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All things considered, John Cena’s first encounter with the phenomenal AJ Styles technically could have gone worse. Sure, it ended in a shitshow, but at least no one had been badly injured, right? Still, John hadn't entered the evening with the expectation that he would end up poking ice cubes from a backstage freezer to press against a sore eye.
His entire body had been banged up and bruised by The Phenomenal One and his two cronies—but were they really cronies when they seemed to be the ones pushing AJ towards hostility? This nuance really shouldn't have mattered when all was said and done, but upon remembering the delivery in his fridge, John couldn't help but wonder if the thrilling electricity from his first moments with AJ could somehow be reignited.
A bakery-fresh three-layer cake should not have gone to waste on account of idiot cronies—or for any reason, really—but the fact of the matter was that AJ had shown his true colours by dealing the first and final blows, so stopping by his room in with a black eye and a cake would have been senseless now, especially with the following phrase frosted on a buttercream face:
Welcome AJ Styles
Some warm welcome tonight had been... What a joke. Having debuted with WWE in January, any welcome for AJ might have seemed overdue in May, but it had not been John's intention to avoid the newbie for so long. In fact, enough time had passed that the night was more of a welcome celebration for John than anyone else, only this was a welcome back celebration. John’s many ties and obligations beyond WWE had kept him away from the ring for long enough.
In recent years, the dim quiet of a backstage suite after RAW had become something of a rare delight, like a lunar eclipse or the rainbow after a storm: a precious little sliver of peace. John could barely remember the last time he'd cherished a silent moment to himself, so when he opened the fridge and a rush of pain surged from his elbow, he almost didn't care because at least he was back to wrestling and at least he had some privacy—and hey, he also had a fresh cake in his fridge with a bully’s name on it. He exchanged his sweaty ice cubes for the dessert and carefully placed it on the table.
“Welcome, AJ Styles,” he sighed to himself as he dropped into a chair. Everything ached. “And welcome back, John.”
In hindsight, the whole cake idea had been ridiculous. John was the one making a loud return that night, the one being welcomed, but he had been so eager to express his honest respect for the new colleague he was finally set to meet, and somehow, at some point, a sugar-coated vanilla mistake had seemed reasonable. Geez, John was tired. What on Earth was he thinking?
Well, at least the cake didn't say Happy Birthday . Of course, it was not AJ’s birthday—that was in a few days—but upon hearing that it was so soon, John had actually considered squishing both messages on there: Welcome and Happy Birthday. His ultimate decision to keep it concise was in the spirit of good luck: celebrating a birthday beforehand was bad mojo. However, a four-month late welcome cake was evidently equally unlucky, and being left with the carcass of a good sentiment was both disheartening and privately humiliating.
The cake's continued existence was a sugary reminder that John no longer had any business sending well wishes to the newbie. And on that note, if AJ discovered that John was calling him a newbie—even in his head, even if he just meant that the guy was new to WWE—he probably would have forearmed him straight to the afterlife. He clearly believed he was the future of WWE, but he was by no means new to the industry, hence the brutal imminence of this dreamy, phenomenal future. Unfortunately, contrary to interviews, promotions, and magazines, his skill seemed to match a wild, ignorant immaturity, so he would have to get through John first if he planned on being the future of anything John cared about.
Oh well. To throw the untouched cake away would only add insult to injury, so after a few solid minutes of quietly contemplating its artistry, John fetched a fork and dug in.
The fluffy castle of vanilla cake had a slight crumble and a luscious buttercream frosting. Basic but refined, the dessert had been chosen for its general palatability, because who was John to guess a stranger’s particular preferences? Too bad AJ wouldn't be benefiting from this friendly gesture—it was his own fault at this point. This is what John reminded himself as he grabbed a television remote, but the food was hard to swallow with a dry throat and a heavy heart. He began channel surfing.
Almost immediately, he stumbled upon a late airing of the night's episode of RAW, specifically his own segment. He seldom watched RAW after it was live, especially as of late, but seeing AJ’s entrance from a new point of view, he hesitantly dropped the remote. The crowd was wild, their roars a deafening symphony for the two superstars, and just like that, goosebumps were sprouting from John's aching arms all over again. He could have spent a lifetime swimming in that inceptive thrill. Why did it ever have to end?
“I've been waiting for this for a long time,” AJ hummed from the screen. His posture was initially earnest, confident, but gradually, his grin grew snarky and his words chimed proudly, even as he professed his respect and initiated a handshake. John was surprised by the pointedness of his own hesitation on the screen; he didn't remember AJ’s extended hand being empty for half an eternity. What had made that simple handshake complicated, John could not put into words. AJ hadn't done anything technically wrong or rude yet, but on some level, his abrasive simpering had sent John into a sceptical trance. His attack had only validated any fledgling suspicions.
John watched attentively, hardly tasting the cake as it melted in his mouth, until the sight of The Bullet Club compelled him to switch channels. He didn't need to relive that plot twist when the physical ache was still plaguing him, so it was time to check the weather.
Tomorrow's forecast predicted partly cloudy skies and a low chance of rain, but John would be flying out from Green Bay in the morning, so none of that was relevant. The weatherman spoke with a vaguely Bostonian accent that was reminiscent of home, of confused, immature beginnings and fiery ambition.
As he toyed with a lump of crumbled cake, John considered AJ’s demeanor for the umpteenth time that night. The man was arrogant—there was no denying that—but after an indies run as distinguished as his, had he not earned a little pride? He was eager to springboard to WWE’s highest accolades at lightning speed and by any means necessary. Thus, encouraged by his heelish friends, immature zeal had translated into ignorant, misguided aggression.
Suddenly, John cracked a smile. He stifled a laugh as if someone were watching him, because as of late, at any given time, somebody usually was. Fortunately, this uncontrollable chuckle went unperceived. There would have been trouble if AJ realised which former newbie he nearly resembled—or maybe John was just hoping that The Phenomenal One was remotely similar to a former, obviously inferior iteration of himself, even if only in attitude. Truth be told, he too had never completely outgrown his foolish pride, even at his big age. He had, however, long outgrown ruthless aggression.
A little while later, John boxed up the remainder of the cake, which had become even more of a carcass in its half-devoured state, the frosted message still intact because he couldn't bring himself to touch it. The next day, as he picked up the phone and ordered a cake for AJ’s room at the upcoming Smackdown in Kansas, he understood quite well how moronic his choice might have seemed, but no one backstage would ever know, and he was quite content to keep it that way. If AJ wanted a fight, then a fight would be his revised welcoming gift, but a man still deserved a cake on his birthday, and even ruthlessly aggressive jerks sometimes deserved a second chance. Next week, John would confront AJ one-on-one.