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Jeong Jihoon saw Choi Hyeonjoon and Moon Hyeonjoon on his way to buy some canned coffee.
He could hear soft whispers down the hallway, bouncing off the sterile silence of LoL Park after a busy day. The roaring audience and most of the teams had already left, the only ones left right now are the facility staff and the team from the final round of matches, wrapping up their feedback session. Jeong Jihoon was only there because GenG’s trailer broke down, so they couldn’t go back yet.
T1 just lost, Jihoon had heard.
Out of reasons inexplicable even to himself, he lightened his step and, instead of walking towards the vending machine, chose to stand around a dark corner, hidden from view.
He was standing too far away to make out what they were saying, but he could still recognize the two silhouettes huddled closely next to the vending machine: Choi Hyeonjoon - a face both so familiar and so strange now - with his head down and arms wound together, a posture which Jihoon, on the good days, used to tease his hyung by saying that it looked like a pangolin curling itself up into a ball. Moon Hyeonjoon was kneeling in front of him, peering up straight into the downturned face of the older.
Too close, Jeong Jihoon thought. Too close to be the normal distance between teammates.
The soft whispers mostly came from Moon Hyeonjoon. He poked slightly at his toplaner, and spoke in short, halting phrases, as if giving Choi Hyeonjoon space to respond.
First, there was no answer. Then, it looked like Choi Hyeonjoon said something, because Moon Hyeonjoon smiled. He reached out to close his fingers loosely around Choi Hyeonjoon’s wrist, shook it a little, like a spoiled kid pouting at his older brother. This finally made Choi Hyeonjoon laugh. He straightened, gave Moon Hyeonjoon a flick on the head, which the other responded with a mock whine.
They got their drinks from the vending machine - Moon Hyeonjoon paid for them both - looked at the trailing pink sunlight peeking from the glass window, and made to leave, towards Jihoon’s direction.
As Choi Hyeonjoon’s eyes met with Jihoon’s, the budding smile on his face froze over like hoarfrost, morphed into an ugly imitation of one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Jihoon.”
Jeong Jihoon nodded. “Hyeonjoon hyung. Oner seonsu.”
That was all they said to each other, for the first time in 9 months.
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Even if he tried, Jeong Jihoon couldn’t pick out a single part of his adult life that didn’t have Choi Hyeonjoon in it.
Boy genius, a brilliant midlaner, natural-born leader. Ever since he was a too-young boy with crooked teeth and gangly limbs he didn’t know what to do with, Jeong Jihoon had stood at the center of attention, the eye of the storm. “The future of LoL,” they all whispered, “the next Faker.” The future was gonna be his, if not now, then eventually. Breathless compliments and uproarious applause heralded him wherever he went, and along with that were more expectations, judgment, and scrutiny. Jeong Jihoon took on the yoke with open arms, with pride: he was going to conquer the world, and a few rocks thrown along the way wouldn’t matter because he would stand at the top one day.
Hovering at the edge of that was Choi Hyeonjoon, who didn’t even make the starting roster when they were in Griffin together.
The “dormitory” they shared at Griffin was barely habitable - a shoebox apartment on the fourth floor of a dilapidated complex, with grey water stains on the ceiling and a broken, flickering greenish fluorescent lights that management said they would fix but never did. Inside this apartment, eight teenage boys were crammed into a smaller bedroom that contained no bed, just dirty mattresses and blankets thrown haphazardly on the floor. Which made the sounds of sniffling and hiccuping impossible to hide, despite its owner’s best efforts, especially when it’s 5 AM.
Jihoon awoke from his dream of minions and Galio windblasts as said sounds swam at the edge of his consciousness. Against the faint grey morning light, Jihoon squinted to make out the source of the sound - their toplaner, Doran.
It was reasonable that Doran would cry - he was subbed in yesterday and, if Jihoon didn’t have to mince his words, absolutely ran it down in one of the matches. He did make up for it with a brilliant play in the next match, but cvMax did tear him to shreds in the feedback session after. Not everyone could withstand the wrath of cvMax and come out alive.
