Work Text:
Isn’t it just adorable? The Ring of Honor champions are soulmates.
“A match made in heaven, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Regal?” Schiavone asks on commentary.
Danny sits in catering with his arms crossed, glaring at the nearest monitor.
“Let me correct you there, Mr. Schiavone; a match like that can only be formed in hell! These two are warriors destined for combat—their paths were meant to cross only after shedding blood and breaking bone!” Regal proclaims with a tone of pride.
“I suppose you’ve got me there!”
On the TV, Yuta is standing on the bottom ropes at a turnbuckle, shouting victoriously at the crowd. Sweat drips down into the hollow of his throat. He hasn’t wrapped his left forearm in tape in over a month now—he hasn’t had a reason to cover his mark. And neither has Castagnoli, who takes Yuta’s hand and helps him step down from the ropes like an esteemed knight escorting his fucking princess to the ball.
They don’t kiss on camera or anything like that. They don’t make a big deal out of it. Commentators and fans are the ones turning those matching marks into a conversation. Blurry, zoomed-in photos of their arms in gossip articles. Congratulatory posts on Twitter that Yuta likes but doesn’t reply to.
They’re not denying or hiding their bond, but they aren’t throwing a party, either. They’re just...out. So casually out.
They’d never be able to do that in WWE. They’d have to be disgustingly in love in secret, or else their relationship would be twisted into something unbearably dramatic.
Jericho’s big on that. He wants to milk soul marks for all they’re worth, which is why Danny’s been grateful that they’ve had so much to worry about lately. Bigger fish to fry—enough to distract Jericho from honing in on Danny’s forearm and sticking his perpetually-broken nose where it doesn’t belong.
Danny doesn’t want to turn his mark into a gimmick. It doesn’t need to be a logo, or a dance number, or a catchphrase. It’s private. He’s gotten this far in his career due to his skill and his work ethic; he doesn’t need to resort to exploiting a romantic sob story for the masses. And don’t get him wrong, he likes being a sports entertainer, but he doesn’t want to go there with it. Especially since he doesn’t think Jericho would like what his mark is anyway.
RED DEATH
“BCC! BCC!”
Three grown fucking men are hollering into the night sky, free to do so since there aren’t any fans around to notice them.
Danny pulls his hood up and inches over to the left so that he’s mostly obscured by a pillar just outside the stadium’s main entrance. Moxley, Castagnoli, and Yuta are light on their feet, practically dancing as they throw fake jabs at each other and tussle like dogs at play. They’re riding the high of yet another victory.
The JAS does this sort of thing, too, Danny tries to remind himself. They shout and bounce when they get a win, and it doesn’t matter whether or not they were honorable from bell to bell.
Moxley butts his head against Wheeler’s. It doesn’t look like the impact hurts.
Sammy does the play-hitting thing, but...nowadays Danny’s starting to wonder how coltish it really is. It always kind of hurts when Sammy smacks him upside the head. And he’ll knuckle at random people that aren’t even in on the joke, just to hear them yelp.
Hager also hits too fucking hard, though Danny isn’t sure how intentional that is. Hager may just be stupid.
Castagnoli is huge, but Yuta doesn’t flinch when he—his soulmate—grabs him by the hood of his jacket and tugs him around like a rag doll. Yuta laughs.
Watching them together...a hot iron pokes at Danny’s gut. He doesn’t know why they piss him off so badly. It’s not like they’re even being overt about being connected by the universe or what the fuck ever.
Sammy and Tay are nauseating to watch in comparison. It’s not enough that they’re connected by fate, they have to be connected by their tongues now, too. Jericho hasn’t even really had to urge them to use their situation for content, they just seem to like doing it. Nonstop Instagram posts, nonstop kisses for the camera, nonstop feeding each other in catering. Danny doesn’t even want to be alone in a room with them anymore. It was funny for about a week. Now, it’s just…
Yuta isn’t like that with his soulmate. They have the decency to be subtle, Danny supposes. Still pisses him off, though.
Maybe because...Yuta’s enjoying something that Danny thought he’d have by now. And he’s probably enjoying it due to a spot of good luck and timing, nothing more. One unintentional glance while getting dressed in the locker room, and boom, oh, you! I’ve been looking for you!
Danny’s imagined that cinematic moment a thousand times. It’s his stupid, go-to fantasy when he’s curled up in bed, trying to sleep. Hotel room after hotel room. Wondering, waiting. He’s traveled all over the country, seen thousands of people at shows. His soulmate could be anywhere. He could have already met them. Ships passing in the night. Brushed against each other in a hotel lobby. Made eye contact and nodded at a convention.
