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Rekkles’ alarm breaks the heavy silence in his room. He rolls over to turn it off and grimaces when he grazes his wet pillowcase with his cheek. Not that he was sleeping anyways, just kind of lying in bed with tears running down his face. He’s been doing that since he went to bed last night, actually. Or maybe it was this morning.
And yeah, maybe he’s spent more hours crying than sleeping this week, but a contract is a contract. Media day must go on. He’s just not sure he can face his teammates carrying the weight of being a failure.
He’s too cowardly to look at the ghost of a man in the mirror so he brushes his teeth with the lights off. He’ll ask Pete to do his hair for him. A flash of bitten black & orange on his nails reaches his eyes and it’s so unbearable that he skips putting on any rings as well.
Pete doesn’t question why Rekkles asks for help styling his hair, even though it’s completely uncharacteristic. He doesn’t comment that even his eyebags have eyebags either, or that he’s neglected to shave the stubble down his neck. Just dabs some colour corrector under his eyes and silently works hair clay through bleached strands until it forms his usual spikes.
Rekkles feels the absence of two of his teammates like a yawning cavity in the abdomen. Ex-teammates, his brain tries to fill in, so he inspects a sticker on a nearby pole to distract himself. My Chemical Romance , it reads above a row of dour faces. He’s suddenly transported back to the set of the Heartbreaker music video, and he can’t tell if that was just yesterday or a lifetime ago. Barely any time has passed but he can’t reconcile the hollow, rotting, failure he is now with the Rekkles who was so sure that one split was all he needed to reseat himself on the throne. He’s been crushing any delusions of taking back the crown of the best ADC in the west, lately. He should really change his summoner name – why did he ever think he was worthy of being compared to a world champion like Deft?
Pete calls him up for the first round of photos and it gets him out of his head only temporarily. He puts on the best media day e-boy face he can muster but it just feels pathetic. Thankfully, Pete beckons Humanoid over after only a few poses, signifying the end of his turn.
As soon as he turns his back to the group, he can’t help letting the tough guy mask crack. He paces down an alleyway to make some space. The stormy thoughts set in again, like he’s in a cage that keeps getting smaller. He tries to focus on not spiralling into self-hate, but he only hates himself more for not being mentally stronger. Razork is already back to his sunshiny self mere days after not making playoffs. Deft kept it together at worlds after a crushing game two. But Rekkles? At the moments when it really matters, when he’s clinging to a cliff face and trying not to look down, every desperate flail towards the next handhold just ends up with him slipping further. Maybe today’s the day he loses his grip completely.
He barely registers Pete’s voice calling him back for a group photo over the fog in his brain. He scrambles to put his brave face back on—it’s like breathing through a gas mask—and lets his limp body be directed around like a mannequin.
The sunlight stings in his tired eyes and he’s worried he’s gonna cry again. He’s not really present when Pete dismisses the others to snap some solo shots of him in the bomber. He’s looking down from the sky and puppetting his empty shell, ready to end the day with a razor drawing new streaks of red in his tattoos.
Razork chooses that moment to crack a goofy face over Pete’s shoulder, then exaggeratedly mimics how Humanoid is yawning off camera. Rekkles glances between the two of them, and the shape of a giggle rising in his throat feels foreign but he doesn’t suppress it. The camera clicks before Rekkles even remembers he was supposed to be posing.
“There’s that beautiful smile I missed,” Pete praises, and it’s motivation enough that he manages to look like he wants to live for the remainder of the photoshoot.
When the sun dips below the rooftops they move to an indoor photo studio. Pete wants to try the group photo again before moving on to video interviews. While he’s adjusting the lighting equipment, Razork makes a penis joke that is so funny to him he doubles over and can’t contain his laughter for at least 10 minutes. Humanoid stares him down with his signature poker face but there’s no hardness behind his gaze. Even though the joke really isn’t funny, Rekkles feels his face soften with a smile anyways.
They’re still wearing those expressions when Pete snaps the photo. Rekkles even manages to throw up a finger heart. “Perfect,” Pete says from behind the viewfinder, “you guys look so happy.”
The interviews are nice, too. He gets to retrace fond memories with his mother and sister, who still love him when he loses even if the rest of the world doesn’t.
It’s evening by the time they’re done for the day and Razork offers to walk him back to his apartment. He puts a trembling hand on Razork’s back and Razork responds by pulling him into a hug, and it’s not something they do a lot but it’s just what Rekkles needed. He lets the heat of Razork’s body seep into his bones and focuses on syncing up their breaths, until his spirit returns from where it had been scattered through the atmosphere and settles back in his chest, between their heartbeats. Razork doesn’t pull away, just rests his chin on Rekkles’ shoulder and rubs his back patiently.
The sky is dark when they exit onto the streets of Berlin, but Razork is smiling at him like he’s worthy of love and keeping a steady hand around his waist and the whole world feels brighter somehow.