Chapter 1: I wonder how long I could keep living in this city.
Chapter Text
Marshall remembers walking along the gravel path of the cemetery, scrawny fingers wrapped around his mom’s, on an overcast day in winter. Back when holding her hand didn’t feel embarrassing, when he was hardly a teenager, signs of a growth spurt and a blotchy face showing across his gangly frame.
It was an ordinary Thursday. Except people weren’t usually cladded in black with a torn up expression on Thursdays.
The funeral was simple, a couple of attendees formed a circle around the gravestone, surrounded by white bouquets and white candles, strikingly juxtaposed to their mourning attires. Marshall distinctly recalled the cheap suit mom had rented out for him, sticking to his body uncomfortably. She had misread his measurements and the suit ended up two sizes too small.
People stood and prayed—some out loud, some silently clasped their hands together—faces contorted in pain. Marshall’s mom urged him to do the same, so he did, despite being atheists.
Even if he was feeling a storm underneath, he pushed it down to pay respect. After all, a person close to him had just been buried six feet under, when she should’ve been soaring.
Memories from the period before Marshall turned eighteen and grew brain cells were blurry, partially because they weren’t significant in any way, and he was a dumb kid who took everything for granted. However, that winter day, as he listened to chanting and prayers, he couldn’t not remember his mom’s words.
“I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies,” she said, holding back tears.
Marshall was far too young to understand the full meaning of her sorrows.
And when he does, later down the line, he wishes he paid more attention when they lowered the casket. The only person who could remotely understand what he’s going through right now is dead. Gone with the wind, never to return.
Marshall wonders if that’s where he will end up next.
───〃★
The first time it happens—as opposed to most things in Marshall’s life—is unremarkable.
He’s grinding deathmatch in the Sen office as usual, when he feels a pinprick in his throat. It builds up small, almost unnoticeable, a tickling sensation not unlike an annoying hiccup that won’t go away. Marshall genuinely doesn’t react at first, chalking it up to his dry throat from neglecting the can of Redbull Sean brought him earlier.
But then the coughing starts.
It’s not even severe, he coughs a few times absentmindedly, hands never leaving the keyboard and mouse. Until something travels up his throat which forces him to cover his mouth, as if to vomit it out.
He doesn’t vomit, but something comes out anyway.
In his hand is a tiny red-looking object, coated in clear spits. Marshall doesn’t try to identify what it is, only wipes his mouth with tissues, crumples everything into a ball and trashes it.
It is the first sign, but for various reasons he couldn’t care less.
Firstly, he ate a big bowl of chili for lunch (would not recommend, fuck Zach and his Asian spice tolerance) and his mouth is still red and numb from it, coupled with a diarrea-inducing stomach ache that still hasn’t subsided. He had a coughing fit with Sean who was also subjected to chili hell, that was hours ago though it’s normal for him to continue coughing.
So naturally Marshall brushes it off, just a piece of food that regurgitated.
In hindsight he should’ve been more concerned, but he’s stopped coughing already. Soon after, Sean returns from his errands run, whisking Marshall’s attention away.
Sean is a strange person, Marshall hasn’t a clue what to make of the guy in the beginning. While the camaraderie was fresh, they somehow gravitated toward each other, probably because they were both new to the team and couldn’t fit in with the “core” three—Jordan, Zach, Amine.
Marshall has his own nostalgia for KC to live with, Sean is the same with 100T. But in due time, Marshall finds Sean genuinely charming. His dry humor, his sparkling eyes whenever he hits a crisp shot, their shared interest in everything anime and manga, so on and so forth.
Months have passed and they’re no longer newbies, Marshall now confidently lists Sean as one of his closest friends whom he was able to relax around. If someone asks him he could even say Sean is his best friend, but don’t tell Sean that.
Sean offers Marshall another Redbull. “You look pale, are you alright?”
“Yeah man, just recovering from that monstrosity of a lunch,” Marshall nods. “Remind me to never accept a food challenge from Zach again.”
“You’re such a pussy, that was nothing.”
“You and I remember things very differently,” Marshall grins. “Because who was red faced crying throwing up again?”
“Not me, I ain’t do shit,” Sean sticks out his tongue, the tip of his ears turning a dusty pink. Marshall’s heart skips a beat.
Sean flops down on the gaming chair next to Marshall, booting the PC up. Technically he’s in Amine’s spot, but they’re the only two people around in the office, it’d look awkward if they small-talk three PCs apart. Amine wouldn’t take offense.
Marshall exits deathmatch and pulls out his phone, waiting for Sean to finish warming up so they can queue ranked together. The afternoon queue is usually chill, adults are working and children are in school, the most they’d meet in a lobby are unemployed people and small-time streamers.
The sun is near the horizon, behind their backs the golden twilight hue filters through the blinds, leaving streaks of orange on Sean’s head.
The AC is running at full blast, but Marshall still feels hot all over for reasons unbeknownst to him, face turning a color akin to a peach. He can’t tear his eyes from Sean’s hair which looks even softer than normal. Bouncy and fluffy, a warm shade of brown like a pinecone.
Sean is laser focused on his own warmup routine, moving the mouse around jaggedly, not noticing Marshall’s shameless staring. Sean’s thousand yard stare at the deathmatch game is… attractive, for lack of a better word. Which is insane, Marshall’s insane.
Marshall’s cheeks are heating up by the seconds so he forces himself to gaze away, fiddling with his phone. It’s not normal to look at his teammate like that, heck it’s not normal to look at a crush like that. Not that Marshall has a crush on Sean, nope, can’t be it.
After two deathmatches, Sean finishes warming up and Marshall invites him to the party. While queueing, Marshall spares inconspicuous glances to Sean who is scrolling TikTok with a bored attitude. Occasionally Sean would chuckle at something random then angles his phone over to share with Marshall too.
“That’s crazy,” Marshall comments at the TikTok short.
“I just sent it to you, text me back to keep our streak.”
“Shit I forgot about that, sorry.”
Sean elbows Marshall. “You’re the only person I have to remind everyday about our streak, is there anything in that thick head of yours beside anime and Valorant?”
There’s you, Marshall almost spits out. He jumps internally because why on Earth would he ever think that?
The tickling sensation resumes as soon as that thought pops up, scratching his throat. But the Match Found announcement snaps Marshall out of his trance, Sean whips back to the monitor, so Marshall ignores it, gulping every cough down. Even if it’s nagging at him.
Playing ranked next to your duo has its fun points, especially in a well lit office with a gorgeous backdrop. It’s miles better than being holed up in a stinky bedroom, with nothing but LED strip lights and scattered cans of energy drinks as companions.
Marshall has never been that out-going despite his extroverted tendencies, but he’s learned the joy of playing on LAN pretty much immediately after joining his first Valorant team. Never a dull moment, for he could watch his teammates clutch irl instead of screaming fake comms over the mic just to mess with their head.
Sean is no exception, though for some reason, messing with him in particular is extra fun. Marshall has just whiffed horribly and rather than tilting, he leans over, one hand gripping Sean’s shoulder, giving out unusually good dead comms.
“Hookah! He’s hookah I just saw his gun!” Marshall shouts.
Sean—ever so used to Marshall’s booming voice—doesn’t falter in the slightest. “Got it.”
“Nice wall bang bro, just one more.”
Sean falls quiet, as with Marshall, both holding their breath as if to sniff out the remaining enemy Viper lurking somewhere. At one point, Marshall gets so into it he nearly lowers his head onto Sean’s shoulder, his incessant scratchy throat rising up tenfold. He wills himself to ignore it even more, if he coughs now surely Sean would fail this clutch.
Marshall hears a tiny footstep, he squeezes Sean’s arm. “On the right! Your right!”
Sean is facing forward, expecting the Viper in a different direction. Upon hearing Marshall he flicks to the right so fast and hits a shot so clean it takes both of them aback. The spike drops, and Sean has just clutched a crucial round.
Marshall let out a breath of relief, tension withdrawing from him. Sean’s tense too, his shoulders sag underneath Marshall’s fingers as he slumps back in his seat and brofists Marshall. It’s only a ranked match, yet Sean’s mechanics and insane reflex still shine through. The fact that he trusts Marshall completely does funny things to Marshall’s stomach.
Marshall sits back down. “Nasty flick, you won us the round.”
“Thanks, couldn’t have done it without you though,” Sean blushes.
Marshall’s chest tightens involuntarily. Sean looks so fucking adorable, cheeks slightly pink and tousled hair. Marshall shivers, the chili peppers must’ve gotten to his head.
Marshall still needs to cough, but talking with Sean helps. They fool around for the rest of the match, sometimes Sean hits a botched Viper molly, sometimes Marshall misses a Fade lineup. Normally Marshall would be frustrated at his incompetence, however today there's only laughter.
“Where the fuck are you looking at!” Sean bellows. He’s been shot in the back with his knife out and apparently that was Marshall’s fault.
“Watching our flanks you idiot!”
“What flank? They’re both CT, our Brimstone died peeking earlier,” Sean raises his eyebrows.
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did! I can’t believe you’re both blind and deaf.”
Marshall coughs, once, into his elbow, and nudges Sean playfully. Sean shoves back, they turn it into a game of sorts while waiting the round out.
They finally win after throwing a few more rounds, Sean’s flushed and Marshall is laughing so hard his ribs hurt. They don’t really deserve this win but since their Raze suddenly installed aimbot, free rr was free rr.
By the time they wrap up three more games it’s pitch black outside. Marshall doesn’t usually queue ranked after a long day of scrims, but Sean insisted, and they won all three games. So even though Marshall is beyond exhausted and nurturing an empty stomach, his cheery mood doesn’t wane.
Sean checks his phone and turns off the PC with a hum. Marshall clicks his tongue in annoyance. “One more game wouldn’t hurt.”
Sean gives Marshall a look. “It’s literally 11 pm.”
“So? Oh, your wackass bedtime right?”
“It’s called having a healthy sleep schedule,” Sean claps back. He’s yawned twice in a span of two minutes, which prompts Marshall to yawn too despite his current disposition. “Anyways, you up for a late snack?”
Marshall shuts down his monitor. “Sounds good to me, I’m fucking starving. What are we having? Gas station wraps?”
“Ew, no. I know this fantastic ramen spot that opens past midnight in Japantown.”
“LA doesn’t have a Japantown.”
“Yes it does, come on get up,” Sean yanks on the corner of Marshall’s jersey. “Move your ass.”
“Alright chill, you’re tearing my shirt.”
Marshall cracks his knuckles and stands up, stretching to get rid of the drowsiness and puts on his hoodie. Sean’s already halfway out the door, hood up, hands tucked inside the pocket of his Sen hoodie. Marshall briefly wonders if anyone’s going to recognize them, him in civvies, Sean in merch.
The night is still young, but Sean’s dozing off in the car, riding shotgun. Outside the window, streetlights blur together as the K-Pop ballad song fills the peaceful silence, from a band that Marshall has been enjoying lately.
Sean does not fuck with those songs, he calls them corny and Marshall needs to grow up. Fuck Sean though, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Although, he has been quiet for the last fifteen minutes or so. Marshall reaches over with one hand to prop his head up.
“This place is on the other side of the city, don’t fall asleep on me now,” Marshall pokes Sean’s cheek. “Why’d you choose it anyway?”
“Huh?” Sean stirs awake at Marshall’s pestering. “Their ramen is unreal.”
“So unreal that you ruin your healthy sleep schedule?”
“You agreed to take me there, remember?” Sean rubs his bleary eyes. “I’m telling you, you’re gonna love it. You’re actually the first person I share it with, so be thankful.”
“As long as it—” Marshall is cut off by an intense cough, he dead-grips the wheel, trying to suppress the sudden pain in his chest. It’s strange at best and alarming at worst, he stopped coughing a while ago, why did it come back now?
Perhaps it has something to do with Sean saying Marshall is the first person he shares a secret spot with? No, can’t be.
Marshall concentrates on the winding road ahead, ignoring both that bizarre notion and his sandpaper throat. They’re almost there.
Sean grabs Marshall’s bicep, voice laced with worry. “Are you okay? Do you have a cold? Should I check your temperature?”
“Not while I’m driving!” Marshall swats Sean away. “I’m fine, just dealing with the aftermath of the chilis.”
“Shouldn’t you have gotten over that by now?”
“Beats me,” Marshall shrugs. “As I was saying, as long as it’s not some spicy monstrosity, I’m peachy.”
“Whitest boy in America.”
“Fuck you too.”
Sean chuckles, the sound echoes off the stuffy car straight into Marshall’s eardrums, which brings another bout of coughing. Is he actually sick? Has he contracted a virus? Marshall grinds his molars together, using all his will power to not cough his lungs out and bother Sean even more.
The streets gradually turn more and more deserted as they go, a clear night sky with no clouds, the moon leads them to a vacant neighborhood. Odd for a bustling city like LA.
After a painful half an hour, they arrive at nearly midnight. The “Japantown” in question turns out to be Little Tokyo, a historical landmark. Marshall has heard about it before, in passing conversation with Martin about what LA has to offer over Berlin.
The ramen shop is small, no, tiny actually, nestled between a revolving sushi bar and a famous chain restaurant, both closed for the night. It’s the sort of place that could totally pass you by if you aren’t explicitly looking for it. Inconspicuous and totally mediocre.
Marshall shuts the engine and exits the car, rounding to the other side to open the passenger door for Sean, who’s still waking up. A huge Torii gate looms to their right, blinking Japanese signages on top of blackout shops to their left, red-and-white paper lanterns etched with Japanese letters sway gently above. Like Marshall is transported to a real Tokyo sidewalk.
In lieu of a door, a noren—a split cloth curtain—hangs in the entrance. Marshall moves it aside and enters, Sean inches behind. Instantly, the scent of rich broth, soy, and grilled pork engulfs them both, the warmth from the bubbling broth pot radiates through Marshall’s very core, washing away the cold of the late night. There’s barely space for more than seven people, which means everyone is squished together, a good opportunity to converse with and befriend others.
Faded newspaper clippings decorate the wall, rundown wooden counter with a few stools, the radio hums softly some dreamy Japanese pop, and the rhythmic clatter of ladles and chopsticks. Marshall hasn’t ordered, but he understands why Sean loves this place. He’s slowly falling in love with it too.
A haven, a sanctuary, a hideaway from the real world.
Sean pulls out a stool and sits, greeting the chef like an old friend. Marshall picks up an old menu, perusing it up and down.
Sean points out something on top of the page. “You should try their signature dish, out of this world.”
“Yeah? You recommend it?”
“Of course,” Sean waves at the chef. “Hey, two bowls of my usual.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” says Marshall, crossing his fingers behind his head. “Are you ever gonna tell me how you discovered this place?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?”
“What??? Come on!” Marshall whines, batting his eyes at Sean in a manner that he thinks is adorable and convincing. Though he probably just made a fool of himself.
Sean lets out a small tsk. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Pretty please?” Marshall has no idea what he’s doing, literally begging. He doesn’t want to pry that much.
Sean seems amused, like Marshall clowning has an effect on him. He puts his head on his chin, scanning Marshall’s dumb face whose cheeks are puffed up like a squirrel. After a while, Sean signs, defeated.
