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Dustin had not, actually, been having a very weird day.
At first, he just pinches himself. Yes, he's not asleep, and yes, pinching actually hurts, not as intensely as taking a bump, but he hadn't taken a bump in– well, it doesn't matter. Then, he runs through what he's done today.
He woke up at, like, 11AM, which is late but still earlier than he can normally shift his ass into gear. Gotten out of bed, on two ankles that didn't hurt, had walked himself to his kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee and a couple little microwavable breakfast sandwiches– the ones that are deceptively small, because he gets them down in a couple of bites and they're gone and he's full after, like some sort of magic trick– dicked around scrolling Twitter and thought about the calls he had to make, to his doctor, to the Homeowner's Association, Jesus… and then gone back into the bathroom after rinsing his mug and plate to piss, and then:
Bam.
Shitty little Chuck Taylor, when he gets to the sink. He almost thought he'd lost it– when he made eye contact with the version of him that wasn't graying, that didn't have tired lines under his eyes, that was in better shape– and he thinks he's definitely lost it when Chuck in the reflection blinks. When Dustin doesn't.
Dustin slowly reaches for the sink taps, turns the water on, and begins washing his hands. He feels delusional. He doesn't break eye contact with– with himself?– and then he does, looking down, trying to take in this weird portal situation at almost the exact same time Chuck is. Fuck, this is weird.
The Chuck in the mirror is wearing gear, obviously. His hair is a shitty bowl cut, his pants are matte black. He looks spent, like how he does after a match, skin shiny with sweat, hair stringy. He doesn't have any tape around his wrists– his arms are pretty much bare, actually.
And then suddenly, he knows exactly when this weird reflection is from. When Dustin looks on Chuck's shoulder– he doesn't know how the hell he ignored it– there's a championship belt there, shining gold, dark green leather, slung over it. The Pro Wrestling Guerrilla world title; the last title belt Dustin will ever win. He knows, winning title belts isn't about physical skill– it's about the story, if you can carry a company, all that shit, but… it stings, a little.
Chuck, despite being shitty little Dustin under all that kayfabe, is smiling proudly.
"Shit," says Dustin, for lack of any better opener to going insane and talking to yourself in the mirror.
Chuck blinks. "Wow, not happy?"
Okay. So he is going crazy. His reflection is talking back. "What?" Dustin's nose crinkles. "A version of me in better shape is looking at me from my mirror. This is, like, the badly edited crown jewel to those weight loss commercials at 1AM."
Chuck holds up his hands placatingly– then, one of them snaps to the title, because it started to slip. "Shit, it'd been so long since I've posed with a goddamn title," Chuck says, offhandedly.
And Dustin just chuckles. A little wry, a little self-deprecatingly. He wants to bite out don't get used to it, but that's… mean. Instead of sharpness, Dustin asks: "How'd you win it, buddy?"
Chuck seems to perk up. As much as he can, anyways. He pushes some of his sweat-slick bangs out of his face with his free hand. "So, Zack Sabre Jr, right?"
Dustin holds out a hand. "Say no more," he laughs, "I know exactly what he did to you." Chuck's inhales are still a little desperate from the exertion– he looks a little hurt. "I mean, like, with all the holds," he tacks on, lamely. "I'm not crushing you. Keep going."
Chuck does. Dustin can almost imagine it– all of it. That Reseda venue, about as familiar as a home, the slight grit of the mat, popcorn ceilings, thin ropes. Zack, always a little fucking pervert with the match structure, submission hold after submission hold. Chuck describes how each twist of his own body against itself hurt a little more, burned a little brighter, each reach for the ropes more desperate, more needed. Watching, almost aghast, as Zack's nimble fucking fingers undid the turnbuckle.
"He and a ring crew guy, like, started undoing the tension on the bottom rope, 'cause I was reaching for it too much. Like, my one saving grace in the face of this weird pervert ZSJ, so desperate for– what," Chuck mutters, "A silly indies title."
"No," Dustin tells him. "For the most important and prestigious world title in the history of this sport. Keep going."
Chuck smiles, clears his throat. "So he gets me in some evil, evil hold– both my arms and one leg trapped. And that's gotta be it, right? I can't grab the bottom rope."
"Right."
"I get my leg up, as high as it'll fucking go," says Chuck. "And I get to that second rope."
Dustin hears the crowd in his mind, almost as loud as the night it happened. He thinks every single person in that sweltering little military theater hall got out of their seats, remembers watching it back on DVD one night just a year or so later to hear Excalibur's voice hoarse with his rapt excitement. The energy of it, the desire, the heat, the hands of the audience slamming into the mat. Everyone in that building, chanting his name.
His gut twists.
