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The right side of Kevin's neck is one horrible, burning-hot throb of pain. It's not just Rush's fault– mess with the bull, get the horns, what a jerk– but it's Okada's, too, having watched the whole thing with, probably, the same deeply calm and nonplussed expression on his face. Okada's focus on his neck were smart plays. Okada's rainmakers, after, panting something awful and hard to hear into Kevin's ear, are just insults to injury.
He doesn't know what he'd do without Speedball, though. Or, he guesses, he knows what he'd do. AEW is far and away from being his first rodeo. But having Mike there, to scare away Rush and Dralistico before the match, to scare away Okada and pick him up after… it's pretty sweet. It beats having to pick himself up and start the grit-teeth, walk of shame down to where they've set up the medical room.
But Mike's here. Still in their gear, still with a thin sheen of sweat across their skin from their match earlier. They help Kevin to his feet and then they're off, glued to his hip as they walk him through the halls of the Masonic Temple theater. They're not saying anything, but they don't really have to. It's only when they get to medical that Mike says something.
"I'm going to be waiting right here, Kevin," says Mike, quiet and polite and intense like they always get after matches. "Right here."
"I 'preciate it, Speedy," Kevin replies, kind of distant, still managing a smile.
Apparently, Speedball was not kidding. When Kevin trots out of medical with some kinesio tape and a small ice pack he's awkwardly holding to the bundle of muscles on the side of his neck, Mike scrambles to their feet and immediately goes to hold the ice pack for him.
"Bro," he says, "You look like you're seein' a ghost." Their eyes are darting all over him for injury, for anything else to look out for and be gentle with. They sputter. "A jet's supposed to ruffle feathers, you know?"
It's smooth. Mike laughs, small and bell-like. "You're so– you worried me, Kevin!"
"Why?" Kevin lets his hand drop down to his side, since Mike's holding the ice for him. He doesn't need to tell them how to ice something, they've both been in the business long enough for it to be second-nature.
"Because–" Kevin lets the door to medical shut behind him. The two of them shuffle, a little, to the other side of the hallway, the crew buzzing around in the periphery. "–Aubrey was telling me I had to go," Mike says, carefully. "Continental title matches are fought the same way the Continental Classic runs, there can't be anybody at ringside."
"Yeah?"
Mike blinks, a little. Readjusts their hold on the ice pack. "Rush choked you with a cable," they say, quietly. "Rush and Dralistico only stopped when I got out there. Okada wouldn't have done anything."
"...So?"
They look up at him. Their eyes are wide, brown-dark in the light of the hall, the old bulbs ornately slotted into the ceiling painting everything a little golden. Very slowly, they say, "I was right there, at the monitor, keeping the closest eye I could on everything." They take the ice pack off Kevin's neck. "Because I am your partner, and I want to make sure that you are okay."
Oh.
Oh.
Mike puts the ice pack back, and then retracts their hands. Kevin, a little dumbly, places his left hand on top of the ice pack, and his right hand on Mike's shoulder. Mike keeps looking up at him with those doe eyes, and Kevin doesn't– he–
"I 'preciate it," he repeats, as casual as ever. It feels different, now. He can tell there's something in Mike's mouth that isn't coming out, something in their stare that's a little prey-animal. "We should head back to the lockers, right?"
"Yeah," Mike says, soft and careful, like they're tip-toeing. The light catches in their dark hair like honey highlights. Maybe Kevin's a little more messed up than he thought.
Neither of them turn. Mike's looked away, down just a hair to stare at the sprawl of tape and ice on Kevin's neck. Kevin's looking at them, still, maybe past them. Some sort of weird, gooey thing is starting to slick up the spot behind his sternum.
Impulsively, so impulsive it feels like he's in the ring, again, moving on instinct, a part of a larger tag-team machine, Kevin moves his right hand to cup the side of Mike's face, some of his fingers splayed across their ear, some of them playing in the short-shorn fuzz of the side of their mullet. He tilts them forward to plant a kiss, right on the center of their forehead. The syrup-sweetness in his chest suddenly stops, replaced by what the hell did I just do, until Mike meets Kevin's stare, again, the attentive look of theirs starting to bloom into a little smile.
It feels so strange, inside him. Like he's in the back seat of a car with a girl he'd just met, like two flighty teenagers, except the girl is Mike and Mike isn't a girl, and– Mike's hands move to hold either side of Kevin's head, tugging his face down and pushing themselves up on their toes until they can place a kiss on his lips, quick and chaste. Speedy. Ha.
Then Mike drops back down, and they're both staring at each-other, again.
"Let's go to the locker room," Mike says, quickly. "You have to get ready for your flight to Japan, right?"
"Right," Kevin says, his brain somewhere off in space. "You gotta tell me everything you know about the competition, Speedy."
"I will," they say, their grin wide, ear-to-ear. "You know how weird it's gonna be to watch you wrestle Mao?"
He feels stupid. Drunk with this syrup-feeling, with Mike cheesing up at him. "What, are we gonna be fightin' over your heart?"
"Stop!" Mike bats at him, so gentle. They're finally the first to move, their arm wrapping around his, like he still needs the support to stand. He– doesn't. But it's pretty sweet, anyways.