looks away quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of his backpack, hoping the heat crawling up his neck isn’t visible.

He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. Jake laughs with everyone. That’s who he is - generous with his joy in a way Austin has never been able to mimic.

But somehow ... Somehow it feels different when it’s not for him.

He hates that thought immediately. He hates the pettiness of it, the small pang in his stomach, the way his chest tightens.
He hates the way Jake’s sunlight seems to dim whenever Austin notices it pointing a different direction.
And he really hates that he notices at all.

Jake sees him a moment later, waving him over with that habitual, effortless warmth.

“Morning, Crash !”

Crash, like it’s a nickname, like it’s easy, like it’s natural. Austin forces a nod, dropping his bag by his station. “Morning.”

“You good ?” Jake asks, automatically slipping into that tone - the one he uses to check on him without fully checking on him. “Slept okay?”

Austin nods again. Too fast. Too clipped. Jake watches him for a second, frowning slightly. Concern flickers in his eyes - soft, careful - and Austin feels something in his chest pull taut.

He turns away before Jake can read him fully.

He doesn’t want to be read today.

Jake laughs at another one of Kaajak’s jokes, the sound floating across the room like nothing has changed.

But something has.

Austin feels it in his bones.

Practice feels heavier that day. Calls that usually feel crisp are fuzzy at the edges ; rotations he normally reads with intuition are half a beat too slow ; his crosshair feels off-center - or maybe he feels off-center.

Jake glances at him between rounds more times than Austin can count.

“You okay?”
“You tired?”
“Hand hurting?”
“Need a break?”

Austin shakes his head every time.

No.
Not tired.
Not hurting.
Not anything he can explain.

Because the truth is : Austin doesn’t know what he’s feeling.

He only knows that yesterday Jake was helping him adjust a shirt, fingers brushing his ribs, voice softer than Austin had ever heard it, and for a moment - a stupid, fragile, ridiculous moment - everything made sense. Jake looking at him like that felt ... right. Too right.

And now, this morning, Austin is paying the price for believing he was allowed to want something like that. He presses his fingertips against the edge of the desk, grounding himself.

When scrims break for lunch, Jake bumps his shoulder on his way out - intentionally, gently - like he always does, but Austin flinches. Jake pauses.

“Hey,” he says softly, “you sure you’re-”

“I’m fine,” Austin cuts him off.

Jake’s expression shutters. Just a little ; just enough that Austin feels like he swallowed a stone.

“Okay,” Jake says quietly. “If you say so.”

And he walks away, Alfa and Veqaj following him out of the room. Austin stays behind.

He breathes out.
His breath comes back in shaky.

He sits down in his chair, pressing his hands against his eyes.

What the hell is happening to him ?

He ends up on the rooftop. There wasn’t intention behind it. His feet just brought him there, up the stairwell, out the heavy door, into the cold Berlin air that bites his cheeks and quiets the facility noise below. He stands at the edge - not dangerously close, just near enough to feel the openness of the city stretching out before him.

This is the first time he’s been outside alone since arriving. He leans against the railing and lets his chest expand fully for the first time all day. The wind carries his breath away. He closes his eyes.

Jake.
Jake.
Jake.

Everything comes back to Jake.

How he laughs.
How he touches without overstepping.
How he sees things Austin doesn’t say.
How he holds space for him so naturally it feels like breathing.

Austin presses a hand against his sternum.

This hurts.
More than he expected.

It’s stupid, he tells himself.

He’s barely been here a week. He barely knows Jake.

This is proximity.
This is admiration.
This is pressure and teammate reliance and projection and-

He’s lying.

He knows he’s lying.

This morning, when Jake wasn’t looking at him, Austin felt something sharp twist under his ribs, and it scared him.

Because wanting things has never ended well for him. Worse - wanting people has always been dangerous.

He opens his eyes. The Berlin skyline blurs slightly before sharpening again.