Wrestling is a shaky business. But it attracts a lot of like-minded people. People, perhaps, bound by the same kind of willpower or some shit. Makes sense for wrestlers to be soulmates. Both individuals share a red string with each other, and with a sport that wants them dead.
“You boys still have far too much energy!”
Danny’s head perks up. Regal’s stepping through the sliding doors and out into the chilly air. Danny’s breath catches. Bryan is with him. He’s giving his stable members a small grin; Danny can see it, even as it hides beneath his mustache and the murky evening shadows.
What about the other BCC members? Have they met their soulmates?
Has...he met his soulmate?
RED DEATH
Whenever Jericho tells a story about his time in WWE, his tone is always flippant, regardless of the troubling subject matter. Danny thinks his mentor had it fine, for the most part, but his peers seemed to get chewed up a bit. Not that Danny hasn’t watched his fair share of WWE. The 90’s, in particular…
If a wrestler had a soulmate, it was pretty much a guarantee that they’d be turned into a spectacle. A draw for viewers. Some were lucky enough to become power couples—duos that were admired and celebrated—but most were crudely fashioned into humiliating comedic bits or trashy adultery subplots.
Danny knows what it’s like to want someone and feel shame for it, he just doesn’t want to know what it’s like to have that shame be put under a magnifying glass. He can’t fathom being pointed at and laughed at because of that shame. He begins to cross his fingers and hope that Jericho will never ask him to give up that pound of flesh.
RED DEATH
“They hate us.” Tay is pouting. There’s no other word for it. “They don’t even care that we’re in love.”
Jericho shakes his head from where he’s sprawled comfortably on the sofa in the JAS lounge. “Tay, angel, they don’t hate you, they hate the fact that they don’t have this!” Jericho gestures with a gloved hand at Sammy and Tay, who are basically one unit now. Sammy is sitting in a chair. Tay is sitting in his lap.
“They’re a bunch of losers that haven’t even met their soulmates! They have no idea what it’s like to not be jealous and alone and pathetic.”
Danny wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to burrow deeper into his hoodie. Maybe Jericho has a point. Danny doesn’t like Sammy and Tay’s shtick, either, but maybe he just...wants what they have.
He glances at them. They’re glued to each other twenty-four, seven. They’re always beaming and kissing and cooing. He smacks her ass in public and she squeals about it. He’s pretty sure they swap gum every couple hours. And he wouldn’t be surprised if Tay has to text Sammy every time she goes to piss so that he doesn’t worry about her falling in the fucking toilet.
No. Danny fights to keep from visibly frowning. He doesn’t want what they have. He doesn’t think his soulmate—whoever they are—would be like that, with him. He would want someone...quieter, someone more reserved.
Danny hopes his soulmate doesn’t have anything to prove. And that they like some alone time, and that they have a couple of their own hobbies, separate from Danny’s.
“Hey, Chris, is that why people hate us, too?” Matt asks. He’s been playing a round of darts with Angelo, and has unfortunately been missing half of his throws. Angelo perks up, interested in the topic at hand. Jericho smirks and rests his cheek on his hand, his elbow propped up on a sofa cushion.
“That’s exactly why, bud.” Jericho’s tone is insincere, as it is most of the time. Danny wishes Jericho wouldn’t lead Matt and Angelo on so much. They’ve been good to Danny.
“Oh, that blows,” Angelo mutters, taking Jericho’s word as gospel and frowning at his partner. Matt pats him on the shoulder.
“Hey, some people just don’t have good taste. I think we got a good thing going.” Matt gives Angelo the smile that only seems to be reserved for him.
Danny doesn’t hate their love. It lacks dramatic flair in its sincerity, and maybe that’s why Jericho hasn’t bugged them to use it as a prop whenever they’re on camera. Maybe the audience just isn’t very interested in two men with a bond as easy and unassuming as theirs.
Danny shivers and glances up when he feels eyes piercing through him, pinning him to the wall. A dead and fragile insect in a glass box. Jericho is giving him a facsimile of a grin.
“You won’t be an exception, Danny. They’ll hate your soulmate, too. Just part of being a sports entertainer.”
Danny can’t form a response, can’t will his mouth to move, so he averts his gaze. He gives a half shrug before ducking out of the lounge.
RED DEATH
Wrestling Hager is like wrestling an animatronic. His movements are stilted and clumsy. He relies on knocking his opponent into turnbuckles and otherwise battering them into submission. There’s not much grace to it.