Jihoon considered it for a moment, then crawled silently toward the older, careful not to wake anyone up. They weren’t quite close, not yet, not until a few months later, but he figured it was his responsibility to help his teammate, if not for anything else, then for the sake of the team.
“Hey,” he whispered. Doran looked up at him, clearly startled. “Are you okay?”
Silence. Jihoon began to feel slightly awkward.
“Erm, I just want to say,” he floundered, “you don’t need to cry. You did well.”
Inexplicably, the crying got even more intense. Jihoon began to curse at himself. He could only make out a few words from the muffled sobs, “don’t… need… to… I… sucked…”
Scared of making any other mistake, Jihoon didn’t say anything else, just sat uneasily next to this strange teammate as he continued crying. Outside the window, the sun slowly climbed higher, spilling faint golden light inside the room.
The crying next to him had stopped. Jihoon looked back to see that Doran had wiped away his tears, stood up, and put on his jacket uniform.
“Wait, where are you going?”
Doran shushed him. “I’m going to practice.”
Years later, Jihoon could still picture that image as clearly as the first time: Choi Hyeonjoon, tears still glittering on his chubby cheeks, bony shoulders jutting out sharp and thin, eyes glinting in the morning light.
Before he knew it, Jihoon had grabbed his coat. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”
Choi Hyeonjoon brought him breakfast that day, and many days afterwards.
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The last time he and Choi Hyeonjoon actually talked was at the beginning of 2025, when it felt like the entire world was buzzing with the toplaner transfer fiasco. The GenG 2022 had a small get-together at the insistence of Han Wangho, who had been worrying about many things, one among which was Choi Hyeonjoon.
Said subject of the worry was smiling and laughing as usual, as if he hadn’t been at the epicenter of a social media earthquake and facing the scorn and fury of the entire world. Sitting across from him in the dim light of the restaurant, Jihoon couldn’t help but realize Choi Hyeonjoon had matured so much, gotten so much better at concealing his emotions - Jihoon couldn’t read a single thing from his face anymore. Or maybe they didn’t know each other like that anymore.
“So, how are you getting along with your new teammates?” Jihoon asked, half-expecting him to launch into another passionate tirade about finally getting to be on the same team with his idol, Faker. Choi Hyeonjoon never knew it was a sore spot for Jeong Jihoon.
Instead, what he got was a soft smile, one he had not seen ever since… “Oh, it’s fine. Everyone has been really nice, you know.” Choi Hyeonjoon looked down and toyed with his cup. “You guys know Minseok… I knew Minhyung from before. And Wangho hyung, you don’t need to fret with Faker-seonsu about me. And Oner-seonsu, he’s…” The smile got wider. “He’s really funny. I did not expect that. He’s… something I did not expect at all.”
The party concluded peacefully, with cheers and well-wishes. Han Wangho, Park Jaehyuk, and Son Siwoo left one by one, until there were just Jihoon and Choi Hyeonjoon waiting for the cabs under the frigid winter air.
Choi Hyeonjoon didn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead. Harsh streetlights made his face look sharper than usual; his breath crystallized white in the frigid winter air. It had been his impression of Choi Hyeonjoon ever since: just cold, cold, cold.
“That Oner-seonsu,” Jihoon could hear his question ringing too loud in the silence, “do you like him?”
Choi Hyeonjoon gave him an inscrutable look. He opened his mouth to say something, then steeled himself, his voice firm, “Yes, I do.” A cock of his head. “How do you know? Am I that obvious?”
Jihoon didn’t answer. The older shook his head and stared ahead again. “Anyway, it’s fine. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. Oh, my cab has arrived. Bye, Jihoon-ah. Have a great year.”
As snow piled around his feet, an answer echoed in Jihoon’s head, what he couldn’t bring himself to speak out loud, as if speaking it out would lend it further existence, “Of course I know. You used to smile at me that way, too.”
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21-year-old Jeong Jihoon was drawn to Choi Hyeonjoon the same way a young child is obsessed with his first kaleidoscope: Just a slight turn of angle, and a new sight wonderfully swam into view.