He thinks of yesterday : Jake fumbling through outfits, calling him baby without thinking, turning red afterwards ; Jake smoothing a shirt down his shoulders, fingers lingering too long ;  Jake staring at him in the mirror like he was-

Austin swallows.

-like he was something worth looking at.

He thinks of the laugh.

His laugh.
The real one.
The one ripped out of him without permission when Jake spun like an idiot.

The way Jake froze like he’d never heard anything better in his life.
The way Jake looked at him, stunned and soft and almost reverent.

Austin shouldn’t replay that moment. He shouldn’t cling to it. But it keeps echoing in his chest, louder than the rooftop wind.

Austin grips the railing. He feels the memory settle into his bones.

I made him look like that.

A warmth spreads under his skin, dangerous and bright. He shakes his head hard.

“No,” he whispers to himself. “Don’t do that. Don’t start thinking like that.”

He knows how this ends.

Jake is ... Jake.

Bright, shining, impossible ; loved by everyone ; he fills rooms, lifts moods, pulls people in ; he’s easy, effortless, sunlight in human form.

Austin is ... not.

He’s quiet ; sharp around the edges ; hard to read ; harder to love. He carries too much inside and shows too little outside ; he gets overwhelmed, shuts down, spirals.

Jake deserves someone who fits into sunlight without squinting ; someone who can match him joke for joke, energy for energy, chaos for chaos. Someone softer. Someone brighter. Not someone like Austin.

He thinks back - not to anyone in particular, because no one ever stayed long enough to become a real memory - but to the pattern of it all.

People liked the idea of him. Quiet, reliable, composed.

Until they realized that quiet wasn’t mysterious, it was guarded.
That reliability came from fear of disappointing.
That composure came from years of swallowing everything he didn’t know how to express.

They left.
Every time.

So what the hell is he even doing letting Jake get this close ?

Somewhere below, a door slams hard enough to echo up the stairwell, followed by a burst of muffled laughter from staff taking a smoke break. A car horn bleats from the street, impatient and distant.

The world goes on, indifferent - traffic moving, people talking, lives happening - while he’s up here trying to remember how to breathe around his own chest.

Austin swallows around the tightness in his throat.

Jake had said, so easily, “I like fussing over you."

Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t dangerous for Austin to hear something like that.

And Austin hated how much that sentence carved into him - how some long-empty part of his chest lifted at the idea that someone might care without being asked, without conditions, without him needing to earn it first.

He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve brushed it off.

But no one’s ever said something like that to him before.

And now it hurts.

“I’m not that guy” he mutters, voice cracking in the wind. The Wicked song echoes in his mind without permission.

Every so often we long to steal to the land of what-might-have-been ...

Austin lets the lyric sink into him like lead.

Because of course that’s what this is - a what-might-have-been. Something fleeting. Something never meant for him.

Jake exists in a world of maybes, of possibilities, of effortless belonging.
Austin exists in the quiet spaces between other people’s lives.

A supporting role. A background presence.

And wanting to be anything more feels selfish.

He presses his forehead to the cold metal railing.

He should’ve expected this, he thinks.
This feeling - this stupid, fragile wanting - shouldn’t surprise him anymore.

People like him don’t get the bright things. They get the shadows around them, the echo that’s left after other people’s warmth fades.

Even as a kid, he learned to stand at the edge of things - friendships, groups, moments - always close but never quite belonging. It was safer that way. You can’t lose what you never really had.

Wanting Jake feels like reaching again. And Austin learned a long time ago that reaching only leads to falling.

He hates this.
He hates how obvious the truth feels now that he’s admitted it.

He likes Jake. Likes him more than he should. More than he’s allowed to. More than he knows how to handle.

He likes Jake.

And Jake-

Jake is kind. Warm. Careful.
Jake sees him, somehow.
Jake made him laugh ; made him feel confident ; made him feel wanted.
Jake fussed over him in a way no one ever has.

But Jake will never choose someone like him. Austin’s voice goes small.

“He’d want someone brighter,” he says to no one.

“Someone softer.”

A breath.

“Someone more like him.”

