Chapter Text
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[General] So the T1 ADC and HLE Mid rumors… is anyone else hearing this? Posted by: Anonymous | Views: 102,405 | Upvotes: 3,102
My friend works for one of the LCK broadcast sponsors, and they said the managers of both teams are basically treating it as an open secret right now. Apparently, Gumayusi and Zeka are dating. Yes, that Gumayusi and that Zeka.
I thought it was a troll post from an anti-fan trying to start drama, but actual industry people are whispering about it. There was apparently a whole incident backstage after the media block a few days ago where they were caught arguing near the stairwells, and the staff just awkwardly let them be. Since when do those two even talk to each other enough to fight? And don't tell me they just suddenly became best friends. What is this timeline?
Comments (428):
[canyonenjoyer]: LOLOLOL touch grass. They literally have zero interaction on camera. Why would you even spread this?
[T1_Fighting]: Wait, but did you guys see the Instagram story Delight posted last week? I swear I saw it, and it got deleted after an hour, but Guma looked way too comfortable hovering over Zeka’s chair...
[midGap]: Gumayusi dating one of the quietest guy in the LCK is insane. I don’t think they’re gonna work out???
[Anonymous]: if this is true imm canceling my T1 membership and throwing out my jersey i watch LCK for the gameplay, not to see two guys shoving this shit in our faces keep that degeneracy out of esports. disgusting.
[T1_Fighting]: @Anonymous cry about it, loser. it’s 2025, nobody cares about your 5k won membership anyway.
[Peanutt_Butter]: Fake news.
[Anonymous]: Trusting a "friend who works at a sponsor" LMAO. Seek help
[DoranRing]: Wait, didn't they play that UNICEF show match together a few months ago? Maybe it started there.
[T1_Fighting]: @DoranRing that was keria.
[Anonymous]: Even if it’s true, can you imagine the awkwardness? T1 and HLE management must be having a heart attack over the PR logistics.
[GumaGod]: OP is writing fanfiction. Reported.
Kim Geonwoo is currently aware of three distinct exit routes from this specific corridor of LoL Park. He knows that the door to his immediate left leads to the emergency stairwell, the hallway branching to the right spills out toward the main broadcasting booth, and the path directly behind him dead-ends at the player restrooms. Under normal circumstances, this spatial awareness is just a byproduct of spending half his life in arenas, an idle mental mapping that requires zero actual effort.
Right now, however, it is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, because looking directly at the person standing in front of him feels akin to staring into the sun.
Faker does not corner people. At least, Geonwoo doesn’t think it’s in his nature. He simply occupies space with a kind of quiet, steady gravity, and people naturally arrange themselves around it. The said T1 midlaner is standing by the vending machine with his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jacket, waiting for the production crew to fix a lighting rig in the adjacent studio. He isn't frowning. He isn't glaring. He is just watching Geonwoo with a mild, unhurried curiosity that makes Geonwoo want to sink into the linoleum.
"You haven't opened your drink," Faker observes.
Geonwoo looks down at the sports drink in his hand. The condensation is dripping onto his knuckles, pooling in the grooves between his fingers. He has been holding it for six minutes. "I'm not very thirsty, Faker-ssi."
"Just Sanghyeok-hyung is fine," the older player says easily, his tone mild. "There's no need for titles between us anymore, Geonwoo-yah. You're practically family now."
Geonwoo’s brain emits a dial-up tone. He stares at the logo on the plastic bottle, his heart executing a complicated stutter against his chest. Sanghyeok-hyung. The unearned intimacy of the permission feels like a trap door opening beneath his feet. He is standing in a hallway in LoL Park, being unofficially adopted by the greatest player in the history of the game, on the basis of a relationship he wasn’t even sure is tangible.
"Right," Geonwoo manages, the word scraping against his dry throat. "Sanghyeok-hyung."
How the hell did I get here?
Sanghyeok shifts his weight, the fabric of his jacket rustling in the quiet hall. "Minhyeong was quiet during VOD review this morning," he says, the casual pivot carrying a sudden weight. "He's sharp in-game, but outside of it... he's just out of it today. He hasn't made a single joke since breakfast. He looks sad, actually. He's walking around like his head is somewhere else."
Geonwoo’s grip on the plastic bottle tightens until the plastic crinkles.
"I know you two had a disagreement a few days ago," Sanghyeok continues, his voice devoid of accusation. It is just a gentle, perceptive probe.
The "disagreement." Geonwoo’s chest aches just thinking about it. To the outside world, to their teams and the hovering managers, it probably looked like a lovers’ spat—a tense, hushed argument in the corridors that ended with Minhyeong walking away with tightly gritted teeth and Geonwoo retreating to the HLE bus in silence.
But Geonwoo knows what it actually was. The memory flashes behind his eyes, uninvited and sharp. He hears the metal door click shut. He remembers the drop in Minhyeong's voice, stripped of its usual lilt, and the scent of clean laundry and citrus when Minhyeong stepped into his space. He remembers the raw edge of Minhyeong's pride slicing into his own guarded feelings.