Danny ducks under Hager’s arm with relative ease—his attack was fairly choreographed. Danny saw the setup for the clothesline an hour ago, really.
It’s not like Danny gets anything out of sticking his nose up at his teammate’s skill. He doesn’t want to go out of his way to be an asshole to someone that’s willing to train so tirelessly with him. It’s just that this isn’t much of a challenge. It doesn’t make him feel like he’s wrestling.
Danny goes through the motions; once Hager is down on the mat, Danny rams a knee into his jaw. A move he’s watched William Regal use on plenty of DVDs.
Danny has wrestled opponents that feel like oil slipping through his fingers, unable to be contained. Flexible forms that cannot be conquered with either hammer or chisel. Crashing waves that bear down on rock, weathering it before pulling back in order to form anew, unrelenting. Yuta...Yuta wrestles like that.
Hager is rock.
Danny hooks his arm over the column of Hager’s throat and squeezes. He’s lost in thought as Hager kicks uselessly at the mat.
Danny has wrestled a dragon. A mighty, gnashing beast with brutality that matches its resplendent grace. The strong beating of sinewy wings. Steam gusting across Danny’s face with every exhale. Piercing blue eyes that no opponent can hide from. An agile and syrupy creature with a grip that can crush bone.
The fever of gold and glory is contagious. It floods Danny’s skull and makes his cheeks grow warm. He wants to know that might; match it and carry it in his breast. He wishes he were wrestling something other than a rock.
“C’mon, you know better, Jake! Fight dirty!”
Danny barely registers Jericho’s reprimand before he feels thick fingers pulling at the Velcro band just above his elbow. The strap rips open loudly, and Hager tugs hard at Danny’s mark cover, trying to pull it down. An incredulous gasp is ripped from Danny’s lungs as he releases Hager from the choke hold and staggers to his feet.
Hager wheezes, attempting to catch his breath. His face is puffy and red. Danny’s vision swims. He clenches his jaw, indignant, and feels no remorse when he cracks his boot across Hager’s cheek. Hager shouts in pain, rolling over onto his side.
“Hey! What the hell was that, Daniel?” Jericho shouts, stepping into the ring. Danny glares, tugs his mark cover back up over his elbow, and doesn’t stick around to hear a lecture.
“Fighting dirty,” he huffs before ducking between the middle ropes and ignoring a concerned look from Angelo.
RED DEATH
Some wrestlers don’t hide their marks. It all boils down to personal choice. Management doesn’t seem to care either way.
People with a lot of tattoos—like Brody King—don’t have to bother with covering up. Others are lucky enough to have their mark somewhere below their knees, so standard wrestling boots make it a non-issue.
Danny has been hiding his mark ever since he started wrestling. Soulmates are always a popular topic of conversation, and he’s wanted to focus on his training. He hasn’t wanted anyone to pry. He hasn’t wanted to answer the same ten questions over and over again every time he enters a new locker room.
Why is he ruminating in this shit so much lately? Why does his arm feel itchy beneath the mark cover?
Danny’s always been fixated on his career, his success, his growth. The soulmate thing has been secondary. He doesn’t need a soulmate to win a title belt or get booked on national television. He’s whole on his own.
Down in the ring, the Blackpool Combat Club is training. Every time one of the members takes a bump on the mat, the impact echoes throughout the empty arena. The acoustics are so good that sometimes Danny catches bits of their conversations from where he looms, hidden in the darkened nosebleed section.
Yuta is running, bouncing off the ropes and gaining momentum every time Castagnoli fails to catch him with a stiff arm. Yuta finally picks an offense; he shoots upward, perhaps hoping to lock his arms around Castagnoli and make him too top-heavy to remain upright, but Castagnoli merely catches him and sways backward a little. Castagnoli then turns, adjusts his grip, and rams Yuta’s back into the nearest turnbuckle. Yuta cries out and recoils, falling out of Castagnoli’s grip and grabbing the top rope to his left to stay on his feet.
“--really hurt!” Danny catches the end of Yuta keening. Even from where he is, Danny notices Castagnoli straighten. The combativeness melts away.
“--you alright?” Castagnoli reaches out and places a hand on Yuta’s shoulder. Yuta’s head then snaps up; he quickly grabs Castagnoli’s hand with both of his and twists, maneuvering his soulmate into a hard wrist lock. Another go-to favored by Regal.
And speak of the devil, Regal tilts his head back and laughs. He pauses in his pacing outside the ring and places a hand on his hip.