“Years ago, when I first came to LA, I was kind of lost and sad and hungry. I think it was around the time where we bombed out of a Masters or something, uh, we as in me and 100 Thieves,” Sean corrects himself when Marshall scowls. “I wasn’t thinking straight, just wandered on the streets and stumbled here. I was starving but I forgot my phone and my wallet at home. Fortunately the owner gave me a bowl of ramen on the house, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life, minus my mom’s cooking of course.”
“Wow, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you talk aside from comming.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No, your voice is quite easy on the ears actually, you should speak more. Don’t be such an NPC.”
Sean makes a face. “Uh, okay…”
Marshall grimaces, Sean seems baffled that he likes Sean’s voice, he didn’t say it but sure sounded like it. Maybe he shouldn’t run his mouth anymore.
The chef interrupts at the perfect time, setting down two bowls of steaming ramen. Marshall digs in, and he might’ve ascended to heaven, stars bursting behind his eyelids.
“What the fuck? You’ve been hiding this from me this whole time?” Marshall exclaims.
“Told ya,” Sean smirks. “Shit’s good right?”
“Good is a massive understatement, I think you just ruined ramen for me.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, you fucking imbecile,” Sean shakes his head. “You’re like a certified neanderthal.”
Marshall neither denies nor confirms, he’s too busy gulping down his bowl until there isn’t a lick of broth left. Out the corner of his eyes, Sean is glaring at him, amusement dripping from his face. Marshall wants to wipe that smug grin straight off. He doesn’t.
Marshall burps, he picks up a napkin to clean his sweaty forehead. “So like, no one else knows about this but me and you?”
“Yep. I’m gatekeeping the shit out of it.”
“Why’d you tell me then?”
Sean rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know, you're a good friend, I think. You always have my back, on and off the server. Of course everyone else is nice too but you’re… different. When I first joined Sentinels I didn’t think I’d make a friend out of you this fast. I’m glad we met.”
“That’s… very kind of you to say,” Marshall’s eyes widen. “I’m glad too.”
“Yeah well, that’s great then.”
Between side dishes of gyozas and complimentary out-of-season mikans, the conversations flow smoothly. Marshall tries to ragebait Sean into listening to K-Pop fruitlessly, though he’s too mellowed out to fall for ragebait. Marshall then switches to niche anime references disguised as quizzes, Sean somehow catches everything. He even laughs at Marshall’s dumb jokes, striking up butterflies in the blond’s belly.
“You wanna know something funny? I didn’t even tell Peter about all this,” Sean wets his lips. “That’s not funny but whatever,” he adds after half a beat.
Peter Mazuryk. Asuna. A skilled player, Sean’s ex-teammate, current best friend. Sean keeps his “hideaway” from Peter—presumably for years—yet he feels safe enough to share with Marshall.
Which means nothing, right?
The coughing reoccurs, catching Marshall off guard. He hunches over the counter, holding his mouth, muffling the onslaught tearing through him. His heart hammers against his chest vocally, fast-paced and ragged.
Sean was going to say something else, but Marshall’s sudden coughing halted him. A warm hand settles on Marshall’s back, rubbing soothing circles.
“You should really get that checked out,” Sean says with concern. “What if it’s serious? Like Covid?”
“I’m—” Marshall can’t speak as another bout of coughing comes forth.
Sean furrows his brows. “Bro you’re giving me the ick.”
Marshall grips the wooden counter, his uncut nails making noticeable dents. Sean requests a cup of tea and offers it to Marshall, who gulps it down in one fell swoop.
“It’s probably the chilis,” Marshall coughs one last time.
“How many times are you gonna use that excuse? It’s getting old.”
“I’m fine, stop acting like a motherhen.”
“I’m worried about you,” Sean scoffs. “If you fall sick, who's going to be our initiator-flex?
“Is that all I’m good for?”
“What else?”
“Fuck you,” Marshall grins against his will. “I’m tired as shit, let’s get outta here.”
“Okay,” Sean acquiesces, he stands and puts the stool back. “But if you keep this up I’ll inform Kap.”
“Snitches get stitches.”
Marshall pays for them both despite Sean’s protest. In his defense, it’s the least he could do after Sean introduces him to this amazing little spot. They bow to the chef before leaving, all formal and stuff, Marshall feels like an anime protagonist.
On the ride back, Sean flat out falls asleep, not a care in the world. Months prior he wouldn’t have been this comfortable showing his vulnerable side to another person, Marshall isn’t complaining though. He reaches out instinctively and guides Sean’s head in his direction. They aren’t near enough for Sean to rest his head on top of Marshall’s shoulders, he speeds through three consecutive red lights so Sean won’t sprain his neck for long.
Something tells Marshall this late night drive isn’t a one time thing. Next time he’ll buy a neck pillow for his companion. Neck pillows can be a fun merch idea.
Soon enough, they get home. Home has meant many things to Marshall throughout the years, this time it’s an apartment building adjacent to the Sen compound. Late last year, he and Sean moved in around the same time, their apartments across the hall from each other, on the same floor.
It’d be fun if they saw each other every morning, walking to the office together. They don’t cross paths much however, Sean goes to sleep and wakes up much earlier than Marshall. Healthy sleep schedule he said, which just means he’d start yawning at 7 pm.
Zach and Amine live here too, only Jordan has a different residence somewhere in the city. One big happy family.
Marshall pokes and jabs Sean a few times, the guy is snoring gently, refusing to wake up. So, naturally, Marshall picks him up—bridal style and all, it’s the easiest method—and carries him through the entrance.
Sean is featherlight, skinny and pale, Marshall isn’t strong but Sean definitely hasn’t been eating enough. His diet probably consisted of green teas and junk foods. He doesn’t stir in Marshall’s arms, snuggling comfortably, fluffy hair tickles Marshall’s chin.
Marshall feels a pang in his heart, sweats break out at his nape, shivering as the wind cuts through his hoodie.
He swallows them whole.
At their apartments, Marshall fishes out Sean’s keys and unlocks the door for him. Sean’s place is bare, white and pristine, like he hasn’t been bothered to unpack anything beside his setup and other essentials. Marshall carries Sean all the way into the bedroom, passing by discarded cardboard boxes and dirty clothes on the way.
Marshall makes a lot of sounds, bumping into furniture here or there, but Sean’s still dead to the world. Strange, Marshall hasn’t pegged him for a heavy sleeper, he must be exhausted. They did have multiple back-to-back scrims today, no wonder Sean couldn’t stop yawning.
As gently as possible, Marshall lowers Sean onto the bed, pulling up the covers as well. Sean looks… at peace. Eyes closed, sleeping soundly. Marshall’s gaze sets on the tiny curve of Sean’s lips, likely having a good dream.
A sharp ache wells up in Marshall’s chest, blocking out all other senses. He can’t contain himself anymore. He turns off all lights in Sean’s apartment and bolts out like some sort of monster is hot on his heels.
Marshall locks his own apartment and falls to the hard wooden floor, coughing his guts out. He might’ve scraped his knees as well, if the jolt of pain is anything to go by. He heaves and gags, practically burning from the inside out. Sticking his hand inside his mouth, Marshall digs out something soft and velvety, he tosses it away in disgust.
On the floor beneath him is no piece of regurgitated food, just a bit of bile. Among them are a couple of red flower petals. No blood, but the red stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise darkened room, lit only by the moonlight through the gaps between the blinds.
Marshall stares at the petals, spits trickling down his mouth. He rubs his eyes once, twice, then three times, willing the scene unfolding in front of him to go away.
It doesn’t.
Marshall’s mind is fuzzy around the edges, like being obstructed by misty clouds. As if on autopilot, he drags his feet to the bathroom sluggishly to puke into the toilet bowl, a nauseating wave forming behind his temples. The sharp ache in his chest relents with each heave. Nothing else comes out except for those flower petals.
Marshall grips the porcelain edge desperately, knuckles white, vision swimming. The room feels suffocating, he’s suffocating—figuratively and literally—from the wound on his knees and deep inside his heart.
After a few minutes, he detaches himself from the toilet and slumps against the titled wall, breathing in and out, trying to calm down. He then flushes the toilet, watching the flower petals swirl away yet the dread remains.
Marshall steadies himself on the sink and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The figure staring back has crazy eyes and wild spiky hair, he looks like a madman.
Maybe he’s really gone mad.
A panic attack is fast approaching. Before it catches up with him, he splashes cold sinkwater over his face and limps out of the bathroom. Digging through the drawer, he slaps a bandage on his knees which has stopped bleeding and climbs on the bed, deciding to call it a day.
Marshall is not in the right mind to process this situation. Whether he’s dreaming or not, it would have to wait until tomorrow.
In the soundless room, Marshall drifts off fitfully. His last thought is about Sean, of all people. Sean’s smug face when he looked at Marshall during “dinner”, chowing down a whole bowl of ramen, like he was so proud to share something he held dear to Marshall and have Marshall enjoy it too.
Perhaps this is just a nightmare, and by morning Marshall’s paranoia will vanish.
───〃★
It wasn’t a nightmare.
Marshall wakes with a start. He’s slept through his alarm, or worse, he’s forgone setting an alarm altogether. Thankfully Sen has a late scrim today.
After checking social media and rotting in bed for half an hour, Marshall suddenly feels nearsighted, body starting to sweat. He kicks off the covers and flings his legs off the bed, flinching when his knees hit the side.
The bathroom is the same as last night, except his reflection is much worse, like he hasn’t slept a wink. He winces at it, already dreading the questions he’ll receive later. He takes a quick shower, relieves himself then steps out as fast as he can.
The stuff he vomited out stays in place in front of the apartment’s door, even more unsettling in the daylight. Green bile and flower petals, a color not dissimilar to Sentinels’ signature red. No matter how much Marshall wishes that he hallucinated the whole thing, the evidence is right there.
He gags a little as he uses paper tissues to scoop everything up, dumping it away. Sitting before the PC, Marshall has his head buried in his hands, noxious thoughts invading his mind.
“Psychoflorapulmonitis,” or Hanahaki disease, a more romanticized definition as coined by the Japanese. For an illness born out of unrequited love (allegedly) it’s quite fitting.
Hanahaki isn’t uncommon, but it’s rare enough that the majority of the population will most likely never catch it, nor will they encounter people who have it in their lifetime. The biggest mystery of modern science, to this day there are still controversial debates about the cause and effect. Some say it’s simply a psychological disorder, some revere it as a sign of divine intervention, some outright don’t believe such a thing exists.
The procedure to get rid of it comes with many hidden risks, a 50/50 coin flip. Either you straight up die or you live with holes in your memories, like it’s made out of cheese and the whole congregation is mice. Neither option is mercy, only death wearing different ropes.
A kind of death that the world will not mourn.
In regard to their little esports community, there hasn’t been any reported case of players catching it. Marshall doesn’t think he himself would ever come across Hanahaki, nor anyone in his social circle. But life—or God as he is—always gives his strongest soldiers the toughest battles, not that Marshall believes in God.
Marshall’s not an idiot, he knows what the flower petals mean. They have crept up on him at the most unfortunate time, wedged between Stage 2 and Champions. At least it isn’t Covid, he hasn’t contracted lung cancer, and he can put a label on it before having to visit a doctor.
It’s just, out of everyone, why him? Why now?
The worst part about this is Marshall has no idea who he’s fallen for. Ridiculous. Like his lungs and heart had a verbal agreement to sow a seed, without his brain’s consent.
The taste of acid rises up alongside something astringent, tears sting his eyes, he snaps them shut as flower petals escape his mouth. His chest aches with an unfamiliar pain, but soon to be. Crimson red petals, not unlike a river of blood.
Those petals turn out to be camellia petals. Red camellias specifically, if his Google search is correct. Marshall figures studying them might shed some light on this gloomy scenario, help him deduce who the flowers bloom for, or at least offer him some solace.
When Marshall found out which kind of flower it was, his first thought was why camellias? and why red?
For starters, camellias bloom from winter to spring, one of the only species of flower to withstand the cold harsh weather. It doesn’t wither in a normal sense, it falls whole from the stem, bold as if making a statement. In older Japanese folktales, camellias symbolize a noble death, or undying love.
Passion. Admiration. Devotion. A kind of love that doesn’t explode, but burns steadily under the barbed wires and rough edges.
While the plant itself is long-lived, each individual blooms have a short lifespan. Flourishing in a fleeting moment, perishing just as fast.
A short but brilliant life.
It’s all too much for Marshall, and it doesn’t really help. The blinking cursor on the search bar mocks him, he can vaguely make out his own facsimile on the screen, tattered and decrepit.
Who could possibly hold so much weight to him, that his heart figured it out before he does?
Ever since Marshall clawed his way up to franchising, leaving his “rivals” in the dust, he has vowed to never involve himself with redundant romance. All eyes on the prize, the shiny trophy every player dreams of.
But as it were, the wheel of ill omen has chosen him as the victim.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s no wimp. Even if he dies from this he’ll seek that person out and confess his love, maybe rizz them up along the way. But how can he do that if he doesn’t know who they are?
After more useless research, Marshall clenches his fists, determination surges through him. He only developed Hanahaki as soon as last night. This mysterious person that has captured his heart must be someone close, he has no time to waste. He’s on a deadline, literally.
Marshall’s too young to be running on empty.
24 hours on the dot. Marshall gives himself just 24 hours to identify this person, and end his predicament for good. If his love is unreciprocated, he’ll at least lay down to rest with closure, knowing that he has tried his best.
The delicate petals in his open palm seem to be singing, a final song to the bygone summer days, mourning the loss of a carefree youth. Outside the windows of his studio apartment, leaves are either withering or departing from the branches. Leafy green disappears, leaving specks of gold and orange in their trails.
Autumn will soon fall.
Marshall couldn’t be sure, but he has a feeling so peculiar, that this pain would be forevermore.
Notes:
After a brutal rostermania, what's better than to torture myself more with writing this shit? I've had this idea ever since bang got kicked, personally I feel like he got the shortest end of the stick, but y'all ain't ready for that conversation.
Tbh I didn't know if I was gonna post this at all. Everybody moved on but I'm still at the restaurant. Whatever. I know some people would enjoy this, and well, thank you in advance. Love you all my bangrate oomfs.
Whichever happens next, I'll always hold these memories in my heart and carry them onward. SEN25 my beloved, you shone so brightly and died heroically.
Chapter 2: In the best way, you’ll be the death of me.
Notes:
Title taken from "Wonderful Unknown" by Ingrid Michaelson.
this might be OOC, idgaf though
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After careful calculations, deductive reasoning, some mental gymnastics and lowkey just blind guessing, Marshall reaches a conclusion.
It can’t be his exes or old friends from home, he’s lost contact with half of them. It can’t be someone from Karmine Corp, he hasn’t thought about them in months. It can't be players he admires (i.e TenZ), it’s called parasocial if he’s not mistaken. And finally it can’t be the staff at Sen or his coaches, that’s just plain weird.
So the list shortens down to four people: Zach, Amine, Jordan, Sean. Marshall’s teammates who he spends day in and day out with. Each has their own characteristics and mannerisms that he might have fallen for unknowingly. He has hoped for a different outcome, one that doesn’t imply that he’s fucking gay, but alas.
Speaking of sexual orientation, is he even gay to begin with? He’s definitely not homophobic, but what about the opposite? He’s never had to question his preferences before, being circled by mostly men for twelve hours a day might’ve messed with his head, but that’s stupid. It’s not how things work.
