Summary:

In the eleventh season, "Tyranny" and Zhang Jiale receive their cup.

Notes:For .

Written for the week of the Tyranny club on diary.ru

Work Text:

The cup is so heavy that it is inconvenient to hold it even with the whole team, but as soon as you take it alone, your hands immediately pull back. But Jiale lifts it over his head anyway, smiling, jumps, not at all ashamed of his own reaction, and poses for a photo before handing the shining treasure to Hanyu and the others.

The stadium is screaming and applauding, the team is clapping on the shoulders, and Jiale is screaming and hugging along with everyone, not really seeing any faces, no images on the huge screens where the best moments of the match are scrolled, nothing - just floating in a blinding, overwhelming euphoria, washing away and tension, and severe multi-day - multi-week - fatigue.

It all comes back later, when the initial delight is left behind, and Jiale is caught in the middle of the party. He manages to drink half a glass of champagne and eat some chips before he realizes that he is feeling sick, and his eyes are drooping despite the loud music, multi-colored rays and camera flashes.

In recent weeks, he was so eager to move forward, he worked so hard, and in the finals he completely jumped in over his head that a setback is inevitable.

He leaves the party quietly, from the back door, only after sending Hanya a short message, and almost passes out right in the taxi, and when he gets to his room, he simply falls face down on the bed and immediately falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

When he opens his eyes - after what feels like a couple of minutes - the room is still dark, and the lights are shimmering outside the window, which he even forgot to curtain. The body seems clumsy and too heavy, the head seems to be filled with sand, and the mouth is dry. I really want to take a leak, but to do this I need to stand up or at least sit down. We have to overcome it.

Lowering his feet to the floor, Jiale stretches with pleasure, stretching his stiff muscles. Returning to Qingdao, you will definitely need to go for a massage...

The thought of Qingdao makes him wake up completely.

Return. Match. The final. They won! Have you won? Was he dreaming?

The phone, almost dead, lies next to the pillow. Jiale grabs it, squints from the light hitting his eyes, when he unlocks the screen, he goes into Weibo to the "Tyranny" page. While the page is loading, he looks at the time - and straightens up sharply, feeling a cold sensation running through his back.

It's eighteen thirty.

He manages to be horrified by the thought that he actually dreamed everything - the heavy cup in his fingers, the press conference, and the party. And - most importantly - a match in which until the very end it was unclear who would be the last to remain. A match in which he and Han did the impossible with the last crumbs of their health, finally finishing off Lu Hanwen and Zheng Xuan. Not as impressive as Ye Xiu last summer, but confidently and desperately, taking a risk and performing a maneuver that was not always ideal even in training.

Oh no. Jiale is too shaken to sleep by the memories of the past game, so vivid and detailed, as if the match was still endlessly going on somewhere in his head, repeating itself over and over again.

He looks at the date, at the Tyranny page that has finally loaded, and exhales. Everything was. The rollback simply knocked him out for eighteen hours straight.

After checking the news, mail and cuckoo, Jiale puts down the phone with satisfaction, stretches again - this time tastefully, leisurely and contentedly - and finally trudges into the bathroom. It's good that the flight is only tomorrow evening; he doesn't feel the moral or physical strength to collect his luggage.

***

Jiale is still drying his wet hair when there is a knock on the door and, without waiting for the question, they add in Han's voice:

- It's me.

— Did you learn telepathy from little Zhou? — Jiale asks cheerfully, unlocking it. - Oh. Level seventy-five! — he nods approvingly at the package with the logo of some unfamiliar restaurant in Han's hands. The bag smells divine.

You want to eat almost to the point of pain, your empty stomach growls demandingly.

"I saw the message in the chat," Han walks into the room, hands Jiale the package and closes the door behind him. - You missed dinner.

"Both breakfast and lunch," Jiale nods with a sigh, putting down the towel. - Sorry for running away yesterday. Did you miss anything important?

Han shakes his head.

"For something important, we would wake you up," he says, placing the food on the table by the sofa. - Everything is fine?

"Everything is fine," Jiale smiles widely. - We are champions. Do you want us to drink to that? There is wine in the bar, it seems even normal.

He offers, especially without expecting a positive response. In his memory, Han drinks one or two glasses of champagne only at events and does it more out of politeness than enjoyment.

But Han surprises him by nodding.

- Want.

And again when he lets out a short chuckle in response to his raised eyebrows.

"You know, sometimes they told me that we wouldn't work together," Jiale grins, pouring wine into glasses. "I wish I could look at the faces of these assholes now."

"Fools," Han takes a sip from his glass and nods approvingly.

- Exactly.

Sitting on one sofa, which is more like a wide chair, is a bit cramped, they constantly bump elbows, touch knees and hips, but you don't want to change seats. Jiale likes it this way - next to Han, a little more before they return to Qingdao, hold the last press conference and go their separate ways.

The eleventh season is the last for both.

Jiale was thinking about whether to extend the contract, he was offered and, he knows, will be offered again, but decided that it was not worth it, the final was already harder for him than the world championship. Even through the euphoria that still clouds his head, Jiale feels drained to the last drop, an empty vessel.

But this is a proper, pleasant emptiness. It's as if everything that had been ripening and boiling in him for so many years, since his debut, completely spilled out yesterday at the Blue Rain stadium.

He takes a sip of wine and hurriedly, greedily begins to eat. Han hardly eats, he just rolls his glass in his hands and occasionally picks up a piece of meat or vegetables. He looks thoughtful, and Jiale would give a lot to know what kind of thoughts are wandering through his head right now.

Having had his fill a little, he reaches for the glass again and takes a long sip. Either from the drink, or from Han's proximity, or from the understanding that his frankness can no longer harm their interaction in the team, Jiale leads a little, and the words themselves ask for the tongue.

"It was a great three years," he says, turning to Khan. - Thank you.

And the hand itself rests on the broad shoulders, not at all in a friendly way, and Jiale is ready, internally, that Han will twitch, throwing it off, briefly glare, saying more with one glance than he could with words, and silently leave.

And Han almost does not disappoint expectations.

The look really speaks better than words - dark, deep, tenacious. Dragging, it paralyzes Jiale for a long second, which Han spends trying to close the distance between them.