“--classic injured soulmate nonsense! Little devil!” He remarks. There’s some more banter that Danny can’t hear; snickering from Moxley, and Yuta’s devious, self-satisfied grin can be seen from Mars. Castagnoli, though pained, looks…vindicated.
People talk about how some tag team wrestlers are destined to be together, even if they aren’t soulmates. Some wrestlers—whether they’re allies or rivals—seem to operate with the same heartbeat and the same brain. The same, primal blood pumping through their bodies as they relish in the conflict and the agony.
Every once in a while, Danny thinks he has that sort of connection with Yuta. While not the most amiable thing, there still exists a pulsating rhythm that bounces back and forth between them.
But whatever they have isn’t that, Danny thinks, as he continues to stare at Yuta and Castagnoli’s dance. What it must be like to have a soulmate that’s also an incredible wrestler? To have someone that could just...lock up with him and never let go, never completely pull away.
Bryan Danielson sits on top of a turnbuckle, perched with his feet resting on the middle ropes. As soon as Danny looks at him, Bryan seems to lose focus. He slowly pulls his gaze away from the mock match and turns his head to the right.
Danny freezes, caught in a cavern full of gold and gemstones. The dragon seems to know he’s there, knows something disturbs his concentration. Seems to smell Danny; self-pity must have a notable odor.
Even though Danny can’t see Bryan’s eyes from so far away, he knows he’s been caught. Knows he’s being examined.
Danny can’t go down there. He has no reason to. Bryan doesn’t invite him. They both stare and stare, operating under the tense agreement that one of them will have to look away first. Danny doesn’t know what it’ll mean if he ducks his head, but after another moment, he must. He can’t take it anymore.
He clenches his fists, feeling palms tacky with sweat, and leaves.
RED DEATH
Sometimes Yuta will make eye contact with him. In a parking deck, in a hallway, in catering. Danny’s always met with some bullshit, sympathetic look. Dark, dipped eyebrows and brown, shiny eyes that flicker to the rest of the JAS flanking Danny and silently asking questions.
Danny never tells him to just fucking spit it out already. He doesn’t know what questions Yuta has, and he convinces himself that he doesn’t care. He just wishes Yuta would stop looking at him like he’s a fucking charity case.
Danny isn’t a princess locked away in a tower. He doesn’t need fucking rescuing. He’s fucking fine. Jericho isn’t keeping him anywhere he doesn’t want to be. He neither needs nor wants some knight in shining armor to whisk him away.
That’s not the form he imagines his soulmate taking anyway.
RED DEATH
“Hey! Hey, that’s a good name! Dragon Slayer! You’ll give that washed-up bastard one last concussion, right, Danny?” Jericho is rubbing Danny’s shoulders, his thumbs digging in too tight. Then he’s ruffling his hair and chattering loudly with Hager and Sammy.
“Slaying dragons, that’s what I’m talking about, baby!”
Danny’s head swims. He swallows hard and his gut twists. His feet carry him, on auto-pilot, out of the lounge and down the hall until he’s pushing through a swinging door, then another swinging door. And then he’s kneeling on dirty tiles.
At least it smells like bleach in the bathroom.
Danny swipes his hat off and begins to gag. He reaches forward, kneeling over the toilet, and grabs the metal piping behind it for support as he heaves and shivers. Goosebumps prick the back of his neck. His eyes water.
All he can see when he closes his eyes is Bryan stumbling, struggling to get to his feet. Bryan looking up at him with some unreadable thoughts just behind clear, blue eyes that give Danny pause, making him reconsider kicking him too hard.
Someone’s going to end Bryan Danielson’s career eventually. Shouldn’t Danny be the one to do it? Wouldn’t it be a privilege? To plunge a sword into the weak underbelly where the scales don’t grant him enough protection? To bring down a beautiful creature and make it so that no one—not even Danny—can marvel at it anymore?
He’d give Bryan a more dignified end than Jericho would, at the very least. Bryan deserves that much.
Still.
Danny gags.
Dragon Slayer.
RED DEATH
“And when you hurt me, that makes me wanna hurt you, too,” Danny confesses. It’s not entertainment; it’s God’s honest truth. It’s his own truth. It feels so fucking personal every time he has to watch Bryan blink hazily and grab at the ropes before his face is plastered on the front of another click bait article titled, ‘Medical Leave Again?’
Steam huffs from the dragon’s nose, and sharp claws grip Danny’s jaw, shoving dents into his cheeks. It does not take kindly to threats from sports entertainers.
RED DEATH
Dragon Slayer.
You’re a wrestler!
