Work Text:
Breathe
A/N: It's been a while. Hi. <3 So. Double or Nothing. FUCK. I have… so many thoughts about the ending to the main event. Congrats to Punk, but fuuuuuck, my heart aches for our cowboy. His story resonates so much with me. The struggles with self-confidence and an identity out of the shadows of the people around him, the struggle with letting people in and leaning on others and allowing yourself to be vulnerable, the terror of that taste of darkness and losing yourself to everything you stood against. I understand, and my heart aches. And now here we are, with my jumbled, nonsensical thought train in fic form. Told partially through a One-Winged Cowboys/Hangmega lens because there are connections , and I need Kenny for a few things here. <3
It took every ounce of energy for Adam to not collapse in despair on his way out of the arena. His trip to the locker room, his drive back from the arena, the elevator ride in the hotel that felt like it took years. His hands were shaking so hard that he dropped his keycard several times before finally being able to get into his room, where he immediately slumped against his door. The sudden BANG! as it slammed shut from his dead weight made him violently flinch, and he tried in vain to calm down, to try and breathe .
Fuck. FUCK. Where did he even start? How did he even try to sort through the chaos that was his mind, his heart, his soul? Punk had gotten under his skin, had found every chink in his armor, had dug his grubby hands into still fresh wounds and old brought every single insecurity, fear, demon to the surface. Adam had worked so. Hard. He had endured so much to get back on his feet after his faith in himself was shaken time and time again. He had pieced together the fragile shards of his soul over years of wandering aimlessly at the sides of false friends and fighting wars without knowing what he was truly fighting for.
Anxiety. Depression. Self-worth. Trust. Vulnerability. Identity. Purpose.
Working on oneself is a lifelong occupation. He knew this, but why did it have to be so goddamn hard? Why did trying to find himself, to be himself, to not relapse into old habits and mindsets, have to hurt so much? He’d fought and he’d fought and he’d fought, and he’d almost thrown all of his hard work and progress away. And for what? Was keeping the title worth becoming everything he’d swore to never become? Was it worth giving into all those familiar voices screaming in his ears that he wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t get the job done “the right way,” that this was the only way?
For one long, endless moment, he’d decided yes.
It would’ve been so easy to take the title and knock Punk out with the ref down. He’d retain. He’d still be the winner, the man at the top. No one would be the wiser.
Except he knew that was a lie. Punk, with his stupid, smug, satisfied smirk. The crowd, shouting at the top of their lungs for him each and every night, rallying behind him, lifting him up with their support and their hope and their love. His friends watching backstage and around the world, who had been there in his darkest moments, had pulled him out of them, stuck by him even when he’d done everything in his power to push them away because no, I’m not worth it. I’ll only be a burden, bring my suffering and my problems and my hopelessness into your life. You deserve someone who can return all the patience and honesty and openness that you give so freely. Why do you stay? Why haven’t you given up on me like I’ve given up on me so many times before? Himself? Would he be able to escape the guilt and shame and disgust? Would he be able to find his way out of the seemingly bottomless pit he’d spent years climbing out of?
No. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fail again. It was bad enough that his resolve had crumbled as the match went on. He’d come to the ring with a short temper and vengeance on his mind, with anxious and furious energy and a desperate need to win, to prove that Punk was wrong and that he was worthy, he deserved to be here, he could win on his own terms. He couldn’t do it, so he hadn’t. And he’d lost.
Adam hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in his thighs and squeezing his eyes shut, taking heaving, anxious breaths, choking on chest rattling sobs. Breathe . Shit, he had to breathe. If the rough carpet of his hotel room wanted to swallow him up right now, he wouldn’t protest. He was half convinced that if the door wasn’t propping him up at the moment that he just might sink through the floor and disappear.
God, had it been worth it? Had any of it been worth it? Was there ever an outcome where he walked away with his title reign and psyche intact? No, he was never that lucky. Of course not. This was always going to be an end in this particular road for him. He just hadn’t realized until it was too late. And now he was at a crossroads with too many paths to count, all different, all uncertain, all adding to the storm of emotions currently threatening to drown him before he could even get out of his gear.