"It's nothing," Geonwoo lies. The words taste like ash. He tries to break the guilt into smaller, more manageable pieces. "It's just the stress of the split. We'll figure it out."
"He tries to handle everything himself," Sanghyeok says softly. "He puts a lot of pressure on his own shoulders to be an immovable pillar for the rest of the team. We all know this. When his pride is hurt, he lashes out, or he shuts down. But he doesn't fight with people he doesn't care about."
Sanghyeok pauses, his eyes sharpening just a fraction. "He must trust you a great deal, Geonwoo. To let you see the parts of him that aren't perfectly put together."
Geonwoo’s breath catches. He forces himself not to look away, but the muscles in his jaw lock so tightly they ache. He trusts me to be a convenient prop, Geonwoo thinks bitterly. He trusts me because he panicked to win an argument with his jungler.
He is spared from having to formulate a response by the familiar squeak of sneakers against the polished floor.
Wangho rounds the corner, carrying a stack of cue cards and two bottled waters. He stops short when he sees the two of them, his eyes darting from Sanghyeok’s relaxed posture to the stiff line of Geonwoo’s shoulders. As a veteran who has navigated the waters of both T1 and HLE, Wangho reads the atmospheric pressure of the hallway in a microsecond.
"Sanghyeok-ah," Wangho says, his voice pitching into a bright, easy cheerfulness as he steps neatly between them, playing the seasoned mediator. "Don't interrogate the poor kid. Leave them alone to sort out their own spats."
"I wasn't interrogating him," Sanghyeok replies, a faint smile touching his face. He looks back at Geonwoo. "I was just checking in. Relationships are work."
"Yeah, well, this one is already stressed out enough," Wangho laughs, a soft, practiced sound that smooths over the sharp edges of the conversation. He rests a casual hand on the middle of Geonwoo’s back. The touch is light, but it feels like a physical anchor. "It’s all new. They're still figuring out how to navigate it with the schedules, you know how it is. They'll make up."
"Of course." Sanghyeok bows his head slightly, a gesture of respect that makes Geonwoo's stomach twist. "Just make sure it's good for both of you. Minhyeong doesn't do things halfway. Once he commits to something, he expects it to be real."
With that, the T1 midlaner turns and walks quietly down the hall toward the studio, his presence slowly lifting from the corridor like evaporating mist.
The silence he leaves behind rings in Geonwoo's ears.
Wangho drops the cheerful facade immediately. He turns to Geonwoo, his hand falling away from Geonwoo's back. He doesn't ask what the fight was about, and doesn't demand an explanation for the dark circles under Geonwoo's eyes. He just looks at him with a tired concern. "Breathe, Geonwoo-yah. You look like you're about to pass out."
Geonwoo looks down at the plastic bottle in his hand. The condensation has soaked his palm entirely. "I shouldn't have done this," he whispers, the words slipping out before his brain can stop them.
Wangho sighs, running a hand through his hair. He clearly thinks Geonwoo is talking about the relationship itself, not the lie. "It’s too late to worry about that now. You're in it. You just have to survive the split without losing your mind."
He squeezes his shoulder once and walks away to join the rest of the team, leaving Geonwoo alone in the empty corridor.
Geonwoo leans his head back against the glass of the vending machine. The cooling unit hums a monotonous vibration against his skull. He closes his eyes, swallowed by the absurdity of his situation. Once he commits to something, he expects it to be real.
Seeking a distraction, he pulls his phone from his pocket. The screen lights up with a handful of notifications. There is a ping from the HLE group chat about dinner plans, a missed call from his manager, and one unread message from Minhyeong.
[Lee Minhyeong] Are we okay to meet at 3? We need to talk about…
The text sits there, a sterile demand. It reminds Geonwoo that the lie is a machine requiring constant maintenance. He cannot just close his eyes and make it stop. It lives in his phone, in the schedules he has to fulfill, in the posture he has to hold when the cameras turn their way.
Geonwoo locks the screen without replying.
He traces the linoleum patterns with the toe of his sneaker, trying to force his racing pulse to steady. Geonwoo is a quiet person. He is a rational player. He calculates risk. He does not make impulsive, life-altering decisions that entangle him with the most famous esports organization in the world, fighting in hallways over a fake relationship born from a one-sided crush he has spent almost two years trying to kill.
And yet, here he is, crumbling under the weight of a lie that isn't even his.
"Zeka-seonsu!"
The voice echoes down the hall. A broadcast coordinator pops her head around the corner, holding a clipboard. "We need you back for the segment in two minutes."
Geonwoo exhales. The reprieve is over. He drops his unopened sports drink into the nearest trash bin, rolls his shoulders, and forces his features into a neutral mask. He has a job to do. He has a role to play.
As he walks back toward the blinding lights of the studio, his mind drifts. If he traces it all back, pulling at the thread of the disaster to see where it unspooled, he knows exactly when the reality he understood began to fracture.
It hadn't started with an argument, or a grand confession, or a quiet conversation with someone in a brightly lit hallway. It had started quietly, in the mundane routine of a practice room, long before he ever knew his name was in Lee Minhyeong's mouth.