Dragon Slayer.
You’re a wrestler!
RED DEATH
The dragon preens. It gives Danny one of the most prized, sought-after possessions in its mighty hoard. Danny’s hands tremble as he flexes his arms. He wants to be tough, he wants to be good. He wants to glow, he wants to stand out. And he does. For a moment that stretches out for a long time.
The belt almost means as much to Danny as the fact that the dragon is the one fastening it around his waist.
Later, after Dynamite, Danny haunts the backstage area, unsure of where to be. He can’t go to the JAS lounge. He knows what would greet him there. Even though Matt and Angelo would probably try to put out the fire, Jericho would have nothing good to say to him.
He sure as hell can’t turn up at the BCC lounge like a stray dog. He can’t invite himself in. William Regal hasn’t extended a hand to him, and Danny can’t exactly blame him for that. Whatever. He doesn’t need their help.
He’s alone. With a heavy belt draped over his hips. He hasn’t taken it off.
Hushed voices draw Danny’s attention; he doesn’t know what wills him to inch toward the nearest corridor and eavesdrop, but he thinks he recognizes an accent.
It’s Castagnoli. Danny peers around the corner to find him and Yuta standing by the restroom entrances. Yuta is leaning against the wall, his shoulders slumped and his head tilted downward. Castagnoli’s tall frame is curled over Yuta as though to shield him from any potential onlookers. He holds one of Yuta’s hands in his own and strokes his thumb over Yuta’s knuckles.
“I won’t tell you that you have to feel good. Losing a belt never feels good,” Castagnoli murmurs. Danny’s heart races in his chest. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t watch. What is his fascination with these two? Why can’t he ever just look away?
“We had the Ring of Honor titles. Together,” Yuta replies, still not looking up at Castagnoli.
“There will always be other belts. Wheeler,” Castagnoli says imploringly, using his other hand to tilt Yuta’s chin up and force him to make eye contact. Yuta concedes with a clenched, stubborn jaw. “We have something else that makes us a matching set, yes?” The corner of Castagnoli’s mouth curves upward. Yuta stares for a few seconds before huffing a weak chuckle and smiling back at him.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
“Could get used to hearing that more often.”
Yuta rolls his eyes and half-heartedly pushes Castagnoli away. Castagnoli laughs. The moment is fractured the moment Yuta looks up and catches Danny standing at the end of the hall like a lost stagehand. Castagnoli notices Yuta freeze. Once he notices Danny, his eyes narrow.
“...It’s fine,” Yuta says, resting a hand on Castagnoli’s arm. Castagnoli raises his eyebrows, looks between Yuta and Danny for a moment, then trusts Yuta’s judgment and departs down the hall in the opposite direction.
“Congratulations.” Yuta crosses his arms over his chest. Danny tilts his chin up and subconsciously straightens his shoulders.
“Is Daddy Regal mad about your rope break?” Danny asks. Yuta, surprisingly, shrugs. Like the barb rolled off his shoulders and didn’t stick in his skin.
“No. Is the Wizard mad about your handshake?”
Danny grits his teeth, clenches his fists. He’s still walking around in his fucking gear because he doesn’t want to get his bag from the lounge. A terse pause makes itself at home in the middle of the quiet hallway. Danny, for once, doesn’t have a retort for his peer—his rival, his something. After another moment, Yuta sucks his teeth and shifts on his feet.
“Yeah, well. Can’t be pissed for too long, I guess. A sports entertainer has the Pure belt.” Yuta turns on his heel and starts to walk away. Danny’s throat tightens and he has to fight to swallow and take a step forward. His lungs seize up as he forces out a word against his better judgment.
“Wait!”
Yuta stills. He slowly turns to face Danny again. Danny’s mouth opens and closes. He must look like a moron, but Yuta doesn’t call him out on it. In fact, Yuta waits. Longer than he needs to, for certain, as Danny grips the rim of his belt with one hand to keep his fingers from trembling.
“What...” Danny tries. Why does he need to know? Why does he have to ask? How is it any of his business? “What’s it like...wrestling Claudio?”
Yuta’s eyes widen as he’s unable to hide his surprise. He blinks and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and back again.
“What do you mean?” Yuta asks. Danny looks to the left and stares at a random place on the wall.
“Like...is it...different?”
Another pregnant pause that makes Danny wish the floor would just open up and swallow him whole. But when he dares to look back at Yuta, he doesn’t find that Yuta’s snickering or glaring with an air of judgment. He looks like he’s actually considering the question. Yuta rubs his forearm absently—perhaps a new habit he’s developed since his soul mark has been exposed.