Marshall can see himself falling for Zach, Amine even. Though the former has a girlfriend, and he considers the latter an older brother.
Moving on to Jordan and Sean. Jordan is… very Jordan, and the streets are saying he’s already taken. Marshall cringes internally. Jordan’s great, he’s awesome actually, whoever bagged him is a lucky person, but there’s just no fucking way.
That leaves Sean.
Marshall’s mind slips and slides to last night, where he had a mental breakdown after escorting Sean to his apartment. That doesn't mean shit though, right?
It’s funny and a bit pathetic that he has to play the guessing game, scavenge for clues, solve the riddle that his heart deciphered before his brain did. Would make for a good rom-com/mystery plot if only his life was as extravagant, like he could look up at any moment and a camera would be pointing straight at him.
Marshall shivers, it’s scorching hot outside but here there are cold sweats on his temples. He shakes himself loose, first he has to get out of this stinky ass room and make his way to practice. He’s running out of time.
Before leaving the building, his eyes wander to his hallway neighbor’s place. Sean’s door stays affixed, of course it is, but Marshall can’t help imagining what goes on behind it. Has Sean woken up? Did he have green tea and chips instead of a real breakfast? What would he wear today? The usual Sen merch or a plain black t-shirt?
Marshall pinches his forearm, he needs to get a fucking grip. He’s a man on a mission.
The afternoon sun is blazing. Marshall only has a thin shirt underneath his hoodie because he physically can’t let go of it, but it’s too hot, he’s already sweating. LA’s weather is a coin flip anyway, it might rain at a moment’s notice. Marshall shields his face from the sunlight, jogging to the Sen office.
Zach is Marshall’s first “test subject.” No particular reason, Marshall has just bumped into him at the entrance. He’s on the phone with someone and tapping his foot impatiently. Marshall waits until he’s done to speak up.
“What’s up bro! How’s it going?” Marshall waves at Zach.
There’s a flash of annoyance in Zach’s eyes, only for half a beat. He smiles and high-fives Marshall. “Wake up, defeat enemy, am I right?”
“Bet. Um, you wanna grab something to eat and maybe some coffee?” Marshall suggests, then winces because it sounds like he’s just asked Zach out. He needs to work on his flirting. “For the whole team I mean.”
Zach inspects Marshall from head to toes. “You look malnourished bro, did you even eat?”
“Uh, no.”
“Jeez Marsh, what did we tell you about skipping meals?”
“I’m not! I woke up late and went straight here,” Marshall lies. Not about skipping meals, he doesn’t do that, but he did spend hours overanalyzing his new crisis.
Zach isn’t convinced. “Sure buddy.”
“Give me a break bro.”
“Whatever man, don’t come begging for help when Amine stares you down later,” Zach shrugs. “Anyways, food and coffee this way.”
Zach leads, Marshall follows. Marshall gets a burrito for him at a nondescript street stand, just one, Zach already ate prior to this. They walk a few more blocks to a cafe that the team usually gets their caffeine fix from.
Los Angeles can be noisy and obnoxious most days, but it can also be homey to some people. It took months for Marshall to get used to the new hectic schedule, the hustle and bustle, the city’s blinding lights. It’s not Berlin, it never will be, but that doesn’t matter much when home is where the heart is. Marshall’s heart is split into three, one’s named Atlanta, one belongs to Berlin, and now he’s made space for LA as well.
They arrive at that coffee shop, a small, cozy one on the corner of the street. Marshall remembers Jordan bringing him and Sean here last year, swearing it provides the best coffee that they would ever taste. It’s true.
Sean might’ve had a different opinion related to 100 Thieves, but soon enough there was always a matcha on his desk, not missing a day. Jordan teases him repeatedly.
Zach is nose-deep in the phone again, typing furiously while they wait in line to order—four double espressos and a matcha for Sean. Marshall toys with the fray thread of his jersey, eyes fixed on Zach’s little hair whorl, it’s counter-clockwise.
To Marshall, Zach has always been a whirlwind, flying in and out of the practice room every day with a permanent bedhead, glasses falling off his nose. Never a dull moment, always a cheeky smile, constantly looking like he’s about to combust. His high energy level clicks with Jordan so well, with both of them around Marshall finds it hard to keep a straight face. Marshall has glorified Zach at one point—he still does—after Madrid. Like everyone else.
But that’s not all there is to Zachary Patrone. When they lost at Bangkok, Marshall saw it unraveling right before his very eyes. Zach didn’t cry—he doesn’t cry, period—but his broken eyes hidden behind a crooked grin relayed the anguish he couldn’t say out loud. Marshall wanted to grab hold of him and shake him until he bursted, if it meant sharing the burden.
Zach was too young to carry the weight of the world, to have learned how to mask his pain.
He thinks Marshall doesn’t know, but he’s hyper aware of when Zach stills mid-conversation, like he wants to voice his opinion but lacks conviction because they’re not tight like that. Thankfully, Marshall and Sean have somehow wormed their way into Zach’s bubble. Baby steps.
Currently, Zach is a hairbreadth away from Marshall, with this angle Marshall can see the top of his head, a whole crow’s nest. He’s mumbling something unintelligible, typing and deleting long paragraphs.
Marshall swallows. He feels absolutely nothing besides deep compassion, brotherly love, and an urge to stick his leg out, tripping Zach over. His face isn’t heating up, his heart is thumping softly, and he isn’t coughing his lungs out. He could kiss Zach right now but he doubts it’d help his case.
It would be less troublesome if Zach is the one. He isn’t. Marshall doesn’t look at Zach like that. Which is a good thing he supposes, Zach’s taken, and truthfully he’s not Marshall’s type. Not that he has a type.
The waiting line clears, Zach looks up from his phone, they move forward.
Marshall’s curious what has Zach so distressed. A fight with Nicole maybe? Could be anything really, but the topic of one-sided love has Marshall jumping at shadows.
Zach puts in their order, he turns around, having read Marshall’s mind. “I’m not fighting with my girl if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Marshall flinches. “I don’t—”
“I’m just fucking with you,” Zach cackles. “It’s written all over your face though.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Marshall punches Zach lightly.
“I would, on god I would.”
“Freaky.”
“Not as much as you!” Zach retorts. “I can see the gears turning, don’t work yourself up. It’s nothing I promise.”
Marshall purses his lips. “Just don’t let it affect scrims.”
“Don’t worry, I’m always at my peak on the server.”
Marshall nods. The barista clears her throat, Zach nudges him to the pickup area.
Marshall balances three paper cups of coffee, Zach carries the others, they walk back to the Sen office. They strike up small talk while waiting in the elevator, betting on who will outshine who in today’s scrim. Outside of the practice room, Marshall wipes his sweaty hands on the back of his hoodie and pushes open the glass door. Zach nods and thanks him.
The prac room is lit up as always, though missing the usual banter and occasional stupid pranks. Jordan and Sean aren’t here yet but Kaplan and Amine are, one reviewing VODs in the side room, one clicking away on his keyboard.
So, Zach is positively off the list, and since Amine is available, Marshall can cram in another attempt before sitting his ass down for scrims.
While Zach spreads out his setup and gets comfy, Marshall saunters over to Amine, nonchalantly. He sits on the desk right beside Amine’s hand, tapping his fingers in a rhythm. Marshall beams at the IGL, he has just top fragged in a deathmatch.
“Hey,” Marshall greets, he gives Amine a paper cup of coffee, water flowing down his knuckles. Well, water or sweat, it doesn’t matter.
Amine takes the cup, eyeing Marshall suspiciously. “You look like shit.”
“No I do not,” Marshall refutes.
“You can fool him—” Amine points in Zach’s general direction, “—but I know when someone didn’t get a good night’s sleep, and has been skipping meals.”
“It’s true!” Zach chimes in with a sing-song voice.
“Why do you people always assume that? I literally have food right here,” Marshall tears open the burrito wrap and takes a big bite to prove a point.
“Smokey eyes aren’t a good look on you,” Amine gestures to Marshall’s dark circles under his eyes, only now does he feel it.
“I’m just a bit checked out.”
“Why?”
Marshall gulps, Amine is so overbearing sometimes. “I overslept. I’m checking back in.”
“Wow, I didn’t know Americans get eyebags from oversleeping,” Amine says sarcastically. When did this guy get so sassy?
“That’s racist.”
“Xenophobic,” Amine corrects him. “For the record, I don’t indulge you Americans.”
“Why are we lying? You love us. And Sean is half Brazilian.”
“You guys are a pain in my ass,” Amine shakes his head fondly. “But I do love you.”
“Aww, I love you too,” Marshall puckers his lips, making a kissy face at Amine.
Amine kicks Marshall’s leg. “Get away from me you moron.”
Marshall dodges the attack skillfully. “Hey hey! You’re gonna make me fall over.”
“Good.”
Marshall wipes his teary eyes from laughing, Amine’s made him forget his goal in the first place, now he has to focus up.
“Listen, I was wondering…”
“Hmm?”
“Like, do you wanna hang out sometimes?” just the two of us were the words Marshall couldn’t say. He grimaces, he’s such a pussy.
“That reminds me, we haven’t gone drinking in so long,” Amine strokes his chin. “I have a thing tonight but maybe this weekend? Wind down a little.”
“I meant…” Marshall speaks then bites his tongue, thinking better of it. “Sure, can you ask the boys?”
“I will, now leave me alone. I need to tweak my settings.”
Marshall complies, he goes over to put the matcha drink on Sean’s desk then trudges back to his designated seat. He boots the PC up, checking out the TikTok Sean has sent him earlier today. Unlike his brainrot fyp, Sean implodes their chat with cute shorts about kittens, they always cheer Marshall up when he’s in a mood. He doesn’t sulk that much, but somehow Sean knows when he does to text him, even when they’re not in the same room.
Marshall’s feeling jittery, probably from the coffee. He coughs a few times but there are no petals, so he ignores it. He glances over at Amine, who’s comparing notes on his phone to the on-screen VOD.
God, Marshall could write a whole essay about this man.
Amine carries himself with ease, calm, cool, collected and level-headed. He is their leader, their rock, a veteran who knows the game inside and out, a grounding figure to three reckless kids and a reckless old man. The first to arrive at the office beside Kaplan, supporting them quietly during scrims and leading the team in a match, not authoritative, but humble. They listen to him cause they all trust him with their lives. Marshall isn’t sure if being an IGL naturally comes with a commanding air, but in Amine’s case, Marshall will follow him through hell and high water.
Not to mention Amine is basically the “mom friend” of their group. He drinks responsibly when they hit a bar, pays when they’re short on cash and calls for a taxi when they’re wasted. He fusses when Zach’s fingers go stiff, he’s willing to excuse Jordan from practice, he bears with Sean’s moody attitude when he has an off day, he understands Marshall’s homesickness for a place that no longer belongs to either of them.
It can be bothersome how much Amine cares sometimes, but the fact that he cares at all is why Marshall respects him. No one asks him to look out for them off the server, he just does it for free.
Well, not for free. They pay him back with equal love. That and getting on his nerves.
On top of that, Amine is also objectively hot. Girls swoon when he walks past, guys check him out blatantly. His online fanbase defends him like he’s an inmate that doesn’t deserve the death sentence, that’s not even hyperbolic. Marshall can’t lie, he’s blushed when Amine compliments him, more than once. Sue him.
It would be so easy to fall for Amine. In fact, Marshall might’ve had a brief crush on him when they met in person for the first time. To be fair, who doesn’t like him? The English language lacks words to describe how amazing he is.
And if Amine doesn’t feel the same way, he out of everyone would let Marshall down so gently Marshall might bawl.
But again, as Marshall opens up Valorant, he feels nothing. No heart rate spiking up, no heat on his cheeks, no petals in his lungs. He almost wishes it was Amine who twists his guts into knots, for whom the flowers grow. But no.
Marshall signs, low and heavy. Not Amine, not Zach, so it’s either Jordan or Sean. Marshall lowkey wants to get this over with, but jumping the gun never leads to anything good. He has to play the waiting game until they get here.
Soon enough, after Marshall’s finished his coffee and placed second in a deathmatch, a booming voice rings out across the room accompanied by door creaking. Marshall’s hand jerks, mouse almost flying off the pad.
Jordan comes rushing to Amine, who doesn’t acknowledge his presence until Jordan physically grabs Amine’s shoulders, shaking him from side to side, shouting some gibberish about the importance of Dubai chocolate and how the economy depends on Labubu sales. Zach elbows Jordan as he walks by, and Marshall waits for Amine to blow up on Jordan. As brainrotted as Marshall is, even he can’t deal with Jordan’s nonsense.
But in a blink of an eye, Amine’s whole face softens. It’s only for a split second, though Marshall’s confident he saw a twinkle in Amine’s eyes, looking up at Jordan with such intensity it could knock someone backward. As fast as it appeared, it’s gone again.
Something just clicks to Marshall, he has an idea what.
Has it always been this obvious or is he just dense when it comes to subtext? Was it hidden between the lines? Or in plain view and he’s lived life with blinders on?
Perhaps he just couldn’t care less about his friends’ personal life if they choose not to broadcast it with the whole world. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Jordan has hurried back to his seat, he thanks Marshall for the coffee. Marshall takes one more look at Jordan’s receding hairline and his patchy facial hair, feeling jack shit beside wanting to spike Jordan’s coffee with laxatives. Pranking Jordan is always fun, for the times Jordan has messed with Marshall back.
Don’t get him wrong, Marshall’s beyond grateful for what Jordan has done. For him, for the team, for the VCT scene as a whole. It hurts a little when he checks socials and sees people hating on someone as wonderful as Jordan, the “analysts” and stats merchants. Granted, they’ll never know what goes on behind-the-scenes, but anyone with eyes could see how much work Jordan put into every game. How he hypes them up, how he meshes with Amine’s calling perfectly, how he keeps the momentum forward when they’re at a ten rounds deficit.
Back in Kickoff—feels like a lifetime ago—when Marshall bursted out crying after the draining match against Loud, Jordan hugged him hard and almost crushed his ribs, even when he shrugged Jordan off, wanting to be left alone. For better or for worse, neither Jordan nor the team let him off the hook, not before making sure he stopped sniffing. They all give good hugs, it might not have been what Marshall wanted at the time, but what he needed.
Jordan isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, he's not the worst person to fall for however. Not that Jordan is unattractive, but like Marshall said, there’s no fucking way in hell.
So three are definitely off the list.
Which means…
Marshall swallows. He does not like the implication of that. Not because Sean is unlovable, but because he’s too loveable. Marshall’s not the first one to think that for sure.
He has no clue what to do with this revelation. He actually wants to cough up flowers for once, he needs solid proof, it could be literally anyone at this point. Sean is still missing. Where the hell is he?
As if on cue, there’s some clothes ruffling at the door as Sean pushes through. His Sen windbreaker is half-zipped—the 2024 Champions one, god knows where he got it from—he takes it off as he shuffles to his seat. He picks up the matcha without asking who bought it and sips it.
Sean looks great today, a direct opposite from Marshall who’s in need of a shave. Which is kind of insane, because at first glance Sean seems the same, hair a tad greasy though like he hasn’t washed it in days. There’s just something about him that lures Marshall in. Maybe it’s his chocolaty brown eyes that whisk his breath away, maybe not.