“Whoa, hyung, that play was cracked!” Jeong Jihoon exclaimed as Choi Hyeonjoon executed a flawless 1v2 play, which killed off the opposing side’s Xayah.
They were in the GenG practice room, playing solo rank. Well, Choi Hyeonjoon was, Jeong Jihoon had been queuing for over 20 minutes, so he decided that instead of staring like a zombie at the loading screen, he could watch Choi Hyeonjoon play instead.
“Shush!” The older hissed, “Let me focus.” 2 minutes later, he dove headfirst within shooting range of a turret and immediately got shot down. Jihoon fell on the floor laughing, ignoring the older’s kick and his blaming whine that followed. “Ah, it’s all your fault!”
As the match concluded and Choi Hyeonjoon’s team won with his outrageous KDA of 7/12/5, Jihoon tapped the elder’s shoulder, “Hyung, duo with me.”
“Okay.”
Playing with Choi Hyeonjoon was an exhilarating experience. Well, frustrating too, sometimes, but mostly exhilarating. He had strange ways of looking at things, saw stuff that no one but himself saw, and sometimes broke into moves that no one could expect. It’s like being on a rollercoaster, when the fear of falling is mixed with the joy of flying, except Jihoon would bring them to land safely. He was sure he could; he had to.
A ping. “Jihoon ah, gank top, gank top.” Jihoon immediately teleported to the top lane.
Boy genius, a brilliant midlaner, natural-born leader, a reliable pillar for his teammates - Jihoon had been playing LoL for 4 years. Jihoon was 21 years old; in another country, he was barely old enough to drink. Expectations and applause still herald him wherever he went, but he could hear the quality of them change: they got more scornful, more impatient. The future was yet to be his. Faker won his first World Championship in his debut year, and Chovy had yet to even touch his first LCK Championship. He clicked forward, farmed minions, cleared waves, and applied pressure in the midlane, stable, perfect, safe; every step is strategic and learned.
Recently, winning had felt less like a congratulatory occasion and more like a breath of relief. Sometimes, playing even left a bitter taste in his mouth; the ghost of casters’ commentaries and coach feedback hung over his every move; he could hear them before he even clicked forward. “This was too reckless,” “This was too slow,” “Jihoon died here, so we didn’t have enough firepower to win the teamfight.”
“Sorry,” was his response every time. “I’ll try to be more reliable next time.” They were right, he couldn’t die. He died, and the game would be lost.
And then there was Choi Hyeonjoon.
One day, he overheard Han Wangho telling Choi Hyeonjoon not to go on the Internet to read the comments.
“I know what they say,” the toplaner said, “I don’t care. Your opinions are all I care about.”
Choi Hyeonjoon was an enigma, strange and wild and free and unafraid. After their disappointing LCK Spring Season, his clone ID was changed to “Spring is nothing.” They then went on to win the LCK 2023 Summer Championship, the first for both Hyeonjoon and Jihoon. Jihoon couldn’t ever make out what was in his head. All he knew was that being with Choi Hyeonjoon made him double over in laughter and think everything was possible and feel the wind, the weightless happiness of being airborne.
Then GenG lost shamefully at Worlds 2022, and the ground once again fell out from underneath Jihoon’s feet.
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Choi Hyeonjoon and his new jungler certainly seemed close, Jeong Jihoon thought. You didn’t even need to pay special attention to see this - walk by the T1 break room before any match, and you could always hear them laughing, joking around with each other.
One time, during the particularly intense Swiss stage of World 2025, he saw Oner sleeping on Choi Hyeonjoon’s shoulder, his wavy hair tickling the older’s neck. The older didn’t say anything, just slid down the couch to adjust to a more comfortable position, once in a while carding his hands through the jungler’s hair.
“‘Doesn’t matter’” my ass,” Jihoon thought.