“Yeah, it’s different,” says Yuta. “It feels like we really could fight forever and not get bored. It’s weird. I don’t always want to beat him. Sometimes I really want him to win; I want to be proud of him, I want him to succeed, but I can’t just...let him? He’d know if I let him. He wouldn’t want to win that way.”
Danny feels like he needs a moment—or an hour—to think on this, but Yuta keeps going, self-motivated and perhaps now eager to talk about his soulmate.
“He knows I can always get better; he pushes me. Even when I think I can’t go anymore, he knows that I can. He sees something in me that I can’t see. Wrestling with the guys is fun and all, but with Claudio, I...never want to let him go.”
It takes no effort for Danny to be transported back to the center of the ring. Lying on his stomach, panting, disoriented, exhausted. But he’s still reaching. Grasping pitifully, hoping that Bryan won’t leave. Hoping that the dragon won’t bat its wings and leave Danny lying there, defeated and alone. It couldn’t end that way—Danny didn’t want it to—he could keep going, he could still fight. He just needed a minute. He just needed to hang on and not let go. He just needed Bryan to stay in the ring. With him.
“Did...that answer your question?” Yuta’s voice drags Danny back to reality, back to the present.
“I...yeah. Sure.” Danny wipes a hand over his face and leaves before Yuta can think too hard about the why of any of it.
Once Angelo finds Danny and gives him his bag (paired with a small, reassuring smile and some congratulations), Danny decides that he doesn’t want to ride with the JAS to the next city. He gets a rental car. He needs space. He needs time to think.
RED DEATH
Danny ignores call after call from Jericho. Eventually he puts his phone on silent. He drives until he’s too tired, then he holes up in a nondescript motel. Lying under the sheets in a twin bed with the TV on for background noise, he aches.
The boy that wrestled Wheeler Yuta for sixty minutes in a scorching hot ring for a small crowd...was he a sports entertainer? Was that sports entertainment?
It wasn’t glitter and loud music and pyrotechnics and an entourage. It was blood and sweat and saliva. It was skin rubbing on skin. It was a parched throat. It was a deep yet short sleep in the back of a friend’s car afterward. It wasn’t a national celebration. It was just a job, just a match. It was just wrestling. Albeit it was wrestling in its purest form, and that’s the poetic concept that makes Danny’s heart swell to the point of bursting.
He just wants to wrestle.
He wants to wrestle him.
Yuta’s words play and rewind, play and rewind in the back of Danny’s skull. Wrestling his soulmate makes him feel like he could fight forever.
The firm give of Bryan’s boot when Danny clutches it with his shaking fingers. The bloody drool gathering behind his lower lip as he stares up at a single eye not yet concealed by sweat-soaked hair.
What if he’s wrong? God, what if he’s wrong about this?
What if he makes a fucking fool of himself in front of the entire world? What if he rips open his stomach to show Bryan Danielson his blood and guts, only for Bryan to find him lacking? What if, under no circumstance, was Danny meant to be with his hero? What if the dragon doesn’t want him under his wing after all?
Well...then...that’d be sports entertainment, wouldn’t it?
RED DEATH
“I came out here, in front of all of you, and said that I’d be the one to end Bryan Danielson’s career!”
Danny stands in the ring, microphone in hand, heavy Ring of Honor belt around his waist. Proud, determined, gleaming in spite of everything. Khan asked him to address the title change. Jericho expects him to address his allegiance. The crowd expects him to make a decision.
“I was so pissed off, I was determined that I was gonna do it as soon as possible!” Danny paces. Like a caged animal. Like bait—for a larger predator. “I figured that if he was gonna keep breaking my heart, I was gonna have to break his neck! But that...that still wouldn’t have given me what I want, would it? I want—I want to watch my hero wrestle. And more importantly, I want to be the one to wrestle him! Genuine wrestling! For you!” Danny gestures at the crowd, his voice rising, his heart pounding. The people respond generously.
“For me! For both of us!” Danny smacks his chest and curls his fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. He turns to face the ramp. His heart beats impossibly faster. He wonders where Bryan is backstage. He knows he has to be watching this on a TV somewhere. He knows that some magnet must compel Bryan to watch Danny whenever he’s out here. He knows because he feels the same pull, regardless of whether or not it stems from his own imagination.
“I’m not gonna take back what I said; I am gonna be the one to end your career. But it won’t be anytime soon, and it’ll only be because I’m not gonna stop wrestling you. It’ll only be because I don’t want anyone else to do it. You hear me?” Danny exclaims with a ferocity that he didn’t know he could generate again—not so soon after Buffalo, at least.