Marshall feels a familiar pinprick in his throat, he covers his mouth with one hand, muffling the coughing sound. There are no petals still, but he’s slowly losing his mind.
So it’s Sean then?
Marshall signs, louder this time, good thing everyone has headphones. He runs a hand down his face dejectedly.
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” (*)
Isn’t it?
First thing first, Marshall wants to at least ask Sean on a “date.” Not an actual date of course, but to gauge Sean’s reaction and monitor his condition. If he survives the whole thing without collapsing from asphyxiation, then no questions asked.
There’s a notification on discord waiting for Marshall. Sean has thanked him for the matcha. Marshall reclines the gaming chair back to see Sean, eyes glued to the screen, lips pressed together indicating how locked in he is. They are on both ends of the row, a far enough distance that walking would be a chore. Sean probably couldn’t be bothered.
Marshall texts back a no problem. Just as he’s about to stand up and approach Sean, Kaplan materializes from nowhere and puts his foot down, lecturing them on today’s plans. Marshall tsks and stays in place.
Marshall throws his head back as he listens to the coach. Kaplan says some inspirational speech, some bullshit about how they should relax and go with the flow, not getting too far inside their heads. Which is funny because Envy is on the radar today.
Scrims go smoothly. They have the chance to play some Tier 2 teams, testing their slow default against the explosive entry of young and hungry teams. They’re one of Marshall’s favorites to go head-to-head with, purely because their energy can be felt from this side of the screen. It’s refreshing. He doesn’t have a problem with Sentinels’ playbook, though it is exhausting sometimes.
Today feels different however, only slightly. Their comms are well coordinated as always, better even. But there’s a gaping hole at the base of Marshall’s stomach, and it’s expanding. Marshall’s hyper-sensitive of his surroundings, occasionally he would cough when Sean replies to his comms. It’s odd at best and distracting at worst.
Match point on Sunset, only Marshall and Sean left in a 2v3 clutch. Sean is holding market from default, Marshall is tucked backsite. The enemies double swing, Sean takes down one and is traded out.
“One more from market, they’re smoking the spike!” Sean yells.
“Got it,” Marshall mumbles.
One enemy peeks from CT, Marshall takes him down. The spike is tapped and Marshall creeps forward, a death Clove smoke blocking his sight line. He counts the seconds, barely enough to half the spike then pushes into the smoke, fully expecting the opponent to stick the spike.
They’re sticking, but Marshall coughs, making the mouse shake. The enemy shoots him, he shoots back.
He whiffs.
They lose. Overtime has commenced.
“Fuck! Fucking hell,” Marshall curses, almost slamming the desk. He should've just played time, spammed the smoke, thrown some utils. Instead he made a rookie mistake.
Kaplan calls for a tactical time-out. It’s a normal scrim, they do that every day, but Marshall’s on edge, biting his nails down to the quick. Out the corner of his eyes, Amine is taking off the headset.
“Hey, you alright?” Amine asks.
“Good, just tired I suppose,” Marshall reluctantly answers, he can see Sean staring at him from afar. If he moves, they’d lock eyes.
“Are you sick? You’ve been coughing a lot,” Amine presses on.
“No, no, of course not. I’m as strong as a bull.”
“What kind of expression is that?”
Marshall releases his poor fingernails, gazing away from Sean. “Nothing, forget it.”
Amine doesn’t seem convinced, he rolls his eyes and pats Marshall’s back. “I’ll believe you this time, but you’re on thin fucking ice. Make sure to tell a trusted adult.”
“I am literally twenty-two.”
“Exactly.”
“They don’t card me at the bar y’know,” Marshall smirks.
“Ah, congratulations on reaching unc status,” Amine deadpans.
“Bro what the fuck.”
Amine snickers, the time-out ends, they focus up. The rounds play out as intended. Sean doesn't miss a paranoia. Marshall's on secondary duelist, entrying without hesitation, picking enemies apart off Zach’s Yoru flash. Amine trades out Jordan, who's laughing his ass off because he accidentally switched to his knife while flanking.
Envy put up a decent fight, no wonder they're the most anticipated to ascend this year. If they bring the same spirit to the Ascension stage, they would crush everything in their path, without a doubt.
Ultimately Sentinels come out on top, an acceptable OT scoreline. Marshall takes a second to breathe while coaches discuss what's next. He needs it, who knows when breathing would become a luxury.
He might've heard some scuffle from Sean and Jordan, and his name might've been mentioned a few times. Everyone's talking over each other, so Marshall pays no mind.
Not much else happens, another regular workday, despite Marshall’s increasing impatience. After hours of scrims, deathmatch breaks and more scrims, they’re wrapped up for the day. Zach has already gathered his gears and bolted, Amine and Jordan are lounging in the side room, and Sean is… nowhere to be found.
God fucking damn it. Marshall’s working with a ghost, he has to be. He didn’t even notice when Sean disappeared. Normally they would be duo ranking right now, chatting about today's progress, if they've learned new strats.
Perhaps it’s just one of those days.
Marshall removes himself from the desk and gets lightheaded with static in his vision, he must've stood up too quickly. He remains still for a moment until it eases. He then cracks his knuckles and stretches wide, bones crackling like he's a fossil. He's wired from staring at the screen too much, it's a miracle he isn't nearsighted like everyone else in the office, minus Sean.
Marshall barges into the side room where Jordan and Amine are face-to-face on the couch, talking animatedly.
“Hey guys, have you seen Sean?” Marshall asks.
They look up at him with an irritated expression like he’s intruding. Marshall gives them an innocent smile in return, this is a public space for fuck’s sake.
“No,” Amine says.
“Yeah,” Jordan yaps at the same time. Amine side-eyes him.
Marshall raises an eyebrow. “So is it yes or no?”
“I don’t think he’s left the building yet,” Jordan says, Amine nods. “Why’d you wanna know? He owes you money or something?”
“Not everyone owes you money bro,” Marshall retorts. “I need to talk to him.”
“He’s around, somewhere. Oh and remind him to text me when he’s available, I told him we’re going out this weekend and I don’t think he heard me,” Jordan calls.
“Okay,” Marshall agrees, trailing out of the room. “Though I think he just ignored you.”
Rubbing his eyes, Marshall stalks to the restroom. In there, he splashes water over his face, feeling the weight of the dark circles underneath his eyes. He looks awful, he feels awful, hair all messy and spiking up. With a huff, he wets his hands with the tap water, fixing his hair to a presentable degree.
He hasn't spoken a single word to Sean today, coupled with the anxiety in his intestines—probs from not eating any real food—he might faint for real. At least Sean is the last “suspect”, Marshall won’t be questioning for long.
Marshall gives himself a one over and makes his way out, determined to find Sean. When he’s about to round a corridor, the first thing that registers isn't the sound nor the sight, but the smell. The same smell that is present every time he pulls Sean close, sour blueberries and sweet chocolate chip cookies. A smell adjacent to home, whatever that means.
Sean doesn't wear cologne, whatever Marshall’s imagining must exist only in his head. It's borderline schizophrenic, he's going crazy.
Yet, before Marshall starts overthinking, he can make out Sean's voice, speaking in a hushed tone. Marshall does not like eavesdropping mind you, but it's too good of an opportunity to pass up. He pokes his head out an inch, the rest of his body shielded behind the corner.
Sean is leaning back against the wall, hands tucked inside his sweatpants pockets, on the phone with someone. It's hard to read lips from this distance, Marshall strains his ears up, listening in closely.
“No yeah, that was insane, you’re actually him,” Sean giggles. “Hmm? You miss me? That’s sweet.”
Sean’s face physically softens, Marshall doesn’t know that was a thing until now, like whoever on the other line is the only person that gets past Sean’s defenses. They also miss Sean apparently.
“I don’t—” Sean begins, then pauses, frowning like he’s deep in thought. “I don’t have plans this weekend. Yeah? I miss you too.”
Sean’s eyes glisten in the hallway’s fluorescent light, sweet chocolaty brown. He has this rare, lopsided smile that Marshall’s only seen once or twice, despite having known him for almost a year. A smile reserved for special occasions, like when they went to Bangkok as one of the only two teams, when they beat G2 for the first time and qualified for Toronto, when they 13-0 Furia, or now, for a disembodied voice through the phone.
A smile not meant for Marshall.
Marshall breaks his composure that he’s been using to hold himself whole. His knees go weak, not the kind that happens when he’s embarrassed, but the painful kind. His lungs burn, sharp and sudden, as if they’re clawing out of his ribcage. His vision swims, not from tears, but from the pulsing ache behind his sternum. He folds forward instinctively, one hand clutching at his chest, fingers digging into fabric in a desperate attempt to not break down in the middle of the office.
He can’t breathe.
Sean’s still deep in conversation with that person, his laughter usually brightens up Marshall’s entire day, now it’s just agony. An ailment that no amount of medicine can help. It’s immolating, smoldering Marshall from the outside in. He can’t bear to keep eavesdropping.
Marshall covers his mouth, petals threatening to fall nonstop. He bolts back to the restroom, having half a mind to lock the door behind him before puking hysterically into the toilet bowl. Each gasp brings another bout of coughing, spreading from his heart to the deepest part of his very soul. Every heartbeat feels wrong, the pain radiates outward, devouring his body. The taste of pennies touches his tongue, metallic and horrifying. The world narrows down to just him, the flowers, and the choking sounds echoing off the titled wall.
He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe. His ears shrill, eyes hazy. The only thing in his vision right now is all consuming red, enough to drive a person to insanity. He’s not only vomiting flowers anymore, but blood. It hurts so badly, he’s never experienced this much pain before.
The toilet bowl, once white, now painted a sickening shade of crimson. Marshall’s hands are also stained, blood trickling down his chin. The more he looks at them, the more he feels like dying. The pit in his stomach grows, viperous and nauseating.
He’s too far gone.
Slumping tiredly against the toilet bowl—the one thing keeping Marshall from fainting—he can hear his own heartbeat, erratic and disorganized, thundering in his ribs. In this moment, he realizes three fundamental truths at the exact same time.
One: the flowers bloom for Sean.
Two: Sean belongs to someone else.
Three: Marshall is going to die.
Notes:
(*): from Sherlock Holmes.
a fun chapter from my perspective, though it probably doesn't end on a good note. if you didn't know I headcanon Marshall as a dumbass when it comes to emotional affair, he's not stupid, just dense
I've a lot of thoughts about sen25, their personalities and characteristics, I've relayed most of it here. god forbid a person gushes about their favorite esports roster smh
I tagged ts heavy angst because it made me cry, hopefully the upcoming chapters will live up to the tag. and also, make a guess on who's Sean calling!
p/s: I sneaked a tiny song reference here, see if u can get it xddd
Chapter 3: Black rocks and the shoreline surf.
Notes:
Title taken from "Spanish Sahara" by Foals.
Nonlinear narrative in the form of a flashback, in Italics of course.
Forewarn: Marshall is a very dramatic person. Also there's some VERY bias and Berlin slander (lol) don't @ me
TW: drinking.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They had bombed out of Toronto Playoffs. After taking down all the Chinese teams, they crumbled at the hands of Paper Rex, a beloved roster from APAC, and FNATIC, the EMEA giants. The wounds were still fresh.
Marshall didn’t know about the others, but he had eagerly awaited this tournament. For the first time since Sencity classic of last year, he had high hopes for the team. It hadn’t been uncalled for either, they had been really promising in Swiss Stage, even if their opponents were regarded as the weakest region.
This city welcomed them with open arms, friendly people and fantastic cuisine. Marshall loved the hotel they were staying in, especially their practice room, from there they could gaze out into the ominous cityscape, blinking lights from tall skyscrapers decorating the open sky. Each light represented a different life, a different path. Had Marshall not gotten into this occupation, one of those shining windows could’ve been his.
It was a shame really, that they had to pack up and leave it behind soon. If one thing had been different, would everything be different today? Marshall wasn’t one for hollow promises and futile questions, he learned that the hard way, but…
No, he wouldn’t torture himself with “what-ifs” anymore.
Marshall was sprawled on the bed, trying to blink away the z’s. Between meet&greet, press conference and content shoot, he was exhausted. He’d already packed up most of his belongings, gears stashed in a corner of the suitcase. Should the journey they trek on lead to a dead end, at least he would depart more mature, with vast knowledge on his shoulders and unforgettable memories. It hadn’t ended like Bangkok, maybe that was enough.
Marshall was about to doze off when a knock on the door snapped him out of it. He pulled up his phone, no text, no missed calls, it was near midnight. Who was out there?
He waited a bit, the knocking seemed hesitant, it came in waves but never ceased. Marshall signed, he swung off the bed and creaked open the door.
The corridor was bathed in an orange hue from the scones on the wall, and so was… Sean?
Honestly, Marshall had expected Kaplan, Zach, or even Amine, though they were likely sound asleep by now. Anyone else would’ve made sense, come looking for him in the dead of night, but no. It was the man he didn’t want to see the most.
He didn’t hate Sean, of course not, he actually adored him. However, the last time he saw Sean was at dinner. Sean hadn’t spoken much, if at all, he’d played with his food, a shattered expression on his face.
Sean was exceptional at hiding his intention when it mattered, but today his patience had worn thin. Marshall had only seen him this agitated once, like a volcano waiting to erupt. Sean didn’t blow up much, but when he did, the room shook with anger. Marshall had wanted to check up on Sean, though he didn’t deem himself important enough for Sean to confide in—Amine had that covered.
Because of that Marshall went back to his room after dinner, and also because he couldn’t bear to see Sean so down. Which was sort of weird, they weren’t like close friends or anything.
Now though, Sean was… upset, fidgeting at the precipice. Marshall felt an inexplicable urge to just hug him and never let go.
He reeled himself back.
“Hey?” Marshall raised his hand up. “Did you need something?”
Sean averted his gaze, looking at anywhere but Marshall. In such proximity, Marshall could make out a hint of blueberries and chocolate chip cookies, driving him up the wall. Sean scratched his head, eyes glassy with unshed tears, or maybe he’d already cried enough, given his reddened nose.
Marshall’s stomach dropped. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
“No, just, can you come with me?” Sean choked out, he looked like he might cry again if Marshall declined.
“Um, sure, where?”
“Just shut up and follow me.”
Marshall wanted to protest, Sean sounded like a drug dealer with the ambiguity, but the broken glare in his eyes exposed more truths than lies, so Marshall acquiesced. Together they left the hotel and roamed the streets of Toronto, side by side, bumping into each other every now and then. The crispy night air threading between their footsteps.
Marshall swallowed the questions pounding his head. Sean clearly should not be left alone. If anything bad happened to him Marshall would never forgive himself.
After walking a few blocks—Marshall had no clue if Sean knew where they were heading—at the crossroads Sean abruptly turned left, going straight inside a small, inconspicuous bar. Marshall blanked out for at least two minutes before Sean snarled at him from the entrance, asking if he was going to come with.
A light bulb dinked above Marshall’s head. He hurried after Sean.
Marshall couldn’t blame him, even though Sean had only turned twenty-one three months ago, and Marshall didn’t know if he’d even consumed alcohol before, it made perfect sense. Given the circumstances, Marshall would drink his sorrows away too.