"Zack's a sore loser, and he hasn't even lost yet. Rick Knox tries to disqualify the match and I tell him no, that we can't. I get some thumbtacks from under the ring–"
"In the manilla folder, right?"
"–Yeah."
"Why the hell did we do that?" Dustin asks, reminiscent.
Chuck shrugs. "Thought it was funny."
Chuck continues on. The hokey-pokey around the karmic thumbtacks, finally getting that Awful Waffle off. Rick Knox's hand slapping the mat three decisive times.
The ring bell sounding. Everyone exploding.
"...So, you're up to speed," says Chuck. "And I was gonna take a shower, but, like…"
Dustin's hands are still dumbly in the basin of the sink, drip-drying for the past five minutes. "You looked at the mirror and saw an old, shitty, out-of-shape version of yourself looking back, right?"
"Right," Chuck confirms, reticent. "What year is it for you?"
"Well, apparently since this is actually real and not the result of too many concussions– it's 2024."
"2024," repeats Chuck. "How's the wrestling?"
Nonexistent. Dustin suppresses his wince, standing on an ankle that doesn't hurt. He'd retired in April to little fanfare, which was the plan. He bled like a stuck pig, he remembers, shitty little deathmatch guy at heart. "It's good," he tells him. "Hey, do you want some fun insight from the future?"
Chuck's eyes glitter. "Sure," he says, casual. "What, do we get–"
"–Hey, shush. This is even better than all your little dreams." Chuck scoffs, but he looks to still be enthralled. "There's no monopoly on TV wrestling."
The gears visibly turn. "Wait, what?"
Dustin doesn't want to play his hand too openly, out of some weird superstition– what if this is actually, like, a portal through time, and telling Chuck this makes AEW not even happen to begin with? Dustin couldn't live with that. So he just grins.
"There's something better," Dustin tells him, vague. "In a couple of years. You'll be there with Trent and Orange." Fuck, his throat is kind of closing up. Fuck this emotional shit, fuck the swelling of his heart, prouder than anything, fuck the damn house he'd been able to buy with his income. Fuck his future. "It's gonna be cool."
"Cool," Chuck says, clearly knocked off his goddamn socks. "Do we–?" He starts, and then he taps the PWG belt on his shoulder with his thumb, twice.
Dustin flexes his fingers. "We get close," he offers.
"Does Orange–?"
"–Yeah." Jim, and a body that was breaking, and a belt he cared so much about. "It's not the big one, but he treated it like it was."
Chuck nods. And when it seems like he's done nodding, he starts again. "Good," he says. "Good."
"We put on some fucking amazing matches. We get a five-star from Meltzer."
Chuck's eyes blow wide. "How?"
"You'll find out!"
"You shithead!"
Dustin laughs, shittily. He turns to get the towel for his hands that are basically dry anyways. He can't quite stop his thoughts from trip-spiraling, bouncing off his matches, his time spent there, his years and years and years on the indies, thinking none of this would ever happen, he'd never make it. He gets choked up again, thinking about it. He makes it.
"Hey," Dustin starts. "It gets good. It gets really good."
Chuck doesn't reply. When Dustin looks over his shoulder, Chuck's thumbing the metal of the title belt, tracing its embossing. Still, he can't help but see a peak, here. Looking at the belt like a child. Like it never really gets as good as it does here at the top of a mountain.
"So I guess I don't defend this thing for nine more years," Chuck surmises, distant.
"Nope," Dustin says. "You drop it to Trevor."
Chuck's jaw drops. "What, you're cagey about the future, but you're more than happy to tell me I drop this belt to fucking Trevor? Ricochet?"
"Hey," Dustin placates. "You trained the guy. Be a little happier about it."
"Whatever." Chuck traces the embossing of the belt, a little more. "I should probably, like, shower and shit. Get some ice."
"Yeah," Dustin agrees, lamely. "You did good."
"Okay, weird coming from me in the future."
Dustin snorts. And then– just, kind of out on a limb. "Can you, like, keep only one thing in mind? Like, this is going to be the one thing I tell you, the one thing that might fuck up the timeline."
Chuck looks at him. "It's not the winning lottery numbers?"
"No, it's not the winning lottery numbers." Dustin rolls his eyes. "When you're in the same match as Jeff fucking Hardy?" Chuck's eyes blow wide, wider than he's ever seen himself open them to. "No matter what, no matter what the hell is going on around you? Don't fuck up your ankle. Treat your ankle like it's one concussion away from forced retirement by every single doctor on the planet."
Chuck blinks, owlish. "Okay," he says.
"Cool," says Dustin. "Uh. Okay. Have fun."
"Okay."
Dustin– Dustin guesses he just kind of… walks out of the bathroom, now. He wipes a hand over his face, scrubs at his eyes, leans back in to stare in the mirror and see just himself, graying, tired, blinks synced.
Okay.