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Hope isn’t typically a nostalgic man; sentimentality better suited his teammates. He’s not Flandre who went back to some noodle shop just to reminisce. He’s not Shanks with his heartfelt messages. He’s not Tarzan, he can never be the leader the way the jungler was. And he’s not Kael, quiet but mischievous and sweet only to his brothers. He was just a quiet man.
However, every once in a while, he gets enough time and silence for himself that he can reminisce even only for a second. Like now, he’s sitting on the floor, luggage open, holding onto the newest jersey to join his collection and legacy.
This time, the fabric was black, the familiar red noticeably missing except for the small splotch in the team’s logo. It’s not the first time he had a black jersey, EDG and JDG both come to mind. Yet, this feels different. He didn’t know when he started to notice but every team he’s been on, every jersey he’s worn, has been drenched, splattered, or streaked with shades of red.
The first was EDG with its maroon collar, a colour so close to blood. It was a beautiful time yet so suffocating — getting benched for Viper, demoted to the academy team, and he couldn’t even complain. The maroon collar choked him, tightening around his neck like a leash tying him down. When his lung collapsed, the irony did not escape him.
He moved on to JDG next, and met people like Kanavi and Missing. The JDG logo was branded right in the middle of his chest. Formerly a substitute; now, there it was, three proud crimson letters on his chest screaming he was JDG Hope — JDG’s Hope. No longer on the backburner, this team chose him. Even if it didn’t last long.
Ruler came in and he was once again on the sidelines, good but never good enough to be the first choice. Not when his competitions were people like Ruler or Viper. And suddenly the crimson JDG logo was on Ruler, not him. A fitting colour for a man with a royal name.
When he arrived to WE, he was given a cherry red jersey. This was the third time, but it felt different. Bright and blinding, the start of something new. And it was, he met some good people there. The light hasn’t died down, the fire still burning when he sees his midlaner.
Looking to the other side of the room, Shanks’ luggage was already packed nice and tidy. The man himself was noticeably missing, probably playing with Bali and the cat one last time. It was the midlaner’s first international tournament. Maybe it was excitement or nerves, but Shanks was already raring to go. Even those fruit fly glasses were on his nightstand, waiting to be worn and shown off.
“Hey, Wang Jie! I look so cool, right?” He asked like he ever cared about other people’s opinions, he wasn’t even expecting a reply. But the fact he asked Hope, cared about Hope’s opinions enough to ask, it made his heart flutter. So Hope chuckled, because otherwise, he might’ve said something unbefitting of the situation. He shook his head as Shanks went back to doing poses in front of their mirror.
The first time Hope and Shanks met, properly met, was in 2022. Him, fresh out of a defeat at Worlds semifinals, and Shanks, fresh out of a 0-16 summer split. But there they stood, equal footing with no pretentions as future teammates. And Hope couldn’t help but think about how loud the midlaner was. Hope was a quiet man but the smile on Shanks’ face rendered him speechless in a way that he hadn’t learned was possible.
“He’s a good guy,” Missing said. But he was wrong. Shanks was more than just a good guy. He was great. Amazing. Someone so admirable that Hope was stuck between wanting to be him and simply wanting him. Lately, when his mind wanders before he can rein it in, it lingers on the latter option so much that it scares him.
Shanks has a boisterous laugh, one that fills up the entire room and soaks the walls with happiness. There was warmth in his laughter that Hope couldn't find anywhere else. And when he laughs for too long, a rosy sort of red dusts his cheeks. The first time he saw it, it left him breathless. The man has always been handsome but in that moment, Shanks was ethereal. It was then, he knew, he would follow this man anywhere.
And so, he came into AL — scarlet red on his shoulders like he was a devotee. A new team, unknown top laner, a jungler and support that can’t even speak Chinese. It was a leap of faith, he knew that. But Shanks was worth it. The future was uncertain and Shanks could very well run them to the ground. It didn’t matter as long as his midlaner was by his side. It might be blind faith, foolish for some, but where else would he belong if not next to Shanks?
Hope wasn’t sure who arrived at AL first; there are times that he feels like Shanks has always been there — a constant presence at his side. That booming voice of his, the brazen speech, and the way his mouth never seems to stop moving, always finding something to talk about.