No one batted an eye at them, two fresh face kids who didn’t belong. To be fair, no one was here except for a weary bartender who only nodded at them. Sean slotted into a corner, immediately ordering two shots of tequila. Marshall grimaced and sat beside him.
The bar lights were dimmed, the sound of glass clinking, softly running water and tasteful jazz surrounded them. In front of Marshall, the bartender methodically washed and cleaned each shot glass, humming an old melody under their breath.
Sean didn’t say a word, he downed drink after drink, scrunching his nose each time. Marshall nursed his half full glass, brushing Sean’s hair back a few times while he was preoccupied.
Marshall was already scared of a hungover Sean in the morning, wondering if Sean would remember this night at all. At this rate Marshall feared alcohol poisoning wasn’t off the table. He could stop Sean from destroying his liver, but intervening wasn’t the best idea. Sean might strangle him with no hesitation.
The bartender was undisturbed, focusing on their tasks. Marshall didn’t know what he and Sean looked like to them, two impulsive kids wanting to try alcohol for the first time, or a heartbroken young guy being babysat by an equally young guy. The bartender would never be able to guess what they’d gone through, getting to this point. Maybe that was for the best.
Hours dragged into the night, at least Marshall thought so. Sean had stopped ordering more drinks while Marshall was busy daydreaming out the glass window.
He felt bad for Sean, more over the loss, he wished things could’ve gone different. He hated when his friend was in pain and he was helpless against it. What had been done could not be undone, when the scoreline jumped to 13 and the other team cheered, when tears nearly spilled on Amine’s stoic demeanor, when Zach and Jordan held onto each other backstage amid the somber air, when Sean grasped Marshall’s jersey so tight like he would fracture if he didn’t; Marshall had seen the forks in their future diverged toward a bitter finale.
Marshall snapped out of his trance when he heard a tiny hiccup. Twisting back around, what he saw filled him with malaise. Sean was absolutely hammered, face planted on the wooden counter, ears colored red, mumbling something incoherent.
Sean had drunk a lot, much more than advised even for someone who could hold their liquor, not that Marshall knew Sean’s alcohol tolerance.
Marshall gently touched Sean’s arm. “Still alive?”
Sean stirred but stayed quiet. Marshall face palmed himself. He’d let Sean to his own devices long enough.
“Okay buddy, let’s get you back,” Marshall hooked an arm beneath Sean’s armpit.
He squirmed and pushed Marshall away. “Don’t touch me,” he slurred.
“If you could see your face right now… I won’t snitch on you, now get the fuck up.”
“Noooo,” Sean whined adorably.
Adorably? What the fuck?
Marshall flinched, a peculiar feeling flickered inside his guts. He dismissed it and secured Sean firmly, but Sean wouldn’t budge, rooted to the spot. Marshall tried one more time to no avail, he breathed out through his nose and thrummed his fingers on the counter.
“Get a fucking grip Seanzo, we have a flight tomorrow, or well, today, and I’m about to crash.”
“Can I ask you something?” Sean suddenly whipped up.
Marshall thought he saw Sean’s eyes clear, but only fleeting, he went back to being intoxicated soon after. Marshall did not want to play twenty questions with a drunkard right now, but if it meant he could get Sean home faster, he’d indulge him for a while.
“Shoot,” Marshall said.
“Be honest with me, no funny business.”
“Relax psycho, I’m not gonna gaslight you.”
“EMEA or NA?”
Marshall’s shoulders loosened, Sean had got to be thoroughly drunk. He half expected Sean to spew some serious topic, but he’d take this. “NA, easy. There’s a reason I came back after less than a year. Let’s just say Berlin’s traffic and housing market play a huge role.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Oh you have no idea,” Marshall jested. “LA isn’t a big improvement or anything, but it’s closer to home.”
“Okay, Aspas or Kangkang?”
“Aspas.”
“Aspas or Jawgemo?”
“Dawgemo.”
“Jawgemo or Kaajak?”
Marshall chewed the inside of his cheeks. “Don’t make me choose between those two.”
“Tough luck buddy, make a choice.”
“Sorry to all the FNATIC fanatics, heh, out there, but Dawgemo for the win.”
“Kaajak or Demon1?”
“El Diablo himself duh, though he kinda fell off I can’t lie.”
“Damn,” Sean snorted. “Demon1 or Zach?”
Marshall grinned despite himself. “Sorry Max, but Zach clears.”
“Don’t laugh but… Do you think it’s cool if I get a tattoo, or I’d just look like a child playing dressup?” Sean’s mouth quipped up gingerly, switching the topic like Jett dashing out after whiffing an op shot.
Marshall pinched his wrist, keeping a clear head. “Who gives a shit, go for it. Get a Sen tattoo on your ass.”
“Weird but okay,” Sean titled his head to the side. “Do you think I look good in the Sen jersey?”
“Good as in…?”
“Don’t play with me,” Sean pouted.
Marshall cackled. “I don’t know about you, but our merch is fire, more than anything 100 Thieves ever sold.”
“Fuck you. I had a hand in designing those.”
“Your sense of style is fucked bro, red is def your color.”
Marshall beamed at Sean, Sean didn’t return the notion. He curled his fingers around the shot glass, lost in his own head. Marshall leaned in, their knees touching.
After an agonizing few minutes, Sean muttered, voice wavering. “…Do you think I suck?”
Marshall’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “The fuck? Where did this come from?”
“You saw how I did, you all saw,” Sean bit his nails. “I threw so hard.”
“Is this about your impostor syndrome again? I thought we worked on that?”
“Answer the fucking question.”
“Jesus fucking Christ Seanzo,” Marshall rubbed his temples. “No you don’t suck, no we don’t hate you, yes you deserve a spot in Tier 1, yes we could’ve done better. Stop belittling yourself, it’s only gonna go nowhere. This too shall pass, am I right?”
“Mhm…”
“You worry a lot about these trivial matters, even when drunk.”
“Next question,” Sean changed the subject. “Uh, who’s your favorite teammate? Don’t lie.”
“I’m not answering that, I ain’t biased,” Marshall chortled. “But just so you know, I like when you suck in ranked and I have to carry you.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
It means you’re my favorite, Marshall thought. He was a little biased after all, no point in feeding Sean’s ego though.
“It means you and I should get the fuck back before Amine rip us a new one,” Marshall deflected.
“Mooooving on. Do you think we would still be friends if we didn’t end up on the same team? Or would you forget me like, uh, like a goldfish?” Sean mimed a goldfish swimming.
Marshall contemplated for a moment, taking it seriously. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. I mean, I’ve known who you are for ages, you’ve known me for just as long. The VCT circle is not as big as you think. I still remember your TSM days, so no goldfish memory for me. Speaking of, the fact that we’re teammates at all is a bit miraculous, no?”
“Elaborate.”
“We were so far removed from each other back then, not one thing in common besides both working in the same field. I took the chance to come back to NA, you left 100 Thieves. Our paths wouldn’t have crossed had Sen not reached out to me specifically, or had you not outperformed Zander during trials.”
Sean stroked his chin. “You’re not wrong.”
“I know ball.”
Sean shot Marshall a look. “If I…”
“Spit it out.”
Sean hid his face behind his fingers. “Okay, if I ask you to marry me right now, would you do it?”
This conversation was diving headfirst into delusional territory, sober Sean would off himself before voicing these intrusive thoughts. It was kind of cute though, Sean’s cheeks were red as a tomato.
Something nagged at Marshall that he couldn’t figure out, nevertheless, he took a deep breath.
“I would but you have to sign a prenup, and buy me every bundle releasing in the next six months,” Marshall smirked.
“You’re so braindead.”
Marshall shrugged, a shit-eating grin on his face. “What? Too expensive for you?”
“Fuck right off.”
“I am not leaving you alone,” Marshall argued. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. If I tell you a secret, would you keep it? Or would you tell Jordan and then Jordan would tell literally everyone?”
“You’re so chatty when drunk. I can’t lie, I like this version of you,” Marshall smiled fondly. “Anyways, who do you take me for? I’d never spill the beans,” he zipped his mouth for dramatic effect.
“That’s good to know I guess…”
Marshall flexed his fingers, inching closer to Sean. “What got you so bothered huh?”
Sean recoiled, he loosen his grip on the shot glass and withdrew like Marshall’s hands could burn him alive. Marshall felt offended, just a tiny bit.
“Nothing, forget it,” Sean exhaled slowly.
Marshall didn’t press on. “You do you. Are we done? I’m falling asleep.”
“…”
“Sean?”
“If the world was ending and I called you, would you come over?”
Is this guy for real? Marshall thought. Unhinged behavior honestly.
“What kind of ending? Zombie outbreak? Nuclear fallout? Alien invasion? 2012 natural disaster type shit?” Marshall listed out the possibilities. “Actually, AI might subjugate the world first.”
“Any of those, doesn’t matter,” Sean clarified weakly, tethering on the edge of breaking down.
Marshall’s heart quivered. “Of course I’d come over.” I would always come over were the unspoken words.
“Can you…”
“Just say it bro.”
“Can you promise me one thing?”
Sean sat right up, looking like the wisest man on Earth, catching Marshall off guard. Sean’s eyes were dreamy no longer, but lucid, translucent even. His hands laid flat on the counter, he looked straight at Marshall, searching for some kind of deception. The sobriety in the depths of his eyes stood in uneasy juxtaposition to his flushed, drunken face.
“Promise me no matter what happens next, you won’t leave the team. Or leave me?” Sean’s voice cracked on the very last word.
Sean’s face was contorted, a combination of fear, self-consciousness, and… hope. He hunched forward, jaw trembling. As dense as Marshall was, he still discerned the vortex of emotions that was bleeding Sean dry. Those eyes were so raw and real, they’d probably haunt Marshall for the rest of his life.
Marshall tried to speak, he really did, but his throat was clogged up. He couldn’t lie to Sean, not even to a wasted Sean who would forget it all when he woke up. He couldn’t condemn Sean with false hope. Not that he didn’t trust his ability or he thought Sean would be kicked soon, but esports—especially Valorant esports—was a volatile ecosystem, quickly shifting. No one could predict the future, not their org, not the analysts and online theorists, certainly not themselves.
A realistic approach to Sean’s question wasn’t the best course of action. By all accounts, Marshall enjoyed his time on Sen, he loved the opportunities and connections that otherwise he’d never get.
Marshall didn’t want to leave Sean nor his second family behind, but he couldn’t promise Sean out-of-reach prospects. Even if the mere idea of abandoning Sean hurt him so. He didn’t know why, it just did.
Thankfully, Marshall need not answer Seans’s woes, the guy had blacked out while he was ruminating. From the corner, the bartender was shooting murders at them. A chill ran down Marshall’s spine.
With a cumbrous sign, Marshall straightened up and hauled Sean out the exit, after paying obviously.
On the way back to the hotel, Marshall supported Sean with little difficulty. Sean was light as a feather, not a hint of muscles on his skinny arms. Sean’s breath, heavily intoxicated, fanned on Marshall’s cheeks, hot and intense. It nearly made Marshall stagger and send them both tumbling, luckily he held his composure. They needed to make haste, even though their flight was later in the day Marshall would like to get more than three hours of sleep.
Marshall wondered if Sean had gotten a hangover before, Marshall did, back when he was young and dumb. Wouldn't recommend. On the bright side, he emerged gaining a perfect hangover treatment. It wasn’t all bad.
This entire evening felt like a fever dream, maybe it was. A culmination of concealed doubts and forsaken mysteries that wouldn’t ever see the light of day. For a brief moment, between Sean’s soft snores and the winking billboards, Marshall felt as though he was put in a dreamlike state.
Toronto, an ideal city to visit and sightsee, but never to stay. It had bestowed upon them a lot, but also deprived them just as much.
It wasn’t dawn yet, but the clock had ticked far past midnight. Marshall sucked in a breath, the alcohol buzzed in his system as he fumbled for Sean’s hand in the dark, interlacing their fingers. Unlike Marshall’s calloused fingers, Sean’s were soft and delicate, fragile even.
An electric shudder jolted through Marshall, as well as sour blueberries and sweet chocolate chip cookies, untethering him from something he hadn’t realized existed until now.
Blame the Tequila.
It was fine, this was nothing but a dream. They wouldn’t talk about this once they sober up, Sean would revert to his normal timid self, Marshall would go on with his days.
Sean might retain no memories of this, but for Marshall, he’d carry it onward and onward. He wouldn’t dare assume that they’d gotten closer after tonight, though, perhaps in brighter days he would pay closer attention to Sean and his hidden sufferings.
In the melancholic nighttide, two boys who weren’t yet men drifted closer but also far apart, each harboring their own shadows, each lost in their own swirling thoughts.
At the time, Marshall was unaware of how that night would resurface to bite him in the ass. Had he known, would he have left the horror in the Spanish Sahara? Would he have wished that Toronto could be kind to them, the lost wayfarers, the misguided vagabonds, the nomads led astray?
Alas, he did not know. He would go back in time and stay in the moment forever, before the storm washed him further from shore, before he lost the ability to breathe.
But he can’t.
───〃★
There’s a crack on Marshall’s wall.
Earlier, instead of waiting for Sean in the practice room to suffer another ranked session, Marshall hastily left. He couldn’t deal with his newfound epiphany, not in front of the whole squad. He also couldn’t puke more or else he’d actually be hospitalized.
Sean was sitting in his spot, well prepared for Marshall to come in and they’d duo. Before Marshall ran off, he saw Sean’s face plummeting, the light in his eyes receding, leaving only darkness. Marshall might’ve imagined it, but Sean seemed sad, being forgotten.
Marshall went home, tore his shirt off and subsequently smashed his fist against the wall in a fit of rage. The pain radiated up his cornea, nothing compared to the ache in his chest. It felt as if something carved out a piece of his heart and burrowed there.
Well, that’s not far from the truth.
Whatever, he’ll make up some excuse and have Sen pay for the property damage, or he’ll just slam a poster on the crack and call it a day.
Currently, he’s lying on the bed, the sheets coil around his feverish body, one arm covering his face. A train of protruding thought runs across his muddled brain. He needs to text Sean, explaining why he disappeared without a reason, but he can’t be bothered right now.
Marshall isn’t surprised that the mystery person turned out to be Sean. He had a hunch, he didn’t want it to come true though, not really.
Sean, who knows Marshall’s favorite flavor of Redbull and always has one stashed away, who knows when he’s zoning out to wheel him back in, who gives him a hand when nobody else does.
Sean, who has his back during a clutch, who’s his favorite teammate that he’s ever been on a team with, who he trusts with his damn life on and off the server. When they hold a crossfire or have a high-low setup backsite, Marshall isn’t worried one bit because Sean will instantly trade him out. When they run laps around the office, accusing each other of dumb shit, Marshall can’t stifle his demonic laugh at Sean’s desert dry joke. When their ghosts catch up with them after a catastrophic defeat, Marshall knows Sean won’t let him spiral, and will pull him up before he drowns.
Sean, whose scent of blueberries and chocolate chip cookies drive him crazy. Who is too good, too kind, too angelic for someone that is essentially a normal human being.
Maybe Marshall’s stretching it, but he can’t invalidate how valuable Sean is to him, to the team as a whole.
It’s strange how one can fall in love without realizing. Marshall isn’t oblivious, he’s actually very “witty and bright”—Kaplan’s words, not his. That intellectual head of his only consists of gaming knowledge though, it doesn’t extend inward, where his heart has been singing a solitude chorus.