In late 2022 and the first half of 2023, the person lying on Choi Hyeonjoon’s shoulder would have been Jeong Jihoon. His hyung would welcome him and all of his tension, exhaustion, and sadness with open arms, wrapping around him gently like a cloud and whispering sweet nothing in his ears until he fell asleep. The world could fall apart around them, and Jeong Jihoon could always run to Choi Hyeonjoon and hide until he could stand firm enough to face everything again.
Was Oner doing the exact same thing? Did he feel the same, the way Jihoon did? That Hyeonjoon was his special person, undoubtedly so, the same way Hyeonjoon’s was his?
Except this time, Hyeonjoon-hyung did have feelings for him.
“Jihoon, Jihoon!” A nudge to the side jolted him from his musings. Kim Giin, who was walking by his side and also saw the whole thing, looked at him quizzically, “You looked lost for a while there.”
“Sorry, hyung. What were you saying?”
Kim Giin jerked his head. “That,” he paused and lowered his voice, “that doesn’t look… usual. Do you think they are together?”
Jihoon shrugged. “I don’t know.” His breath crystallized in the air, reminding him of that cold winter night, the end of 2024. “If they are not, they probably will soon be.”
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On a blistering summer day, Choi Hyeonjoon broke his heart.
The air-conditioner whirred on top of them as Choi Hyeonjoon closed his hands around his cup of Americano. For alertness, he said, he’d been stressed lately as they prepared for the LCK Summer Championship. He didn’t know how the hell they’d beat GenG, but they were sure gonna try, he added with a wry smile, an effort to fill the estranged silence between them. It’d been a while since they last saw each other: Ilsan was a bit far away, and both their schedules were jam-packed.
Jihoon was beginning to find the silence and distance unbearable: His new teammates were wonderful, sure, but he missed Choi Hyeonjoon, missed his comfort and his laughs and his adorable expressions. They had something, Jihoon was sure of it, could see it in Hyeonjoon’s eyes, and he originally planned to put it on pause until they accomplished everything they wanted together before making it official. But now Hyeonjoon was far away, the distance was making Jihoon restless, and he couldn’t wait anymore.
So Jihoon had confessed, and after a long, painful silence, Choi Hyeonjoon gave him a twisted smile that looked more like a grimace.
“Jihoon-ah, you don’t like me. Not in that way.”
Jihoon was stunned to silence. Everything he had imagined before the meet-up was shattered to pieces, leaving only a blank. Oddly enough, he felt like flying again, only this time he knew he was going to fall, and it was going to break his bones.
At last, he croaked out, “What do you mean I don’t like you?”
Choi Hyeonjoon grimaced again. A small fire of resentment kindled in Jihoon’s stomach. How dare he? “I meant exactly that. You don’t like me, Jihoon-ah. Maybe you think you do, but you don’t.”
The resentment turned into a burst of wild anger and hurt. In Jihoon’s young heart, there was only one sentence, chanting over and over again. “He rejected you. He rejected you. He rejected you.” And then, finally, “You’re an idiot.”
There was the sound of a chair scraping and falling over. Jihoon gritted out, “If you don’t like me, hyung, you can just say so.”, and then stormed out.
As he returned to the GenG dorm, he received a text from Choi Hyeonjoon, “Jihoon-ah, let’s stay friends.”
He didn’t respond to that text.
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T1 defeated 100T and MKOI to advance to to knock-out stage.
They were hard wins - Jihoon could tell from the VODs that the team wasn’t in their best form. And yet, in the post-match footage, he could see Choi Hyeonjoon skipping on his feet, looking backwards to no doubt shoot one of his silly quips at Oner.
He thought of Choi Hyeonjoon, face drawn and fraught with barely restrained tension in the GenG practice room when he thought he didn’t do well, and didn’t understand.
Oner, real name Moon Hyeonjoon, one year older than Jihoon. He, too, was a genius on his own right - LCK Champion in his second year of debut, two-time World champion; the protege and heir of the legendary jungler, Bengi. He once promised on a public stage that he wanted to win the MSI Championship with Choi Hyeonjoon, which the latter responded with a bashful smile.
