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A tattooed hand reached up, ever so gently, cradling the jaw of the man sitting across from him. A thin trickle of crimson ran down his nose, and a deep purple bruise was beginning to blossom on his chin. He’d been through a lot tonight; yet he kept on fighting, as was his way.
Never slow down, never quit, never give anyone a reason to doubt you. Those were the mottos that always echoed through his brain, and those were the mottos that rattled around his skull as he ran from rope to rope earlier that night. Those were the mottos that taunted him when he got thrown around by a man twice his size, leaving him bloodied and beaten by the time the bell rang three at the end of twenty-five minutes.
He hadn’t won, but goddamn, did he leave everything in that ring.
Through vision blurred by his pain, he hobbled backstage, barely able to stand, straight to the trainers room. Bandages on his torso, tissues shoved up his nose, and out he went, out to find the love of his life his tag team partner.
Though he couldn’t see the eyes of the masked man, he knew that they were pools of concern. His voice guided him through the curtains and into the ring, with a simple promise that he would do the heavy lifting so long as the blond man was there, and did his best.
So that’s what he did. He gave the two men standing across from him hell, or, at least, as much as he could give with his bruised ribs.
A missed target drop-kick from his partner rendered him unable to move, and as he lay there, the bright spotlights above them beginning to blend in his vision, he thought that may be it. Perhaps it was over for them. The titles would be gone, and their team would be no more.
And he would be alone. He didn’t want to be alone. Maybe, once, he thought that he was better off by himself. That this “tag team” would just drag him down. But now? He didn’t believe that. He and the masked man, they had created something beautiful. Something that he knew he couldn’t live without.
Tears blurred his vision, both from the excruciating pain finding its way through his body, and from the thought of losing everything he had worked so hard to have. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe it was his hot-headedness, or his impulsiveness. He wouldn’t be able to blame the kick–it was an accident. He knew that. He just… didn’t want this to be the end. He didn’t want to be the one to blame.
But it wasn’t the end. It… wasn’t the end?
The masked man kicked out.
And everything was okay. They were okay. He was… okay.
A few quick moments later, and they’d retained.
They were fine.
The blond gripped the masked man’s hand up the stage, if only to keep him grounded, upright. And almost as soon as they passed through the curtain again, after a quick selfie, a shake of Shawn Michaels’ hand, he crumpled to the floor, exhaustion eating away at him.
He couldn’t stay upright at that point even if he wanted to. And right then? He didn’t want to. The floor was infinitely more comfortable, only because it meant he could rest. Perhaps drifting off, right there, would be okay. It would be fine, because they were fine.
Everything was fine.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
And there they were again, sitting across from each other in the too-bright trainer’s room, the masked man’s tattooed hand cradling the blond’s jaw.
The masked man admired him. Despite his rash decisions, he held to his promises. He fought through the pain and the fatigue, only to be by his partner’s side. That was dedication.
“Nathan,” His voice, just barely above a whisper, broke the silence. “Nathan, mi amor, look at me.”
His deep brown eyes, usually so full of life, were dull, his lids drooping as he forced himself to glance up at his partner, looking… wherever he thought his eyes would be.
They said nothing again, for a moment, Nathan trying so, so hard to just keep his eyes going. Only a few more hours, and the event would be over, and he could go to his hotel with Axiom and fall into the comfortable hotel beds. Only a little longer in the trainer’s room, and then he could go change out of his sticky, uncomfortable gear. The jeans he had stuffed into his suitcase weren’t much better, but at least they weren’t drenched with sweat.
Ugh. Ugh.
How he wished he had listened to Axiom in the first place. Then he wouldn’t be in nearly so much pain.
“I’m so proud of you.”
The words made Nathan startle, just slightly. Axiom? Proud of him? The same Axiom who was so angry with Nathan lately? The same Axiom who Nathan continued to push to his very limits? That Axiom? Proud of him?
Had his fatigue caused him to mishear?
“You’re-” His brain was refusing to work. Refusing to form words. He was too tired for this. Too overwhelmed, what with the bruises on his face and the ribs that were probably broken and the blood drying underneath of his nostrils. And he didn’t want to ruin the moment. He didn’t want to say something that would cause Axiom to take the words back.
“Proud of you, yes. That’s what I said.” He chuckled lightly. “You’re not hearing things, I promise.”
“But- why?”
“Because despite how hard-headed you are,” Axiom rubbed his thumb on the bruise painted on Nathan’s jaw. “You always find a way to persevere. I’m not saying you should go and do this again, but I am proud of you for pushing through.”
That’s it. He had to still be dreaming. That was it.
He slowly moved his hand to his arm, pinching himself. He let out a yelp immediately, and then blinked.