If he wasn’t currently crying his eyes out he might laugh at the thought of passing out from a panic attack while still in sweaty chaps and an old t-shirt clinging a bit uncomfortably to his sore, blistering chest. But that wouldn’t be good for anyone. He sat there for a few minutes, digging his nails into the tingling palms of his hands, letting himself cry until he was out of tears and the sobs racking his body settled into slight trembles. His lungs burned and his throat felt tight and his injured knee was quite upset with him for being curled up as long as he had been, but he finally felt like he had a shred of control of himself now, so that was something. It took him a few tries to get to his feet, and he caught his foot on the edge of his suitcase, stumbling into the rest of the room with a few rather loud swears. His voice sounded wrecked. Geez.
He tried to take slow, deep breaths. What’s done is done, and he was still standing in spite of it all. He repeated that to himself several times with the hope that it would quell at least some of the anxiety still bubbling underneath his skin. It didn’t do much. Neither did the short shower he managed to take afterwards, or the several hours of tossing and turning before he had to leave for his flight in the morning. Over and over again his final standoff with Punk played in his mind, the AEW World Title grasped firmly in his hands, his muscles tensed and ready to thrust him forward with dangerous and disgraceful intent. The memory followed him onto the plane, through the airports, on the ride home, and to his doorstep.
He unlocked the front door to his house much easier than he had his hotel door the night before, though his hands still visibly shook. He pushed it open wearily and lugged his suitcase in behind him, gently kicking the door shut. He heard shuffling in the living room, and he quickly abandoned his things when Kenny was within arms reach, gently falling into his arms with a harsh gasp. They stood there for a minute, locked in a gentle, silent embrace, before Adam slowly pulled back.
Kenny met his broken, upset gaze, his own softening at all that he saw in those few short moments before Adam looked away. He knew that look, had seen it countless times in the mirror over the years. No words were needed to express the depths of those struggles, those emotions. He understood, and Adam knew that he did, grateful that he only got a sad half smile in return instead of questions or accusations. Kenny’s arms settled loosely around Adam’s waist, and Adam was careful not to aggravate any of Kenny’s healing injuries as he leaned against him, laying his head on Kenny’s shoulder.
“I’m scared,” he admitted with a broken whisper. “I’m scared of what I could’ve done, what I could still do. What if I…?” He sniffled, and Kenny hummed in concern, turning his head just enough to press a light kiss to Adam’s neck. “I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do, or that I’m being stupid and worrying over nothing. Anything, please .”
Kenny’s heart clenched at the way Adam’s voice broke, trying in vain to hold back tears. He sighed.
“I can’t tell you what to do or what comes next. I can tell you that you can’t change the past or the decisions you made. And I can tell you that you know your journey better than anyone: all the things you’ve faced, all the surprises and triumphs and mistakes and shortcomings.” He gave another sad smile, and Adam could feel it in the crook of his neck. “ It’s the internal battles that are the hardest, the longest, the most painful. You can’t beat yourself up forever for everything that’s happened, you know? At the end of the day, I think it all comes down to remembering who and what you were fighting for and why, how much you sacrificed and how far you’ve come. We all have to move forward eventually with that in mind, I think, with the intention of doing our best, however we need to.”
“That’s hard,” Adam replied after a few minutes, and the two of them shared a soft laugh at that. “Looking back and then trying to look forward. There’s so much…”
“I know. That’s when you just… breathe and take it one step at a time. Alone, with other people, whatever you think you need.”
Adam gave a small nod, feeling Kenny gingerly bend his knees and immediately apologizing for being inconsiderate, his own knee kindly reminding him to get off his feet. They moved to the couch, and Adam laid his head in Kenny’s lap, staring up at the ceiling and feeling a little calmer now.
“Thank you.”
Adam’s eyes slipped shut with a pleased hum as Kenny scratched lightly at his scalp, fingers threading calmingly through his hair.
“Whatever you decide you need to do, I’ll be right beside you the whole way.”