What did he miss? In rare stolen moments from the whirlwinds of matches and scrims and practices, Jihoon often found his thoughts drifting to these questions. What did Moon Hyeonjoon have and he didn’t? He thought he and Choi Hyeonjoon were gonna end up together, was as sure of it as he was sure he could 1v1 anyone, even Faker, now, in the midlane. What went wrong?
He asked his hyungs about it - it was no secret among GenG what went on between them; they knew the gist of it, just never the particulars. Park Jaehyuk just said Jihoon did love Choi Hyeonjoon, but probably not in the way he could understand. Son Siwoo said they were both just too young.
When he asked Han Wangho, he said Choi Hyeonjoon was probably right.
“It doesn’t mean I’m blaming you though, Jihoon-ah.” Han Wangho hastily tacked on.
They were sitting in Han Wangho’s room, a month after they returned from Worlds 2025. The defeat felt numbing bitter this time, so much so that Jihoon felt embarrassed he even cared this much about the little unrequited love story between him and Choi Hyeonjoon.
“But…” Jihoon felt like the first day he learned to play LoL, confused and lost and helpless. “What does that mean? I did love him! He knew that!”
“Did him? Did you?” Han Wangho levelled him an inscrutable look. The questions rolled in Jihoon’s stomach like stones, heavy.
The teapot hissed on the stove. Han Wangho mumbled, “Shit,” and dashed to turn it off.
Amber-colored tea was poured into a small cup, sloshing and steaming hot, before the cup was pushed toward Jihoon. He closed his hands around the teacup, did not drink it.
Han Wangho observed Jihoon’s face again. As the tea in the cup started feeling warm and no longer hot, he sighed, “Look, I’m probably saying too much here, and Hyeonjoon would probably not be happy about this, but you’re both my dongsaengs and… if it’s truly bothering you that much, would you like to hear my two cents on it?”
Jihoon nodded. Han Wangho sighed again.
“Listen, I know for a fact that Hyeonjoon did have feelings for you. A lot, even. More than you think.”
Jihoon’s heart twisted again, but this was no release, just a different kind of hurt. “So… why did he…”
“Listen to what he said, Jihoon-ah. He did not say, “I don’t like you.”, he said, “You don’t like me.”
Han Wangho looked out the window. “After 2023, GenG didn’t sign with him again. We lost in humiliation against BLG. On the entire Internet, they were saying he was a failure, only got so far as he did because he got carried by Chovy. He said he didn’t care, but could anyone truly not? Do you know, from his position, what liking someone like you would feel like?”
“I don’t mean to blame you, Jihoon-ah, I truly don’t. I know you were under the kind of pressure we couldn’t understand, but,” Han Wangho sighed again, “Do you know how many nights he cried in the practice room without you?”
Unbidden, a memory emerged in Jihoon’s mind, of that night that started everything: Choi Hyeonjoon, crying by himself, and then wiping his tears by himself, standing up by himself.
“Of course, we are only teammates, so if we look at it from that angle, Hyeonjoon is responsible for pulling himself together and managing his mental health. We can only help however we can, because we have our own burdens too, but. If you’re asking from a personal angle…”
“Jihoon-ah, did you think of Hyeonjoon as someone who could be left crying and pull himself up again, alone? Was that why you weren’t there? What did you think of Hyeonjoon as, Jihoon-ah?”
Jeong Jihoon moved his lips, but no sound came out. He didn’t understand either. Where was he, then?
Han Wangho patted his shoulder. The steam dissipated, leaving only cold air between them.
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Staring out the window in his apartment at 2 AM, Jihoon thought of their first real fight, back when they lost to BLG at Worlds 2023.
To spare their feelings, the feedback session wasn’t called for until after they had returned to their dorm and rested for a few days. In those few days, Jihoon had stewed in darkness and silence, the humiliation and helplessness building up and cascading violently inside him like waves, like a monster trying to break him apart.
How long will I have to go on like this? Jihoon had thought, staring at the void, letting it penetrate his limbs. Why does the universe do this to me? Why is it so unfair?
The GenG members congregated in the meeting room with identical sunken eyes and haggard looks on their faces. No one looked at each other.