Not dreaming. Not asleep.
Axiom was actually proud of him. Definitely a development. Not that Nathan cared all that much. Or at all. Nope. He definitely didn’t care. Friends told each other they were proud of each other all the time.
They also for sure called each other ‘my love’ all the time too–hold on.
“Did I dream you calling me-”
“No. You did not.” Axiom had to bite his lip, though Nathan couldn’t see, to stop himself from laughing. Lord. He truly was out of it. It would have been even funnier had the sight of Nathan bruised and bloody not hurt Axiom. Ill-advised as it was, he really wished he could fight Oba, there and now, for what he’d done to Nathan. Cut him down numerous pegs.
But it had taken Tony D’Angelo two tries and three extra people to even cut Oba down. Axiom had a feeling that it wouldn’t be much different in his case, no matter how angry he was. Better to be smart.
On the bright side, they’d retained. And Nathan would be okay, in a few weeks.
He rubbed his thumb along the blond’s jaw again, mindlessly.
“Why don’t we get you cleaned up, hm?” Axiom stood, making his way to a small silver sink behind Nathan. He took a white cloth from the cabinet, wetting it, and re-appeared in front of him.
Nathan reached for the towel, but Axiom shooed his hand away.
“I’ll do it. Just relax.” He grabbed Nathan’s chin as gently as he could, looking down at the younger. He brought the rag to Nathan’s nose, wiping the blood away. He picked lightly at the hardened stuff, and gave it another rub to make sure everything was really off. And, for once, he was grateful for the cover of his mask–through the mesh fabric, Nathan couldn’t see the way his eyes followed the shape of his lips, or the way he lost himself in his big, sleepy brown eyes.
He was getting distracted.
“How nice of you.” Nathan smiled, the stupid, dopey smile that Axiom had grown to adore. A genuine grin, perhaps one of his first since they’d left the ring.
“Well, I am ever the gentleman.” He muttered. He turned Nathan’s head to the side, and then to the other.
“Can I make an-” He stopped for a second, blinking. His hand flew to his torso, and Axiom’s flew down there just as fast, his hand falling over Nathan’s. His brow furrowed underneath the mask as their fingers touched. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry. I was going to say, can I make an observation?”
“Nathan, your-”
“It’s fine, Ax. I promise.”
Axiom took a breath, his hand falling to his side. He sat down in the chair once more, letting the cloth fall to the floor in a wet clump. “Okay. What’s your observation?”
“You never take your mask off around me.” It wasn’t an accusatory statement–after all, Nathan didn’t care what he looked like under the mask. He loved his partner no matter what he looked like, and he respected his choice to wear the mask. But he was also curious. So, he had decided that his tired stupor was the best time to ask, because he could play it off the next day as a question out of delirium if it upset Axiom at all.
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Nathan took a shaky breath. He didn’t… seem upset. Maybe it was okay.
He reached forward, wincing with the action, and placed his hands on Axiom’s shoulders.
The sound of metal grating against the linoleum echoed through the room as Axiom scooted the chair closer to the cot.
Close enough for Nathan to slide off the side, right into his lap.
“I hope you don’t mind.” He whispered. His hands trembled as he moved them up the masked man’s neck. His fingers toyed with the white cord of his mask–the very thing that kept a physical barrier between them. The thin piece of fabric that kept Nathan from truly knowing Axiom.
He waited, tired eyes searching the black mesh for any sign of emotion, fingers resting on the cord.
“Go ahead.”
Before he could stop himself, he tugged the cord out of its knot, untying it just enough that he could pull the mask up…
He stopped himself just before the mask hit Axiom’s nose, leaving nothing but his mouth revealed.
He was tired. He was in so much pain. But it all felt a billion lightyears away, then, as he stared at all-too-familiar lips, though he couldn’t place why.
“Is that all you wanted to see? My lips?” They twisted into a playful smirk, and Nathan couldn’t help himself.
He could pass it off as delirium tomorrow.
He sucked in a breath, his stomach screaming in protest as he completed the distance between them, gently placing his lips to Axiom’s.
Maybe nothing else mattered. The pain. The hurt of losing Iron Survivor. Not being able to “make a name for himself.” None of it mattered.
He had Axiom. Identity be damned, he had Axiom.
Their thrown together tag-team creation had bloomed into something beautiful. And Nathan knew, deep down, as long as he had Axiom, nothing else mattered.
Axiom broke away first, bringing a hand to the back of Nathan’s neck. Their foreheads pressed together, out of nothing but pure instinct, and they held like that, just them, in their own world.
Because they had each other. Through thick and thin.
Fraxiom was fine.