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BLG headquarters are quiet when Jiahao finally finishes gathering what little possessions remained in their living quarters.
Their living quarters.
The team farewell had been brief, but enough to communicate the message. Promises to meet on the Rift in the following season with their best performance, hope that they’ll reunite someday, the same parting words he’d heard time and time again so often that he’d thought he would have been numb to the pain already.
(He would be, if not for Missing, the apple-obsessed Lou Yunfeng that convinced him to take one last chance at competitive play, or a certain BLG support he’d tolerated for the past two years.)
He’d asked to pack alone. Jiahao had always been somewhat on the emotional side. If any one of their teammates remained, he knew he'd never be able to leave.
“Jiumeng.”
The distant call of his previous alias startles him briefly before a quiet resignation takes over. After all, there was only one person who still called him by that fallen name.
Of course, he’d never leave him alone, during a time like this. Jiahao didn’t know whether to feel helplessly amused or panicked at this intrusion as he stiffly turns around.
“Ou-en.”
“So, this is the end? You’ll let it be?”
Jiahao shrugs. He isn’t sure how else to respond. “I did say I’d be unable to leave if any of you were around, didn’t I?” He mentions dryly.
“I don’t want you to.” Not alone.
He laughs, and this time it’s difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I don’t think either of us have a choice.”
There’s a moment of silence between them. He can’t remember the last time their dynamic had been this tense, suffocating, and he bites the bottom of his lip in favor of holding back the unspoken yet obvious words between them.
“Stay a while,” Wenjun says. “One more day. It’s not like management’s immediately kicking you out,” he says.
“I can’t,” Jiahao responds as he suppresses the urge to run out of the room.
It’s obvious knowledge that it would only be more difficult on both of them, if Jiahao didn’t leave now. That the ache would only accumulate with each day he remained in this fortress he’d, they’d, called home for the past two years.
“Stay a while,” he repeats, and the longer Jiahao remained by Wenjun, the more difficult it was to refuse his request.
“I can’t,” he echoes, before he runs out of the room.
***
He finds him on the rooftop, because he’s always been this predictable, on or off the Rift, more so when it came to Luo Wenjun. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up against the stone wall in a quiet corner of shade, head buried in his shaking hands.
Maybe that predictability was what lost him the 2024 Worlds Finals. And 2025 MSI. And LPL Spring Split, then their disqualification from Worlds 2025, and-
“It’s my fault, really.” he mutters. “I should’ve been better. I should have practiced harder, should have performed-” he chokes on air, letting out a shaky exhale. The fabric of his shirt retains its creases when he finally releases his hold.
“I’m sorry, Ou-en.”
“What for?” And this time, his voice is tinted with frustration. “Zhao Jiahao, are you hearing yourself?”
That startles him out of his trance.
“It’s not your fault. If you still think that it is, then I suppose there’s a reason Yunfeng has always called you an idiot.
I really don’t have the patience, nor do I want to go through this again, because you really are an idiot, Jiumeng, do you know that?”
Whatever words he had faltered on his tongue as the sun passed overhead, and for a moment Wenjun really did look like an angel descended from heaven.
The ridiculous imagery finally breaks the tension, and Jiahao starts to laugh in spite of the tears threatening to fall.
He blinks. Once, twice, then stands up to link his arm through Wenjun’s.
“Come on,” he says. “Haidilao. On me. One last time, hey?”
Judging by the determined headshake he receives from his now-former support, he won't stand a chance against the bill.
“One last time,” Wenjun echoes, as they descend the stairwell back to the world below.