Danny is staring at the tunnels with anticipation; he registers the crowd’s collective gasp a few seconds too late, and is startled by a hand grabbing the back of his shirt and spinning him around with clear aggression.
Jericho is here, because of course he is, and he’s swiping the microphone out of Danny’s hand before Danny can get another word out. Flanked by Hager and Sammy, Jericho is flushed and fuming.
“I have not used all of my precious time and energy training a wrestler, Daniel! There’s a reason you aren’t standing out here with William Regal’s school for gifted morons! I’m the one that took you in when no one else wanted you! I’m the one that’s worked tirelessly to make sure you could live up to your potential, and this is how you show your appreciation?”
The crowd’s jeering causes the air to shift with discontent. Danny clenches his jaw and lifts his head, refusing to back down. Refusing to continue to defer to Jericho’s standards. Jericho’s eyes narrow at the blatant defiance.
“If you want to be a wrestler, we can treat you like one,” Jericho says without a hint of remorse. Hager and Sammy immediately rush forward and grab Danny.
Danny sneers, shoving Sammy in the chest as a warning. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
Jericho smirks, and it doubles as an unapologetic goodbye. Danny will just be another name on a long list of people that have wronged Jericho, just another burned bridge, and Jericho is already certain that Danny will have nothing to show for his defiant efforts.
“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Danny insists, stepping back only to feel the ropes catch him as Hager and Sammy grab both of his arms. Danny twists and pulls, hoping for any sort of impossible give. He drags Sammy close and pushes a knee up into Sammy’s groin.
Sammy goes down to his knees with a cry of pain, but as soon as Danny’s arm is free, Hager is stepping into his space and hooking a thick elbow around Danny’s throat.
Danny’s sure he can get out of this—he’s weaseled out of plenty of choke holds—until he feels Hager lifting him completely off the mat. Danny’s legs go heavy and limp, and even more pressure weighs in on the column of his throat. He kicks and gasps for air. He reaches back with one arm to blindly feel for Hager’s hair. He grabs a fistful of the short fringe and yanks hard.
Hager shouts, but he refuses to let go of Danny. Danny’s ears begin to ring, the crowd’s angry booing blends in as white noise that presses in on his skull from all angles.
“Don’t think,” Hager hisses by Danny’s ear, “that I don’t owe you for kicking me in the face.”
The sharp rasp of Velcro is deafening, even over the crowd. Danny’s eyes widen, even as his vision swims. He feels his mark cover being unceremoniously stripped away from his arm. Hager may as well flay muscle from bone. Danny’s nerves are exposed.
Once Danny’s arm is bare, Hager drops him like a sack of potatoes. Danny hits the mat hard and wheezes, fighting for deep inhales. He’s lightheaded. He can’t get up. The belt around his waist may as well be tied to an anchor tethered beneath the ring.
“Oh, you’re joking!” Jericho exclaims with unabashed glee. “Are you seeing this?” Danny blinks up at three looming figures. Sammy begins to laugh with disbelief. Danny tucks his arm in close to his chest, but he knows it’s too late. They’ve seen his mark.
“You guys will never believe what Daniel Garcia’s soul mark is!” Jericho announces to the crowd. Danny’s eyes burn and he isn’t sure if that’s due to the shame or the strangulation. This isn’t how he wanted to do this. He knew he wanted to talk about it somehow, but this isn’t--
Flight of the Valkyries.
The arena is stained with red light. The crowd goes ballistic.
The JAS members perk up, ready to go on the defensive. Danny uses the opportunity to scramble to his feet and hold onto a top rope.
Bryan is walking purposefully down the ramp, and he’s...flanked by Yuta and Castagnoli. Danny swipes his eyes clean and tries not to think too hard about the fact that the BCC members don’t look haughty or eager for a fight. Yuta is glaring hard. And Bryan typically comes out with a smile, warm for the crowd even if he’s here to settle a conflict. Today—here, now—his expression is cold.
Jericho, Sammy, and Hager back up to the opposite side of the ring as the BCC members swing up under the ropes and climb the steel steps. As they settle into a row, in a standoff, Danny finds himself caught in the middle, as he has been these past few months.
Danny’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two groups. Jericho doesn’t even spare him a glance anymore. He only has eyes for Bryan now. But Bryan—Bryan glances at Danny, as if to check in with him.
If Danny hadn’t already made his decision, that look just now would have made it for him.