“Now here, in game 5,” the head coach cleared his throat and pointed at the map, “this is where we lost the game. They had gained too many advantages.”
A grim silence ensconced the room. Jihoon looked down and, uncontrollably, gritted out, “If top hadn’t died that much, they wouldn’t have been able to secure that many advantages.”
“Excuse me?”
Jihoon looked up. “Am I wrong?”
He could see Hyeonjoon’s jaw tick. He was mad, Jihoon could tell, but Jihoon was mad too. Etched on his eyelids were the slow footages of Hyeonjoon pulling his insane, reckless plays and dying - played over and over and over, in match after match after match. For a moment, he felt like that was all that he could see. Frustration boiled up inside him, just for how long would Jihoon have to correct his mistakes as Hyeonjoon threw the fucking game? Why couldn’t Hyeonjoon just play like a normal fucking person?
A cold wind rushed into Jihoon’s lungs. He reared back in cold horror - Jihoon had shouted the last part out loud.
He watched as Hyeonjoon pressed his lips together and left the room, stumbling across a chair on his way out. He didn’t remember what he did next, only what he did that night.
That night, he had crawled into Hyeonjoon’s bed, apologizing profusely. The older had, as usual, welcomed him with a soft, sad smile and open arms, said it was nothing and he forgave him, as Jihoon buried his head on the crook of Hyeonjoon’s neck and waited for the older to pat his hair.
“I’m just… I just don’t understand, hyung, why is it so unfair?” He had sobbed into Hyeonjoon’s shirt, “I don’t know how many tries I’ve got left in me. I hate them, I hate them all.”
“I understand.” Hands patting his back, warm and safe. “I understand, Jihoon-ah.”
Jeong Jihoon of 2025 buried his head into his knees, his insides shattering into pieces another time. He had never realized… he had never realized…
Choi Hyeonjoon, at that time, had just lost too.
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Oner showed up with Choi Hyeonjoon at their GenG year-end gathering. They were official, Choi Hyeonjoon announced with a twinkle in his eyes, had been official for a while.
“To the surprise of absolutely nobody,” Han Wangho drawled.
“You better watch out, brat,” Son Siwoo said, only half-jokingly. Oner quipped back with something that made everyone laugh.
Throughout the meal, Jihoon looked at the way Oner treated Choi Hyeonjoon: picking out cucumber slices for him, putting food in his bowl, his eyes seemingly couldn’t leave the older’s face for more than 5 seconds. Choi Hyeonjoon avoided his gaze, but his cheeks were pink, and he grinned the whole time. At one point, Han Wangho had to say exasperatedly, “He has hands, Hyeonjoon-ssi!”, to which Oner replied with a small “Sorry” and an expression that showed he obviously wasn’t sorry even for a little bit.
“So, he makes you happy, right?” Jihoon blurted out in the middle of Park Jaehyuk’s and Han Wangho’s apparent tirade about Korean food vs Chinese food.
Everyone shifted uneasily in their seats.
“Jihoon-ah…” Han Wangho started.
“He does, Jihoon-ah.” Choi Hyeonjoon looked at Han Wangho as if to say, “It’s fine”, then looked at Jihoon again. His gaze was clear and unflinching, the way he got when he was very, very sure about something, “He makes me very happy. And I love him very much.”
“That’s good. Then I’m happy too.” Jihoon heard himself say.
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They met again in a coffee shop during a winter afternoon, not long after that get-together. Jihoon had a strange sense of deja vu as he closed his hands around the coffee cup. This time he knew what he said was gonna make him fall and break his bones, but-
He had to make it right by Choi Hyeonjoon. His bones were broken too, he imagined. By Jihoon, probably over and over and over again. And he didn’t even realize it, couldn’t even then imagine the depths of hurt Choi Hyeonjoon had been through during that time, because of him and without him.
“Oh, it’s nothing that serious,” Choi Hyeonjoon said gently. His voice hovered over their drinks, warm like the steam in the air, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But I do, though,” Jihoon croaked out, his throat dry.