Thus, Marshall has zero clues when he fell for Sean.
However, like the flowers suggest, camellias are unobtrusive, modest. The kind of love that isn’t flashy but has always been there, patiently waiting to be noticed, letting itself known when you least expect it.
It’s not like Marshall hasn’t gone through this before. He did, it was the worst thing to have ever happened to him.
When Marshall was little, well, littler, he had a cousin who was basically his twin. She was afflicted with Hanahaki at a very young age, much younger than average. Marshall remembers watching as she coughed up blood and bile every day, as her regular routine was replaced by hours burning the midnight oil, as the flower petals turned into whole flower heads, as his aunt—his cousin’s mother—begged and begged for her to just go through with the surgery.
His cousin was the first person in his family tree to catch Hanahaki, arguably one person was enough to flip the house upside down. Marshall’s aunt had gone around and asked every possible person she knew to talk some sense into his cousin. He himself had pleaded for her to get rid of the flowers, in his underdeveloped mind, losing memories couldn’t be much worse than literally dying.
And dying from unrequited love was just humiliating.
Despite everyone’s constant visit, she just listened in one ear and out another. Toward the end, only Marshall and his aunt were allowed inside her room. If anyone else dared disturb her, they were met with various objects flying at them and high pitch screaming. Marshall suspected she was only driving them away to save them the pain.
The bedroom had been transformed into a hospital room—complete with a bedside monitor, tubes and wires snaked across the floor around a drip stand—because she didn’t want to live out the rest of her days inside an actual hospital. Her condition had deteriorated past the point where a surgery could save her life. There was a permanent bucket by the edge of the bed, filled with tiny yellow daffodils, smeared with blood.
Marshall remembers her hands in his—they were so vibrant and full of life once upon a time, capable of making the most wonderful art piece—by then they were just skin and bones. Her state was miserable, she had lost so much weight, all colors had drained from her face, hair falling out in clumps.
Nothing but a caricature of her former self.
“When I’m gone, would you kindly collect these flowers in a jar and put them on my grave?” she requested.
“Don’t say that, you can still get better,” Marshall skirted around the question, even though he knew how futile it was. “I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t have the surgery.”
“I’d rather die, or well, I am dying aren’t I.”
“Not funny.”
“I think it’s a little funny,” she smiled, a pale smile, then curled over, the bucket greedily ate up her flowers. “Do as I say, not as I do.”
“What do you even say anyway?”
“What of these days, when you’re older and have gone out to explore the world, you’ll understand.”
“Just tell me now, why? Why would you torment yourself and everyone like this?”
She coughed, convulsed more like, before continuing. “I can’t explain it in a way that can get through your thick skull.”
“What the fuck?” Marshall sulked.
“Language!” she sat up and ruffled his hair. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. What I mean is, some people are worth dying for. Besides, it’s too late now.”
Marshall was lost, he wanted to scream, to accuse her of being foolish, selfish, malicious even, out of pure spite. But he saw the light in her eyes, never dwindling amid an inescapable dilemma, and the words died in his throat.
She looked at him then, really looked at him, or actually, looking beyond him. Like she wasn’t facing a young kid, but an older, more mature version of him that she wouldn’t ever have the pleasure to meet.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m just saying stuff for the sake of it, I wouldn’t wish this upon anyone, much less you,” she smiled mournfully. “It may look romantic from the outside, but I can assure you that it’s not. Everything hurts so bad, oh God it hurts.”
“No shit Sherlock.”
“You’re such a little shit,” she hissed, then her eyes suddenly cleared. Like the last piece of cloud after a downpour, finally breaking to reveal a luminous rainbow.
Marshall fell quiet, he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, she hugged back just as fierce, holding onto him for dear life, bony fingers carding through his hair. Neither wanted to let go, like it was the last day on Earth, and soon the sins of their past would pulverize them.
“Chin up cutie, it’s going to be okay,” she whispered, patting his head. “Leaving this world is not as scary as it sounds.”
Those were her last words before she slipped into oblivion. Looking back at it now, she might have experienced terminal lucidity, if Hanahaki could be considered a terminal illness. She was very amicable that final day, allowing random relatives to phase in and out of her room, strewing vain consolation and blind faith.
When they put her casket into the ground, Marshall swore to never follow in her footsteps. If someday he caught Hanahaki, he’d fight tooth and nail before giving in, he’d be brave, be selfless. He would get rid of the memories.
Looming over the open grave, Marshall didn’t cry, not once. He didn’t cry then for her, he sure as fuck won’t drop a tear for himself now.
Sixteen-year-old Marshall Massey was hotheaded and solicitous, always a way out in his mind. He believed that no one was so important that you’d rather die than to forget them.
It’s tragic how one can know everything at sixteen, but nothing at twenty-two.
Marshall blinks, snapping out of the reverie.
He didn’t understand her, but he thinks he gets it now. Why she did what she did, why she denied all help, why surgery wasn’t an option. All the questions he has been carrying since then, unable to wring anything out of her, he can now answer them himself.
She wasn’t weak like people thought, she didn’t deserve to be frowned upon by their extended family and nosy neighbors. The flower petals, once signifying weakness to Marshall, now they’re concrete proof of bravery, a testament to how much he has loved and been loved, like she did.
Love cannot be shrunk down to a simple chemical reaction, otherwise it wouldn’t be deified so damn much throughout the lengthy history of humanity, wouldn’t make people lose their minds and fight the wars. It cannot be explained, tamed or rationalized. It can only be felt.
And Marshall’s damn well bursting at the seams with love.
Two deaths in seven years, both from the same disease. Ironic. If Marshall didn’t know better he’d think Hanahaki is hereditary. Perhaps the Massey bloodline just love with their whole self.
Admittedly, he’s reluctant about the surgical procedure. The mortality rate is high, and he’s scared shitless. It could help him live, but only as an empty husk, with gaps in his memories. Marshall has seen people who went through with the surgery, albeit from afar. They’re like lobotomized patients, undead wearing human skins, flocking from places to places mindlessly.
That might be an exaggeration, but they really are just afterimages of themselves. Marshall doesn’t want to become them. Losing memories is one thing, but forgetting an entire person—let alone someone who takes up half of his life—is a different thing.
He goes under the knife, and then what? Waking up with no recollection of this past year? Even if he beats the odds and survives, it’s not like Sean would suddenly drop off the face of the Earth, or Marshall would quit competing professionally.
And since Sean will always be right there, what are the chances he’ll fall in love with Sean over and over again?
Of course, he can face the music and confess. But what good would that do when Sean cares for someone else? Sean will be flattered, he’ll politely decline like the kind person he is, then only awkwardness will be left between them. They probably won’t duo ranked daily, won’t seek each other out to have late night ramen, won’t respond to each other’s comms as smoothly as before.
Their contract with Sentinels lasts for two brief years, even then there’s no guarantee that they wouldn’t be benched as soon as the season ends. Gradually, they’ll grow apart. Sean will find someone deserving of all his love, marry them even. Marshall will have to support him, help him pick out his suit, crash the bachelor’s party, be the best man, attend the wedding and cry in the restroom afterward.
A fate worse than death.
That is if Marshall doesn’t kick the bucket next month. With the state of his illness right now he might choke to death on his twenty-third birthday.
He doesn’t have a death wish, he doesn’t want to die. He wants to live, he actually has so many things to live for. His bucket list is the length of a dictionary. So many places to visit, so many people to meet, so many tournaments to win. His biggest dream, like most pros, is to stand on the international stage and wrap his fingers around the dazzling golden trophy, lift it up with his team while confetti falls on them.
And, Marshall wants to hold Sean’s hand, one last time.
In spite of all that, he’s made peace with death. It’s kind of pretentious to regard death as an old friend at his age, barely twenty, but what else can he do? Death has once been a scary thing to him, seeing what happened to his cousin, but now it’s almost… expected.
It’s not even about Sean, not exactly, the guy has no say in anything, rather about Marshall’s own feelings. His love for Sean is a part of him now, a part of his career, integrated with his time as a pro and his time on Sentinels. It cannot be erased that easily. To be loved is to be changed. Compared to last year's off-season where he tilted after a whiff, Marshall has grown significantly, thanks to the support of his teammates, coaches, and everyone else at Sen.
Sean Bezerra stands at the center of it all, quiet but paramount. Marshall wouldn’t be the man he is now without the boy with chocolaty brown eyes. The late night drives, the triumphant embrace, bonded through laughter and the tears they’ve spilled after each heartbreaking loss.
Marshall doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to inflict more pain on his friends and family, they’ve already gone through that seven years ago. It didn’t end well.
But he doesn’t want to forget either, he can’t forget.
That kind of greed always comes around.
Most importantly, if Marshall confesses, gets rejected and dies because his stubborn ass won’t have the surgery, Sean will think he's the reason. The guy already has a lot on his plate, with their inferior international performance and lackluster regional achievement so far, this is just adding fuel to the fire.
Sean, sweet, beautiful, mesmerizing Sean who loves too much and too easily, even if that love isn’t saved for Marshall. Marshall didn’t ask for this, didn’t want this, didn’t even realize it until it was too late—but neither did Sean. He would blame himself, would twist it into guilt, would either avoid Marshall like the plague or face Marshall with that soft, aching resigned look in his eyes, and Marshall would see himself reflected back. A mistake, a tragedy neither of them can handle. Sean would be grieving for the living and carrying that death forever. He’d break.
And Marshall… Marshall can’t do that to him. No one should have to shoulder the death of a person.
So, in conclusion, what’s the point? Why drag this out when the outcome is the same, him six feet under?
The point is, it’s mid-season, very inconvenient timing. Not a good period to inform people of his impending doom, not that any time is good. Marshall’s already fucked up enough, he can’t afford to put more burdens on the team, with any luck he’s going to hide his sickness until after Champions end, at least. His performance will probably be affected, yes, but there’s hardly anything he can do besides carry on.
As opposed to the flowers in full bloom inside his lungs, Marshall’s wilting. He can’t stop it, he might as well cherish these final moments. So that his last thought would be of Sean and his stupid, idiotic lopsided smile. Engrave it deep within his bones.
Marshall’s getting ahead of himself with these rhetorical hypotheses. He has line ups to learn, Valorant to grind, matches to play, he has to apologize to Sean and touch base with Jordan about the plans this weekend.
He’ll be okay.
He has to.
Notes:
I needed someone to be an example of Hanahaki for Marshall, someone close. I toyed with a lot of different characters but eventually settled for an OC, hence the Minor Original Character(s) tag. Hopefully she's not too annoying, I didn't give her a name on purpose, you can call her what you want. Even though she's not crucial to the story she'll come around at some point.
Here is Marshall's thought process wedged into one chapter. How much introspection is too much? Don't answer that, I just love yapping. Feel free to comment if you have any questions.
Chapter 4: Divinity said destiny can’t be earned or returned.
Notes:
Title taken from "Fable" by Gigi Perez.
In case you didn't know, the timeline is set between Stage 2 and Champions, with them losing to NRG in this chapter. It hurts still but it makes for great angst.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The flowers in Marshall’s lungs are growing at a snail pace, languid and steady.
Which isn’t a good thing. According to credible sources found online, it means the flowers are rooted deep down, entangled within his organs. A simple surgery won’t solve the problem, if anything he’ll flat-line on the operating table.
Unlike a tumor, indolent flowers mean a quick and painful death. Just what Marshall needs right now. He gives it maybe another month, and that’s generous. His cousin had to suffer for half a year before succumbing, spending each waking hour writhing in pain and coughing up blood. Marshall doesn’t know what’s worse, going out with an instantaneous bang, or letting the disease simmer until he physically rots, slow but vehement.
Not everything has gone to shit. He doesn’t throw up frequently, it only worsens around Sean. An obvious but temporary solution would be avoiding Sean at all cost, easier said than done. Marshall’s painfully aware that he’s dying. The sheer absurdity of dying at twenty-two—going on twenty-three—is not lost on him, but there’s no stopping it, there’s only delaying the inevitable.
Only the good die young, he supposes.
Marshall checks his calendar religiously now, something he’s never cared about before except to double-check tournament schedules. Counting down the days, each morning he wakes with an ill prognosis in his chest, each night he tosses and turns, lying restless. When he does fall into slumber, he dreams about an endless field of flowers.
Sean is there in the dream, every now and then. His face is scratched out, blurred and shrouded in a veil of mist. It’s always twilight in the dream, the fog tinted a shade of vermillion, redder than blood. Sean would be kneeling down in front of a nameless gravestone, scattered bouquet of flowers by his knees. He monologues sometimes, the words unintelligible. Other times he wails, tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s eerily similar to the real Sean when he cries.
The dream ends there, and Marshall jerks awake, sweats breaking over his temples. He usually can’t fall back asleep again. He almost wishes he’s learned makeup, if only to cover up his pale complexion and the dark bags under his eyes. He looks fucking awful, he doesn’t care how shitty his hair is, letting the roots grow wildly, overshadowing his dyed locks. Marshall’s grasping at straws, even Kaplan worries.
Zach, Amine and Jordan get curious about his incessant coughing, they let it go eventually when he side-steps the question. Things aren’t… great, but he’s showing up to scrims on time, he tolerates the hours long content shoot, he’s hitting shots onstage, his aim is crisp offstage, he dodges Sean’s puzzled reaction like he’s counter-strafing an enemy. So no one complains, except maybe Sean who’s clueless on what he’s done wrong.
Marshall would pity him, but he’s wasted sympathy on himself already.
It gets rough sometimes, like the other day when Zach pulled him aside, bombarding him with nonsense, not even trying to hide his concern. Marshall told Zach to go fuck himself, then apologized right after, assuring Zach that he’s been on edge for reasons unrelated to the team. Zach didn’t buy it, he roped Amine into “gentle parenting” Marshall to go see a doctor.
Marshall refused of course. That discussion went nowhere because Jordan marched in and whisked Amine away, leaving Zach and Marshall in an awkward stand-off. In the end, they agreed on a temporary cease-fire. Marshall promised to not omit information and “report” periodically to Amine—which would never happen—and Zach caved, albeit begrudgingly. So now Marshall must put in extra effort to conceal his illness.
As for Sean… Where to even begin?
Marshall and Sean have been two different frontlines lately. They don’t have casual conversation about the weather and arbitrary bullshit, Marshall doesn’t hunt Sean down to harass him into enjoying K-Pop, he bypasses Sean’s name when searching for a late night duo. He used to dash right over to Sean when scrims end, perch on top of the desk while cooking up a storm. Now he can’t even look Sean in the eyes.
Old habits die screaming, they said.
It’s beneficial to his lungs, to his heart, but kinda bad for his mentals. Like he’s regressed to twenty-one-year-old Marshall Massey, locking duelist for KC and tilting was the norm.
Marshall and Sean were practically joined at the hips mere weeks ago, now they migrate away from each other, a massive rift has accumulated with no chance to mend. Content shoots in the morning, scrims in the afternoon, Marshall buzzes around the office, eluding Sean but being sociable with everyone else. He can’t help it—in this case literally—because he can’t go more than one sentence without vomiting flower petals.
It would be better if Sean blew up on Marshall. But no.