Sometimes, he finds himself staring at Shanks for far longer than what is considered appropriate and far softer than he should for a teammate. His eyes would travel from the man’s eyes, to his nose, to that small mole just above his mouth that mirrored the placement of his own. Finally, focusing on the red of Shanks’ lips, a gorgeous shade of mauve pink. He liked to imagine ways he could render those lips speechless, parted and gasping.
But he shakes off these thoughts before they develop into something he could no longer deny as nothing more than a fleeting infatuation. He buries these thoughts in between memories of Shanks’ hands on his skin after a victory and assurances of “Don’t be scared, Hope,” during team fights.
Shanks exuded positivity the moment they met. This expression on his face, something sweet like freshly-picked strawberries. Even the smile on his face after a defeat is saccharine, bitter yet still the sweetest thing Hope had the pleasure to witness. Until now, it’s still a vivid memory.
Coming into AL, it didn’t start off well. Growing pains, they said. They have never been the type to hit the ground running so 11th wasn’t surprising.
Then Shanks came in one day, burgundy red hair with that wide intoxicating smile on his face. The lights shining bright behind his head like a halo, hair shiny like someone poured wine on it — fitting him perfectly like a crown. The midlaner was taller than him, not by much, but enough that he had to look up in reverence.
“I look cool, right?” and he did. But Hope shakes his head instead with a fond smile, used to his midlaner’s antics. Confidence fitted the man like a second skin, he didn’t need more compliments to inflate his ego.
That summer split, Tabe came in along with more wins. Losses still marred their record but wins became more frequent, expected in some cases. Playoffs came in and they were enveloped by this air of optimism, Worlds so close in their grasp. But as Shanks’ hair faded, so did the hope.
Shanks’ hands, meant to lift trophies, lay limply at his side as he watched the crowd applaud a team that wasn’t theirs. The red defeat screen taunted Hope. Thoughts of what he could’ve done better flashed through his mind.
But first, he had to bow to the crowd, listen to their coaches’ debriefing, go through everything that must be done that evening before he can make his way to his—their room, and lay in the dark and silence that comes after a particularly devastating defeat.
These are the nights when his midlaner is most quiet. These are the moments when the man is the least vibrant, like the defeat sucked all the colour from his face leaving it pallid and grayish — brown hair like dried blood disheveled, lips bitten red raw, eyes blood red. Silence took on a different meaning that day.
Hope was a quiet man, but he wished he wasn’t. He wished he was able to bring colour back into the room the way his counterpart can. But all he could do was give a reassuring pat on Shanks’ back and hope and wish that was enough, that a simple touch can convey a flurry of words he can never articulate.
Those are the only times he resented an entire spectrum.
He wanted to be resentful, bitter and throw away the significance of his name. But Shanks just had to say that he did not regret a single thing, not even a drop of remorse. He can’t help but shed all the negative energy and follow Shanks into the light. Who was he if not Shanks’ most devoted follower?
Just having Shanks by his side is enough to put his heart at ease, even saying the midlaner’s name dampens the bitterness, and a single word from the man can cast away all the resentment. So forgive him if he stays too close to Shanks, says “Cui Xiaojun” with enough sweetness to raise alarm bells, and clings to Shanks’ every word like it carries a secret melody that only they know.
Their existences are so intertwined, so can you really blame him?
Looking back, it’s only been three years. But time felt irrelevant when it came to him. They have shared space for so long and so completely that Hope forgot where he ends and Shanks begins. Sharing the same air, the same room, eating the same food, experiencing each win and loss together, and spending most days next to each other. Three years of this but he wouldn’t mind a lifetime.
And when the day ends, when their screens go dark, they go back to their room — an entire room just for the two of them. Two beds but, if he can help it, if his wishes will come true, only one would be necessary.
He can’t help but think, does it really matter if their existences are so blended as long as they continue to be together? Is it so wrong of him to want to bask in Shanks’ warmth for a little longer? These thoughts taunted him like a defeat screen after a gruelling 50-minute back-and-forth game. He’ll entertain these thoughts someday, not now, not when he can finally bring glory to his midlaner’s name, not when they finally feel like they’re on the precipice of something historic. They have forever to indulge in these thoughts once they win.
Tucking the MSI jersey back into his suitcase, he realised he didn’t care what colour it was. It could be orange, green, or blue. At the end of the day, Cui Xiaojun is his favourite hue.