The words fall out of him like stones.

Heavy. True. Final.

He stands there until the wind numbs his cheeks.
Until his breathing slows.
Until he feels small enough to move without breaking.

When he goes back inside, Jake looks up instantly.

Austin hates that he notices.
Hates that Jake’s eyes soften immediately.
Hates how his stomach lifts at the sight.

“Hey,” Jake says quietly. “You disappeared.”

Austin shrugs. “Needed air.”

Jake nods, reading more than Austin wants him to. “You okay now ?”

Austin’s answer is a lie and a truth at the same time.

“Yeah.”

Jake searches his face for a moment, like he’s looking for something he lost. Austin breaks eye contact first.

“Good,” Jake says, though his voice doesn’t sound convinced. “Dinner later ? As a team ?”

Austin nods. “Sure.”

Jake smiles. Austin forces himself not to look at it too long.

That night, the apartment feels full of silence. Not uncomfortable silence ; just heavy.

Jake moves around the kitchen quietly, making tea. Austin sits on the couch, hoodie pulled tight around him.

Jake places a mug in front of him.

“Peppermint,” he says. “Good for spirals.”

The ceramic knocks a little too loudly against the coffee table as Jake sets it down - a tiny clink that makes Austin flinch before he can stop himself.

Jake notices. Of course he does. His hand hovers for half a second like he wants to apologise for the noise, for existing too close, for all of it.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Austin lies, fingers already reaching for the mug just so he has something solid to hold onto, almost cracking. He grips the mug like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he says.

Jake sits beside him - not too close, not too far - but close enough that Austin feels the warmth of him.

They sit like that for a while. Jake scrolling something on his phone.Austin staring at his own reflection in the dark TV screen.

At one point Jake laughs at a meme, bright and soft. Austin’s chest aches again.

Jake nudges him. “Wanna see ?”

Austin shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

Jake nods.

After a long moment, Jake speaks, voice gentle.

“If you ever want to talk about today,” he says, “you can.”

Austin’s throat tightens.

“I know,” he says quietly.

Jake smiles - small, real, hurting at the edges.

Austin turns away before Jake can see whatever emotion is threatening to climb up his face.

He moves around the apartment quietly, careful not to take up space, careful not to let Jake see the storm in his chest.

It’s pathetic, he thinks. How quickly he let himself hope for ... something. A moment, a look, a possibility.

But hope was always a dangerous habit. It pretends to be soft, but it cuts sharper than anything else when it collapses. And Austin feels it collapsing already.

He goes to bed early, and lies on his back staring at the ceiling.

The room feels too still.
The sheets feel too cold.
His thoughts feel too loud.

He presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, as if he can steady his pulse.

I like him.

The truth sits heavy in the dark.

He exhales, shaky.

He thinks of Jake fussing over him with a hairbrush. Jake smoothing his shirt. Jake’s fingers brushing his ribs. Jake staring at him in the mirror like he was something worth looking at. Jake replaying his laugh.

He thinks of Jake laughing with the others this morning - that same brightness - but not at him.

He thinks of the rooftop.

He thinks of Wicked.

Don’t wish, don’t start
Wishing only wounds the heart ...

And for the first time in years, Austin feels the ache of wanting something he knows he can’t have.

He shuffles in his bed. Pulls the blanket up to his chin.

And lets that ache settle into his ribs - a dull, quiet throb he’ll have to learn to live with.

He closes his eyes.

It doesn’t help.

He whispers into the dark : "Goodnight, Jake.”

And he knows - knows deeply, painfully - that Jake won’t hear it.

He lies in his bed with that ache in his chest, not sure it’ll ever leave. He curls onto his side and presses his knuckles to his mouth the way he did as a kid trying not to cry at night.

Back then, he told himself things would get easier when he was older. People would understand him. Someone would stay.

Now he’s older, and the ache feels exactly the same. Maybe he should’ve learned by now - happiness comes for other people, not for him.

Especially not the kind that looks like Jake.