Sean, oh so patient and kind, doesn’t poke or prod, doesn't demand an explanation. Instead he… waits. He just waits. Wait for Marshall to get his life in order, until they both fall apart under the pressure, or until the ground opens up and devours them, no one knows.
It’s typical he fears, folks just disappear, people’s paths stop overlapping, thus is the way of life.
It gets to a point though, like now.
They’ve finished scrimming for the day. Marshall hasn’t been productive much, as evident by Kaplan’s stressed out look, going over his stats in the VODs review room, shaking his head every once in a while. He can hear Kaplan’s mind running a mile a minute from all the way out here, it’s turning his tummy into a skatepark.
That’s not all. From the other end of the row, Sean is burning holes through his head. They’re three people apart and those three people aren’t enough of a barrier. Jordan is trying to distract Sean, Zach’s fidgeting uncomfortably while Amine sports a permanent scowl. Like Sean can and will murder everyone in this office on the spot. The tension is so thick you can cut it with a kitchen knife.
Whatever, Marshall will reuse the same strategy, hit-and-run. Or more like there’s no hitting, because he’s a bitch, just plain running.
Marshall rises to his feet, tosses out a half-assed excuse at Amine who’s trying to grab his jersey, then rushes to the restroom. He doesn’t see it, but he can feel four pairs of eyes dead set on his back, five if you count Kaplan who glares daggers at him when he runs past.
It’s overstimulating, Marshall’s overstimulated. He locks the restroom door behind him where he spends most of his time outside of practice, keeping in the junk food he consumes haphazardly and as always, copious amounts of flower petals.
In front of the mirror, a shadow of a man stares at him. He barely recognizes himself. Briefly, he wonders what picture they’d use for the obituary, what tear-jerking speech they’d give at his funeral, if the community would remember him at all. He hasn’t amounted to anything substantial, hasn’t made a name for himself. Yet already he has to part.
Marshall pats his cheeks, he can’t have a mental breakdown now. He digs out the excessive flower petals and dumps them in the toilet, a migraine forming in the back of his head. With a heavy sign, he flushes the toilet, washes his hands, reeks them free of blood, and bails.
“We need to talk,” a voice rings out.
“What the fuck!” Marshall yelps.
Seems like luck isn’t on his side today. Marshall wanted to dart past the scrutinizing eyes, ensuring that no one could catch him in the act. But when he slips out, he’s met with the one person he loathes to see the most.
Sean is there, arms folded, eyebrows creased. He’s not disgruntled, he’s furious. Sean doesn’t get angry at anyone other than himself, so this is a rare sight.
As rare as his lopsided smile which is reserved for someone else.
Marshall gulps, he’s spiraling. This is not the time, not that there’s a time to be directly confronted. He ought to ignore Sean completely, but Sean won’t take no for an answer as he steps forward, a hairbreadth away from Marshall.
Sean looks like he wants to be intimidating, but he’s gazing up at Marshall—being half a head shorter—and is sort of gritting his teeth together, cheeks slightly puffed up. A bunny pops up in Marshall’s mind, fluffy white fur, not unlike Sean right now. Marshall stifles his giggle.
Sean raises an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“N-Nothing, haha…”
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“Sorry, I gotta go right now.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Sean snarls.
Sean moves closer, inherently trapping Marshall between him and the wall. In this vicinity, the scent of blueberries and chocolate chip cookies is overwhelming. Marshall’s head spins, dizzy with the cloying sourness and sugar-laced warmth. It’d look like kabedon if the roles were reversed, or if Sean was taller, but this situation is kinda fucked up and Marshall doesn’t want to provoke Sean further.
“If you wanna throw hands just meet me in the parking lot,” Marshall jokes.
“Can you stop for one fucking second?” Sean fumes, invisible smokes blaring out his ears. “What the hell is your problem? Why have you been treating me like I’m patient zero?”
Maybe you are, Marshall thinks, ground zero for the flowers in me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says instead.
“Don’t bullshit me Marshall,” Sean grits out. Marshall, not Marsh.
Sean may lose his shit on randos in ranked, may blow up on himself, but never on others around him. If he does, then Marshall’s in serious trouble.
Marshall averts his eyes, he can’t stare into those chocolaty browns and not give in. “Again, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not going to entertain you anymore.”
“Then move.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No,” Sean reiterates, too steady for someone who’s shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Marshall’s jaw tenses, he squares up, trying to edge past Sean. Sean mimics the movement, blocking all exit. So this is what they mean about unstoppable force versus immovable object.
“Marshall,” Sean says, “look at me.”
Marshall turns, he does look at Sean, but not his eyes. Marshall is drawn to the stray strand of hair drooping on Sean’s forehead, impossibly gorgeous, even now when he’s ripping at Marshall. It’s born out of his hair-combing habit after every round with sweaty hands. Marshall would know, his hands run rampant with sweats too. He notices because either he’s a psychopath, or they are the only people that have to wipe their fingers constantly.
Seah notices Marshall lagging, and his patience snaps like a twig. “You’ve been ghosting me for literal weeks Marshall, what the fuck? You don’t reply to my texts, my calls go straight to voice mail, I walk into a room and suddenly you’re gone.”
“Am not,” Marshall croaks meekly.
“Are too!”
“Can we not? I have somewhere to be.”
“No the fuck you ain’t. Where? The fucking deli aisle at Walmart?” Sean laughs, it comes out more like a sob. “We’re ending this shit right here, right now, whatever it is. You don’t get to pretend like nothing happened and everything is all fine and dandy. Take all your baggage and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Sean narrows his eyes. “Oh? Funny you say cause you have time to grind ranked all night long with fucking Zach, you have time to review strats with Amine until y’all pass out, to drive across town picking up Jordan when his car broke down.”
Marshall’s jaw drops, startled. “Have you been stalking me?”
“And I’m not ashamed,” Sean shrugs. “I mean, what am I supposed to do?”
“Have you ever thought that maybe you are the problem?”
Marshall’s stomach sinks. He regrets the notion he just suggested immediately after it left his mouth. Sean’s face drops, his shoulders sag, losing most if not all determination he brought to tackle Marshall head on.
Marshall aims for damage control. “I’m… sorry. That came out wrong–”
“I know I’m a horrible person,” Sean cuts him off with a wet laugh. “Don’t you fucking dare hit me with the it’s not you, it’s me hypocrite.”
“It is me. This has nothing to do with you, and you are not a horrible person.”
“So why? If I did something wrong just tell me! Stop being a goddamn pussy!”
Marshall chokes back a sob. “That’s the problem though, isn’t it? You didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t do anything at all.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
Marshall’s body tingles with pins and needles, one more second of this and he will vomit all over the floor, both flower petals and blood. A gruesome sight to witness for sure, if Sean was going to let him go at some point, surely he won’t do it then.
“It means leave me the fuck alone,” Marshall spits out through bated breath.
“No fucking way.”
“Why are you so stubborn at the worst time?” Marshall laughs, once, humorless and morose.
“Because it’s you I’m dealing with. You get way lost in your head, someone gotta pull you out,” Sean says matter-of-factly, like it is a proven fact and not his limited opinion.
“I don’t recall asking for your help.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Sean murmurs, low and longing. “Shit man, remember last year Sencity classic? My impression of you was… not great, for lack of a better word. But you’ve proven yourself capable, more than just the sums of your part. If it was anyone else I’d have brushed it off, friends drift apart all the time, no big deal. But you are too important to me, I thought you knew that.”
Sean’s voice drops an octave on the last sentence, saying such things with a straight face and an air of casualness that even God envies. To Marshall, it feels like the Earth has flipped on its axis.
He knows Sean values him as a friend. Only a friend though.
The sheer audacity to say Marshall’s important to him. It’d be funny if it isn’t tragic at the same time.
With the truth laid bare, Marshall’s throat tightens violently, too sharp, too painful. He presses a fist over his mouth, breath hitching.
Sean’s face softens in a blink of an eye. He reaches out, snagging Marshall’s sleeve fruitlessly. “Hey, hey? Are you okay? You’re pale as shit.”
Marshall shrinks away like he’s been slapped. “Don’t! Just, don’t, please,” he says, voice hoarse.
Sean’s hand hangs in the air awkwardly, missing its destination. He goes rigid momentarily, then runs a hand through his hair.
“Damn it Marsh, did you get bored of me? Was there a thing I say that tipped you off? I’m trying, I really am,” Sean begs, “give me a sign or something, I don’t understand.”
“You’re not supposed to, you just need to stay the fuck away from me,” Marshall says, completely despondent. This conversation is running in circles.
Sean’s eyes flash with unimaginable pain. He just stares at Marshall now, anger bleeds out of his shoulders like a waterfall. He’s no longer fuming, just lost, utterly drained.
“Why are you pushing me away?” Sean asks, exhausted, like he’s already given up.
“There isn’t an answer for everything in life Sean,” Marshall has to refrain from saying Seanzo, like muscle memory.
Sean falls silent for a moment, when he finally speaks, it is with immense exertion. “So that’s it then?”
“I’m sorry.”
“This is how it ends?” Sean’s lips tremble, the spark in his eyes dims exponentially. He looks like he might cry, or defenestrate Marshall, or both.
“How what ends?”
Sean signs, deflating like a popped balloon, not an ounce of strength left. He doesn’t answer, only staggers back and leaves room for Marshall to abscond if he wants.
Marshall does so, etching his way past Sean to make a beeline for the exit. His lungs burn, igniting a fire in his lower abdomen, like the flowers rose to life and are screaming their way out.
Behind him, Sean doesn’t follow, doesn’t chase him down. He just stands there, empty, resigned. Marshall doesn’t dare look back, he’s scared that if he does, the look on Sean’s hollowed out face would kill him faster than the disease.
Marshall picks up speed, outrunning even a track star, tail between his legs. With each step put between them, Marshall loses more of his mind, unable to think straight, unable to breathe. The distance settles in his wake, jagged, spiteful, brutal.
A quiet certainty tells Marshall that this might as well have been the last cordial exchange he got with Sean. It feels like a breakup more than anything, which is gutting because had they been dating this whole time the flowers wouldn’t have the chance to bloom.
The outside provides the much needed comfort, a breath of fresh air. Marshall greedily inhales, filling his lungs to the best of his ability. Who knows when he will get to taste clean air once more.
The sun shines above, dazzling and candescent. The scenery collapses around Marshall, warping into shapeless blobs of singular colors.
Marshall put his hands on his knees, warm liquid dribbling down from his nose. He wipes in confusion and finds his fingers stained with blood. He gags, bending over a flower bed as scarlet petals pour from his mouth, unironically fitting. This flower bed has remnants of the team all over it, from when they joined hands to plant roses last Valentine, Zach included, in solidarity of the single male population.
Now though, the roses mock Marshall as he clutches his jersey desperately. They aren’t that dissimilar from the camellia petals decorating the surroundings.
Marshall is so, so tired. His limbs are literal jellies, bones rotten down to the core. He longs to lie down on the asphalt highway, letting cars and trucks and buses drive over his lifeless body, crushing it into a paste until it seeps into the soil. In that way he gets a choice over how he fizzles out, like dying stars in the astronomically boundless universe.
“Leaving this world is not as scary as it sounds.”
Marshall doesn’t know how much truth there is to his cousin’s words, he’s never died before. But he can’t. Not yet. He has one last adventure, one more chance. With Champions on the horizon, he has no other alternative than to push everything aside, make the best of what’s remained in him.
Even if his story will end the same way.
Marshall heaves out the last few flower petals. He lifts his head up, an arm shielding his eyes from the fiery sun.
In this moment, Marshall realizes with regret that when he passes, the Earth will keep on spinning, the sun will keep on shining, cocooning the moon and being the Solar System’s focal point. The world won’t stop for no one, time won’t cease for no one. People die every few seconds, an insignificant death such as his won’t make a dent.
He’d love to turn left at the crossroads, receiving infinite wisdom if only to resolve his issues and fix his fucked up fate, reverse the clock, not falling in love with Sean to begin with.
But unlike the celestial bodies, Marshall’s powerless against the tidal wave of destiny. The hours tick on, rivers flow into the ocean, unyielding and indifferent.
The only hope he can cling onto is the wistful thinking that Sean would remember him.
───〃★
They lost to NRG in lower finals.
Marshall remembers the soft seat cushion digging into his butt, sitting onstage fighting for his life, for the fans roaring and chanting their names, for his family back home, for the dream oozing through his fingers like sand. He fought heroically, despite the scoreline tipping toward NRG as the spike was defused, their last defuse on the Americas stage. He remembers the gut-wrenching look on Sean’s face, and he almost couldn’t keep it together. It was stupefying how he managed to not let the flower petals fall, exposing himself beneath the gaze of millions.
Marshall could chalk it up to his inner turmoil, coughing every few minutes; to the camera panning to him routinely, like an inanimate audience on the other side of the screen intimidates him, affecting his aim; or even to the humid atmosphere inside the arena, making him sweat underneath the thick hoodie.
Misplays, messy coordination, miscommunication and plain old Valorant timing. Shifting the blame on external forces, running away from internal problems. But that’s idiotic. Marshall doesn’t have anything or anyone other than himself to criticize.
It all evaporates eventually, like glaciers dissolving into the ocean. Changes are made, mistakes are addressed, suitcases are packed, the past left behind, and they move on. Radiant Paris—the city of love, the capital of light—is awaiting. It’s kind of romantic, melodramatic even, for his youth to fade after a trip across two continents, participating in the most anticipated event of the year within their VCT circle.
They’re granted a few off days to reset. Zach takes the opportunity to spend time with Nicole, thankfully he isn’t so tactless to rub it in their faces. Amine disappears to go “touch grass”, whatever that means, while Jordan… does his own thing.
Marshall spends most of his time in the office now that Sean leaves him alone, deliberately giving him the cold shoulder. They don’t interact, they don’t even acknowledge each other’s presence. However, there’s no animosity over at Sean, he just sort of paces around in pajama bottoms, Sen hoodie, being tight-lipped about the whole thing.
Marshall can’t scratch the itch, he misses Sean, like his limbs were violently ripped apart, leaving him mutilated. He misses the little inside jokes no one gets but them, the high-five after a long scrim day, the world-shattering embrace onstage. Even mini intricacies like Sean bringing him Redbull before he requests have long since vanished.
Marshall distantly wonders if act of service was Sean’s love language, not that Sean loved him. Nowadays he struggles to hide his yearning for brown hair and chocolaty eyes.
Funny how one person can make such an impression on your life that when they’re gone, the wound they leave behind festers into scars that never fully heal, like being haunted by your own shadow. Maybe that’s why he felt the inexplicable urge to shave his head off after retouching his dyed hair. He needed a change, and changes usually start with exterior appearance. Though all that did was make him look like a criminal.
The team notices, of course they do, the rift between Marshall and Sean is clear as day. But Sean sweeps it under an imaginary rug, and Marshall runs. With his long legs and the tendency to tune people out, no one can pry anything out of him. After all, running has always been his best trait.
There isn’t enough time for anyone to fly home, though that doesn’t stop Marshall from longing for Atlanta.
Speaking of which, Marshall hasn’t called home. He has a habit of facetiming his mom and dad each weekend, recounting activities he’s explored the past week. As of late, those phone calls are missing at sea. He’s been so caught up in a tornado of daily schedules that he forgot their last checkup.
