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Boston airport ranks low on the list of nice places Kota has seen. But after twenty-plus hours stuck in terminals and lounges and planes in indifferent seats, only the bad carpet and his bag for company, he is glad to finally be here. Gladder still when the WiFi pings messages to his phone: Nak sending instructions of where to meet the AEW handler, a photo of said handler, the licence plate and model of the car that will pick him up, and an apology for not being able to meet him. Delays meant Kota had arrived at four in the morning, which is not a time friendly to Nak. At least the handler was kind. She had walked Kota to the car pick-up point, and before heading back into the terminal, had given him part two of the apology. He tears into the chocolate croissant and sips his Coke Zero. Silently thanking Nak. Looking forward to being able to do it in person.
He stares at nothing in particular. Waiting. No matter where he has flown, the first sight of a new place is always the same. Roads skirting the terminal building, broken up with zebra crossings and concrete islands, trolleys left abandoned or wheeled into snaking lines. Only the language on the signs is different. Some days he feels that he has spent his whole life shuttling from locker room to hotel to vehicle, slipping away during these nowhere hours, yesterday’s match a bright, hazy dream. Only the hurt, dull in his joints and bruised dark on his skin, to prove it was real.
But he hasn’t been doing many matches either, has he? Not since his shoulder broke. And then everything after.
Paper crinkles, the Starbucks bag crumpling in his fists. He smooths it out, then folds it over and over lengthwise, to give his hands something to do. On the flight he’d slept okay. He’s not tired. But his blood feels like it is fizzing, tuned to some strange frequency, and the part of him that is Trouble wants to climb somewhere high and flip off.
He ties the paper strip into a knot instead. In front of him a car pulls up, its windows tinted. Headlights flash twice. For him? The licence plate matches, so he waves and opens the passenger door.
“Hi,” he says in American, shuffling in. “Thank you.”
“Welcome to Boston, Mr. Ibushi.” The driver says, his Japanese and accent flawless. And of course they are, because turning around to face him, grinning, is Kenny. “Wanna ride shotgun?”
He does, leaving his bag and the coke in the backseat. “I thought you were flying later?”
“Surprise.”
“You’re not tired?”
Kenny shrugs. In the dim light, the bags under his eyes are heavy. “Not when I see you.”
Ibushi clicks the seatbelt into place. It is strange. To have Kenny here next to him, in a REDCON shirt and Nike shorts, and not a disembodied head in his phone. So to make sure he’s real, Kota reaches across the gearstick and places his hand on Kenny’s thigh. It’s warm beneath his palm.
“I missed you too,” he says.
Kenny’s dimples crease beneath his beard. “I wanna kiss you, but we’re in a no-stop zone.”
“Later.” Kota squeezes gently. After six months, a couple of hours is nothing.
They drive off. Only a few other cars are with them this early in the morning. Boston greets them properly once they leave the airport area, but its buildings are short and blocky—not at all like the city he knows. There is an American charm to it, the red brick houses and the wide streets lined with boxy cars, the lots empty and fenced by rusty chain link, street lights flickering. The road ramps them up onto an elevated highway, and as they cross what seems to be a river, water murmuring beneath them, Kota thinks it would be nice, one day, to stay. To play tourist instead of work.
“Is Boston fun?” Kota says.
Kenny glances over. “It’s not bad. There are worse places.”
“What about Winnipeg?”
“Oh, that’s definitely worse.”
Kota fiddles with the air-conditioning vent. “I’d like to see.”
“Trust me, there’s nothing worth the trip.”
“But some of it must be okay. If you came from there.”
Kenny keeps his eyes on the road. Mouth twisting like he’s bitten something bitter. “Nothing from there is worth shit.”
A younger version of Kota would have let the talk die there. Hanging between them like a bad smell, only clearing away when one of them would distract the other with some shiny new thing, like a round of Mario Kart, or a video of a cute dog. But they have made too many mistakes not to learn from. Lost too many years to silence. Kota is not about to waste more.
“You mean yourself? Or Don Callis,” he says.
Kenny scowls when that name is mentioned, and he sits up in his seat. The car coasts along, and water gives way to land and buildings, road sloping gently down to almost graze their roofs. Kota watches the argument Kenny is having with himself in his own brain, as the furrows between his brows are dug deeper and deeper.
“I went back and watched what he was saying,” Kota says, “from before. Nak translated for me. As many AEW shows as he could, all the way back. He was like family to you, right? He was there when I could not be. You loved him.”
The indicator ticks on. Kenny switches lanes, heading for the off-ramp. On his phone screen, the blue navigation dot veers off the given route.
Kota continues, “It must have been hard. To love someone or something on condition—that you must kill the part of you which loves. But you did.” He picks at the skin around his nails. “And I did, too. And we didn’t realise until it was too late.”
“If we’d actually had that match,” Kenny says, “‘The Belt Collector’ Kenny Omega versus IWGP World Heavyweight Champion Ibushi Kota, what would have happened?”
Kota looks out the window. The road curves down, merging them into a sleepy residential neighbourhood, car slowing.
Kenny pulls into the first open parking space he spots. Behind a blue hatchback, a sticker in its rear window proclaiming it belongs to a ‘MOM OF A HARVARD GRAD.’ Cuts the engine. Turns to Kota, his expression serious.
“What would have happened?” he repeats.
The truth is knotted cold in Kota's stomach. “I think we’d be dead.”
Kenny sighs. He taps the steering wheel. “We would have killed each other.”
“I wanted to be greater than you. Finally, once and for all.”
“And I wouldn’t have let you.”
“That’s why.”
Kenny runs his hand over his face. “Christ,” he says in English.
Kota reaches for him. Twines their fingers together. “It didn’t happen.”
“Yeah. It didn’t.” Kenny shakes his head, like he's trying to dislodge his thoughts. “I need to get out of the car. Wanna see a bit of Boston?”
“Please.”
Kenny plucks his phone from the cradle. “The waterfront’s nearby-ish. No idea if it’s accessible on foot, but.”
“Time for adventure.” Kota releases his seatbelt, opens the passenger door, then stops. “Wait.”
Kenny pokes his head back into the car. “Need your bag?”
“My coke is under your seat.”
“Where?” Kenny climbs back in. “I don’t see it—”
Kota cups Kenny’s cheeks and kisses him. Slow. Feeling him relax into it. Much work waits for them later in the week, and danger, in the form of a steel cage and five grown men who hate the Golden Elite, and thousands of people who have paid real money to see real blood. But they’re going to steal this time for themselves. As far as Kota is concerned, they’ve earned it.
The kiss ends. Kota pecks the tip of his partner’s nose for good measure. Then tucks his hair behind his ear, lingering over the gold streaking through it.
“Thank you for waiting,” he says. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
Kenny clasps Kota’s wrist, thumb stroking his pulse. “Forever is worth waiting for.”