Danny swallows and inches toward the left. Toward the Blackpool Combat Club. And just those scant inches are enough to make the crowd scream. The numbers game resets. Moxley could come out if they really start to scrap. But Danny is fairly certain that Matt and Angelo will be conveniently unavailable tonight. He’ll have to talk to them later. Thank them, for everything.
Luckily, Jericho seems to read the writing on the wall. He sucks his teeth and wags the microphone back and forth in his hand.
“When I tell everyone about your mark—and I will—they’ll turn on you. Happens all the time.” Jericho looks at Danny with an air of finality. “That’s just sports entertainment.” He tosses the microphone away and departs, ducking between the ropes. He always leaves like it’s a choice he’s making, like he isn’t running away. Like he’s won something.
As the JAS weave beyond the barricade, the BCC members lose some tension and begin to mill about the ring, surveying. Danny continues to hold his arm to his chest. He watches Bryan slowly crouch down to pick up the microphone. He and Danny seem to notice the discarded mark cover at the same time.
Bryan reaches out, rubs the fabric between his fingers for a second, then stands with the cover in hand.
“We don’t do that shit here,” Bryan says into the microphone. He holds his arm out toward Danny, offering him his cover without looking in his direction. He doesn’t even peek.
He won’t look at Danny’s mark.
Danny stares at the black fabric hanging from Bryan’s hand. He could put it back on, but what would be the point? It won’t be a secret much longer. Jericho knows; he has the upper hand right now. He’s just going to tell everyone what the mark is anyway. And that would take away Danny’s agency.
Jericho expects Danny to be a wrestler now. And so does Bryan.
Danny glances at Yuta, who quirks his brows in another one of his silent questions. Yuta’s eyes flicker to Danny’s mark cover. Bryan continues to wait patiently. He still won’t look.
“You’re a wrestler!” The clapping thunders through the arena. “You’re a wrestler!”
Danny shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and steels himself. Fuck it. One last round of sports entertainment. He was going to do this anyway; what difference does the presence of a few thousand people make? At least this way, he’ll have the power. Jericho won’t be able to hold this over his head. He’ll be free.
Danny finally reaches out and takes the mark cover from Bryan. But he doesn’t put it on. He tosses it back down to the mat. The crowd’s chanting dies down. The bemusement is clear. Danny can feel Castagnoli and Yuta’s eyes on him, but Bryan still won’t look.
“I don’t need it,” Danny says. He knows Bryan hears him. Bryan’s head jerks minutely, but he catches himself and remains still. “You can look,” Danny insists, earnest and bare. He won’t beg or anything, but God, he wants Bryan to look. He wants Bryan to see. He wants to be right about everything he’s dreamed of, and right about every hunch that’s kept him up at night.
Bryan slowly turns his head, but he pointedly makes eye contact with Danny, still trying to be respectful. Trying to leave out the taboo.
“Look,” Danny says one more time through gritted teeth, gesturing with his left arm stretched outward, forearm turned up. His heart may well beat out of his chest.
Finally, finally, Bryan’s eyes move. He looks at Danny’s arm.
There is a great, red dragon curling up and over Danny’s skin. It’s composed of too many intricate whorls to count, wings outstretched, tail curling down to the jut of Danny’s wrist, tongue dancing with a burst of flames. It looks like a tattoo composed with no black ink—almost impossible to see, much less comprehend from any great distance.
Danny’s loved this beast his entire life.
Bryan chuckles, but he isn’t mocking Danny. His eyes are soft. His smile is warm, albeit aged and a little tired. Danny dares to breathe again. Bryan tilts his head slightly.
“Dragon Slayer, huh?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. Danny feels his cheeks heat up.
“Red Death,” he corrects. Bryan nods slowly, approvingly. He then purses his lips and looks down at his own arm wrapped in tape. He holds it out toward Danny.
“Would you like to see mine?” He asks.
The dragon spreads its wings before Danny. It exposes its tender underbelly. It welcomes Daniel into its lair with all of its hard-earned treasures. Danny, now, is not a princess in need of saving, and he is not a knight that has come to destroy a wyrm.
He is a dragon.
“Don’t need to.” Danny pushes Bryan’s hand aside and throws himself into his arms. Bryan drops the microphone, and two warm hands immediately press against Danny’s back. Danny buries his face in Bryan’s shoulder, and he doesn’t care about what the crowd thinks or says. He doesn’t need them to tell him what he is anymore. Though it doesn’t hurt to hear the affirmation.
“You’re a wrestler!” They chant long after the timekeeper signals for the end of Dynamite.