If things go south, his family would be the second to know, which sounds wrong on so many levels. Marshall’s lost in despair, he doesn’t want them to fly out here and retrieve his body. The last death in their family was a catalyst that derailed a myriad of unfinished dreams, the life they were building. To this day, his aunt is still halfway through mourning. If his mom…
Marshall should notify them at some point, preferably before he drops dead, he really can’t be bothered right now though.
The office is vacant, most of the staff are huddled up in the, well, staff room. Occasionally muffled laughter and cajole can be heard. Marshall got tired of deathmatch but lacks motivation to queue ranked, he lacks motivation for most things these days aside from Valorant, his anime watchlist gathers dust. He’s lazing around, bored out of his mind, can’t bring himself to move. He nearly gets up and inserts his scrawny ass in the staff room just to feel something, even if they think he’s a maniac.
He mulls over it. No. Just no.
Sean is here too, somewhere. He’s not at his PC, probably off doing his own secretive affairs, talking to his enigmatic girl (boy?) friend for example. Marshall hasn’t a clue what Sean does lately, he figures he lost the privilege to ask after their showdown the other day.
Okay, that’s not entirely true, Marshall does know what Sean’s been up to. The guy has virtually no hobby other than gaming and binge watching animes. In the Valorant department, Sean prevails in grinding ranked, his match history is a whole-ass green carpet unlike Marshall who’s about to triple derank to Immortal 1, if that’s an actual thing.
Moreover, one name persists on Sean’s past matches: Zander from 100T. Strange, but understandable. It wouldn’t be far-fetched if Zander is Sean’s partner, he’s hot, he’s nice, he’s an outstanding player. What more could you possibly ask for?
Imagine if duo-ing with someone automatically means you’re dating though, all the swiftplay experts would crash out.
And how does Marshall find all this out? By obsessing over Sean’s tracker, duh. It’s giving yandere, it’s giving addiction.
What the fuck ever.
“We need to talk,” someone says to Marshall’s right.
A wave of deja vu washes over Marshall. If he had a nickel for every time someone uttered those exact words to him, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice.
Jordan looms over Marshall like an eldritch entity in one of those Minecraft ARGs Marshall uses to pass time. He ruffles Marshall’s hair, messing it up, then drags out the gaming chair and plops down, hands clasped on his thighs, similar to some sort of priest.
If Marshall was less of a heathen he would’ve pleaded God’s wisdom by now.
“It’s Hanahaki isn’t it?” Jordan begins out of the blue, no preamble.
Marshall almost jumps out of his seat, almost. His wires are crossed beyond recognition, his life is falling apart, his performance has tanked and he honestly doesn’t give a damn. He stays motionless.
“Who the fuck starts a conversation like that? I just sat down!” Marshall howls.
“It’s Sean isn’t it?”
“Stop, stop, my heart can’t take this,” Marshall holds his palms outward in surrender.
Jordan zips his mouth, giving Marshall a moment. A billion questions bounce off the walls in his head. How long has Jordan known? Does anyone else know? Does Sean know? No, if he knew he would’ve acted on it.
Marshall wouldn’t be surprised if Amine was the one sitting him down, but Jordan of all people? The guy who dressed up in a maid costume? Who would lick his toes on stream for subs?
Give credit where credit is due though. Jordan clowns a lot, cracking jokes like he’s auditioning for a sitcom, but he’s also observant in a freakish, theatrical way.
Not necessarily a good thing.
Marshall pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bro what the actual fuck?”
“Is that all you can say?”
“No,” Marshall objects, “but seriously, what???”
“Cut the act Marsh, we been knew.”
“We?”
“Sorry, not we. I been knew. I just said that to fuck with you.”
“You are going to give me a heart attack.”
“Sureeeee,” Jordan drags out the syllable, “if your lungs don’t expire first.”
Marshall stares at him, bewildered. “What exactly do you want from me?”
Jordan shrugs, the movement of his shoulders flexes his biceps lightly. “It’s not like you were being discreet. I mean, hello? The coughing, the long restroom breaks, the way you pretend Sean doesn’t exist.”
“Alright alright, I get it.”
“All I’m saying is this shit ain’t good for you.”
“No fucking way, really?” Marshall says dryly.
Jordan looks unimpressed. “Bro. Take a long look at yourself, straight out of a horror movie.”
“Shut your bitch ass up.”
“You’re a pussy. I’m not mad though, just disappointed. Tell Sean and be done with it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jordan inquires, genuinely baffled.
“I just can’t, it’s not rocket science.”
“What happened to you? The Marshall Massey I know would never be like this, he’d fight and wrestle the illness before giving in. You used to be brave, you used to be cool.”
“You have a skewed interpretation of me.”
“I know you,” Jordan affirms, he freezes briefly then shakes his head, “or maybe I don’t. The point is you’re dying Marsh, and dying from unrequited love is not as cool as you think it is.”
Anger boils in Marshall’s bloodstream. Jordan has successfully riled him up and he is too frayed to stop himself.
“Don’t you think I fucking knew that?!” Marshall barks out a rancid laugh. “Do you think I just sit around all day, puking until my voice cracks for the sake of it? If I had any control over this I would’ve told Sean since the beginning.”
Jordan is unfazed by Marshall’s outrage. “Why didn’t you?”
“Sean doesn’t look at me like that. He already has someone else.”
“Deadass? Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“Jordan, I love you, but the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“It’d be easier if it was me, no?”
“No it wouldn't," Marshall says, alluding to something they both know by heart but won’t admit.
Jordan smirks, Marshall’s weary eyes make his lips curve downward. “Yeah you’re right, it wouldn’t.”
Marshall palms his forehead. “This is pointless.”
The air is tense, thick with judgement and a sense of hopelessness. Jordan unclasps his hands, diverting his gaze to the sun setting outside their wide open office. The leaves with their shifting shades grace the scenery with golds and reds, and a touch of stubborn greens that haven’t altered fully.
“Here’s a head scratcher…” Jordan starts reluctantly. “I was gonna carry this to my grave, but what you’re going through? Been there, done that.”
“The fuck?” Marshall gasps.
“I know, someone like me and Hanahaki, sounds like the start of a bad joke right? Three guys walk into a bar type shit.”
“… When? How? Who? I have so many questions.”
Jordan tugs his knees up, sitting criss-cross. “About two years ago, give or take. The same way you did, same way people still do. And who… How bout we win Champs and I tell you.”
“So I’ll never know,” Marshall grumbles, though he has a hunch already.
Jordan extends a hand, Marshall vacillates for a beat then takes it. Jordan’s hand is smaller than his, but thicker, calloused and incomprehensibly warm. Marshall would cry, but he’s not a crybaby, not anymore. He hasn’t cried in months, no use wasting tears on himself.
“I assume you got over it?” Marshall ponders.
“I wouldn’t be here schpieling to you otherwise.”
“So they reciprocated your feelings? What’s that like?”
“Ah ah ah,” Jordan wags one finger teasingly, “that’s for tier 3 subs.”
“Be so for real right now.”
“I’m not gonna preach to you, but it wasn’t pretty, that much is obvious. I was so prepared to die, Googled funeral services, coffin price, obituary templates, how to write a will and everything.”
“Fascinating, maybe I should do that.”
Sentinels have their own legal team handling most things commercial like buyouts, contracts, sponsorships, sometimes visa issues and PR disasters. Though it probably doesn’t extend to will and testament. Marshall has neither property nor assets of value to bequeath. Host a giveaway for his damn keyboard and mouse? The Sen merch with his name printed on the back? His Valorant account? Crazy.
“One day I just said fuck it, tossed my pennies in the pool, explained everything to that person,” Jordan continues. “And what do ya know, they loved me back. The flowers wilted, my lungs healed.”
“Must be nice,” Marshall sneers, half amused, half bitter.
“I used to smoke but not anymore after that diabolical incident. Shit’s worse than lung cancer.”
“What kind of flowers was it?” Marshall abruptly asks.
“Uh, lemme think…” Jordan pauses, taken aback. “Moroccan toadflax if I recall correctly. Why?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It grows in Cali too, by the way.”
“Cool.”
Jordan smiles, all forlorn and pitiful. “So yeah, I made it, you can too. Grow a pair of balls and confess, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“I could think of numerous reasons why that would be a bad idea. For one, I’m not a home-wreaker. For two, either Sean or his person would kick my ass.”
“Has anyone ever told you how dramatic you are?”
“You’re more dramatic.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Jordan agrees wholeheartedly. “Well, you could always have the surgery.”
“No dice. My Hanahaki is the advanced type, it doesn’t take a genius to know that. Surgery is actually the worse option, and I have a hospital phobia.”
“No you don’t.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. I’d rather go out my own way. Besides, Sean is an undeniable part of my life now, a core memory so to speak. Removing it means I have to quit competing. You figure out the rest.”
“That’s fucked up,” Jordan laments. “I’d hate to see you go.”
“If that’s your reaction to my death I don’t need to hear more.”
“Seems like you’ve accepted your fate.”
“I have, took me longer than I’d like to admit, but what else is new?” Marshall coughs, once, then hangs his head, breathing raggedly. “Do you ever feel like Hanahaki only happens to people with hopeless love?”
“Hanahaki often ends in death or total amnesia, it’s what the statistics show. What they don’t show it’s how their friends and family have to live with the aftermath.”
“That’s the saddest part, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Jordan snaps like Marshall personally offended him. “You have nothing to be sorry for, neither does Sean. Love is a wondrous thing, it carries us onward and supports us without asking for anything in return. It’s no one’s fault that you happened to fall for someone unreachable. You should never be sorry.”
“That’s… surprisingly profound, coming from you.”
“I really care about you, we all do, you know that right?”
“I know, I’m… Hah, I was going to apologize again,” Marshall quivers with bottled up emotions. “Thank you, really. Now I know you won’t forget me.”
“Are you some kind of idiot? Scratch that, you dumb as hell,” Jordan frowns. “I could never forget someone like you.”
Marshall’s lips part like he’s going to say something, he doesn’t. Jordan’s poise falters, he wipes his eyes, fingers wet with droplets of water. His arms go wide, hugging Marshall with such sincerity Marshall can’t help but bury his face in the crook of Jordan’s neck.
It feels like the end of the line.
Maybe it is the end, for Marshall, for Sean, for the secrets that Marshall’s incapable of divulging.
Marshall sniffs, no tears fall. Jordan pats his back like comforting a child distraught by nightmares.
A melodic ding intercepts their exchange, Jordan backpedals and checks his phone. Marshall leans over to see absolute cinema at the top of Jordan’s chat. His face is unreadable, but his lips curve up a tiny inch, to Marshall it already conveys enough. He types something in rapid-fire then puts the phone in his pocket.
“I gotta head out, you just chill okay?” Jordan says finally, brushing dust off his sweatpants.
“Wait, hold on,” Marshall snatches Jordan’s forearm, “are you certain no one else knows?”
“I can’t speak for the team, I only noticed because, well, I’ve been there before. I’m sure they have no idea.”
“Can you please not tell Sean? I don’t give a rat’s ass if you blare it on Twitter or whatever, but Sean must not know. Actually, nevermind, don’t tweet cryptic shit. I’m serious, no monkey business.”
“You haven’t consulted a doctor have you?”
“How’s that relevant?”
Jordan exhales, long and fed up. “I won’t tell. But! Only because we have to win Champs first. As soon as we get back from Paris I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“That will not save me.”
“It’ll do more good than harm, trust me, I’ve been there before.”
“You’ve said that like a bazillion times already.”
“And it’s true! I’m leaving now.”
Jordan ruffles Marshall’s head one last time then skedaddles, leaving a trail of dust and a perplexed Marshall behind. Marshall signs and throws his head back, the gaming chair cushioning his flimsy state of mind.
Jordan Montemurro of all people, catching Hanahaki. He said it sounds like the start of a bad joke. If an initiator main, a controller player and a duelist instalocker walk into a bar, would the remaining sentinel role be the punchline? Ridiculous.
Although, it’s not preposterous. Jordan loves and gives with everything he possesses, his heart as vast as the open sky, as deep as the ocean floor, big enough to enfold humanity’s throes. Marshall won’t put him on a pedestal, but he’s seen first hand how Jordan endures their mistakes, their losses, turning them into thin air.
He’s there at the beach, in every life, through every door.
Worst (best?) of all, Jordan’s story ended on a happy note, or rather, it didn’t end. He turned the page and kept on writing, kept on living, far beyond what he initially imagined. He did the unthinkable, crawling through rose thorns and glass shards, knees bleeding yet standing tall. He survived.
If it was a younger, bright-eyed version of Marshall, he would abhor Jordan. It’s unfair that Jordan made it out alive but he got the short end of the stick, that Jordan found his happy ending but Marshall’s chapter is split in half, that Jordan can breathe clean air once more yet Marshall's heaving through corrupted lungs.
But as it is, and it is, there’s no resentment, only a twinge of jealousy. Marshall wants nothing but the best for Jordan, for the person who carried him through the darkest of days. That person whom Jordan loves, whoever they are, must be the luckiest son of a bitch on Earth’s green grass. Jordan too, is also lucky to have loved and been loved back.
If only Sean felt the same. If only it wasn’t Sean. If only Hanahaki didn’t exist. So many “what-ifs”, so many scenarios that Marshall could sketch out but never erase. The future is in his two hands, but he has no say in where it leads.
Regardless, this debate with Jordan has unlocked something in Marshall. For the first time since discovering his infatuation for Sean, he feels like he isn’t alone in this. Someone else other than his dead cousin understands the subtle nuances and foreboding messages weaved between the fabric of suffering.
No one can predict what’s going to happen in Paris, the distant foreign land that Marshall once referred to as home. Maybe they'd be grouped, maybe they'd drop to lower bracket in Playoffs after one game, maybe Paper Rex and/or FNATIC would beat the shit out of them again. Sentinels’ form? Could use some help.
For now, Marshall's in need of a guiding hand, and Jordan has given him more than that. He’ll still die, he’s done with denial, but at least they won’t forget him.
Notes:
More TSwift lyrics because I'm deranged like that idc idc
and also Minecraft ARG iykykThe bunny thing, my personal headcanon (I have loads of headcanons, sue me) is that Sean represents a bunny, Marshall's a fox. I'm not the only one who think so, lots of people do. besides Sean has a bunny gun-buddy on his recon phantom
Zander is mentioned, huray! Btw they did actually duo a lot in this period, with 100T early exit from the regular season
Moroccan toadflax and absolute cinema... can't be more obvious even if I wanted to lmfao
I hope y'all enjoy the angst, because it's only gonna go down hill from here *evil laugh*
pa1nt__z on Chapter 1 Tue 25 Nov 2025 04:48PM UTC
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anon (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 25 Nov 2025 05:38PM UTC
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leonardodavct (sweetlikesugr) on Chapter 1 Mon 01 Dec 2025 05:27PM UTC
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veemin on Chapter 2 Tue 02 Dec 2025 03:40PM UTC
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leonardodavct (sweetlikesugr) on Chapter 2 Sun 14 Dec 2025 11:32PM UTC
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veemin on Chapter 3 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:43PM UTC
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leonardodavct (sweetlikesugr) on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Dec 2025 12:25AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 15 Dec 2025 12:26AM UTC
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