Choi Hyeonjoon leaned back into his chair and gave Jihoon an assessing look. Jihoon felt like a criminal awaiting judgment. At last, his hyung breathed out a sigh, and straightened again. His fingers touched Jihoon’s lightly, cold. His hands were always cold in winter.
“Alright, I do admit you did hurt me. But,” he bit his lips and smiled wryly, “I was partly at fault.”
He sighed once more. Jihoon understood, then, that it took him great strength to say what he did. “I didn’t think I was good enough for you, Jihoon-ah. I still don’t. So,” he shushed Jihoon, “let me finish. I withdrew into myself and didn’t, I didn’t even attempt to try to tell you how I actually felt, or when I was hurt, or even how to set things right. I drew into this shell and made you think everything was okay and didn’t let you see the truth at all. I hid that from you. I took that right from you.”
“There was no way you could know that you hurt me, because I didn’t tell you that. I told you things were okay, so you thought things were okay. That’s not your fault, that’s mine.”
“But…”, Jihoon’s eyes were smart with tears, “I think I should have known anyway.”
Choi Hyeonjoon was still giving him that unbearable, sad smile. “Back then, I really hoped you would. But it’s all passed now.” He leaned forward to wrap both of his hands around Jihoon’s. “I still love you, Jihoon-ah. Not in the romantic way, but as a friend. I don’t blame you for anything that happened between us. I know how much you had to go through.” He tilted his head to peer at Jihoon’s expression. “I would like for us to be friends again. Would you like us to be friends again?”
Jihoon nodded. A single droplet of tear fell into his coffee cup.
“Thank you, Jihoon-ah.” Choi Hyeonjoon said, and Jeong Jihoon couldn’t help the tears from streaming down his face. He sank into his arms and felt comforting pats on his shoulders, just like in the past.
They sat and watched the sun sink down the horizon, orange light dying everything in a nostalgic haze, like in one of those Polaroid pictures, or in the old movies. Jihoon told Choi Hyeonjoon that. The older laughed.
“Typical Jihoon,” he smiled, “so romantic. Probably because of all the books you read.”
Another silence.
“Hey, just so you know,” Jihoon said, staring out at the twinkle-blue night sky, “You are good enough for me. Always have been.”
Choi Hyeonjoon smiled softly at his cup. “Jjunie said the same thing, too.”
“You don’t feel that way, right? With him? Like you aren’t good enough?”
“Oh, I did,” Choi Hyeonjoon grinned, “especially at the beginning of the year, when I couldn’t blend in with the team that well. At first, I thought there was no way he was gonna like me because, well, first of all, what are the odds, right? And also, no one could like you if you played like shit and made the team look bad. I thought I was just gonna get my heart broken again.” Jihoon winced at that.
“And then Jjunie sort of, you know,” Choi Hyeonjoon made a vague shape in the air that Jihoon absolutely didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, “cornered me and badgered me until I couldn’t stand it anymore and told him that. And then he told me it was bullshit and I was stupid and he couldn’t believe he felt for such a stupid person, and then he said a bunch of other cheesy things until I gave up and agreed to date him.”
“That’s… nice.” Jihoon grinned, and he was… sincere. He was glad to feel that his smile was sincere. “I’m glad for you.”
“Thank you.”
Choi Hyeonjoon touched his hand again. “Jihoon-ah,” he said, with all the gravity Jihoon knew he meant, “You be happy too, okay? Promise me that.”
Tears threatened to fall again, but Jihoon blinked them down. He answered, with the same gravity, “I promise.”
“Good. I’m glad.” His hyung’s smile was serene. Peaceful. Fulfilled.
A series of loud rings disrupted their silence. “Oh, Jjunie is waiting for me outside. Imma get going.” Choi Hyeonjoon turned to look at him one last time, as he opened the door, “Goodbye, Jihoon-ah.” The shop’s bell jingled, indicating a customer had left.
“Goodbye, Hyeonjoon hyung,” Jeong Jihoon said to the empty air, where Choi Hyeonjoon had once stood.