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The celebration never happened.
After everything they’d fought for, after that brutal, glorious, cathartic win against the Young Bucks at All In, after the tension and teasing and promise of what was supposed to come next—there was no champagne, no messy locker room makeout, no overdue victory sex up against the shower wall.
Just a hospital room in Texas, a stiff plastic brace on Will’s neck, and Swerve sitting beside him in the hard vinyl chair, quiet and still in the way only worry could force him to be.
The Death Riders had changed the entire night with one stomp. One sickening clang of steel on bone and the whole post-match fantasy fell apart.
Will had tried to run out and help Hangman during his Texas death match, and instead, ended up in an ambulance before the bell even rang. There wasn’t even a diagnosis yet—just pain, and that awful, anxious, inescapable waiting.
Will flew back to England after that. Doctor’s orders. He needed rest. Needed time at home. Guess the incessant traveling was taking a toll on him as well.
He kept in touch with Swerve, of course—they texted every day, sometimes called at night when the distance got too heavy—but Will kept things light.
Didn’t tell him how bad it really felt. Didn’t tell him how his whole arm went numb when he shifted wrong in bed. Didn’t say a word when the MRI results came in.
Two herniated discs in his spine.
That was the news. That was the moment everything clicked—the stubborn ten months of neck stiffness, of dull aches he’d brushed off, of slight tingles and spasms he swore were just part of the grind.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Swerve. Not because he didn’t trust him, but because… God, how could he? After everything they’d just won together? After the promise of momentum, of climbing the ranks as a tag team, of becoming something real?
How was he supposed to look Swerve in the eye and say, “Hey, that dream we just built? Yeah… put it on ice.”
Tony Khan was the only one who knew. Will let him know right away, didn’t sugarcoat it.
They both knew what it meant. Forbidden Door was coming up—next month, in London of all places—and Will had been slotted as the centerpiece. The hometown hero. The prodigal son.
But now? Even with the most aggressive recovery plan possible, there’d be no matches. No bumps. No travel unless absolutely necessary. And definitely no late-night celebratory activities with his gorgeous, annoyingly perfect boyfriend.
Still, Will couldn’t shake the feeling that the fans deserved to know. They’d stuck with him for years through highs and lows, cheered him through injuries worse than this.
He figured if he was going to disappoint them, he’d rather do it himself—face-to-face, five minutes on a live mic.
So early this morning, he hopped a flight to Chicago, walked into Tony Khan’s office at the venue, and asked him straight-up if he could go out there and say his piece.
Tony had blinked at him, surprised but still happy to see him. “You’re not even booked—no one knew you were coming.”
“I know,” Will had said. “That’s kinda the point.”
The surprise was genuine. Not even Swerve knew he was here.
Will found that out on the Uber ride over, scrolling Twitter and seeing the match graphic for Swerve vs. Hechicero pop up. Of course Swerve had a match tonight—he was in the start of a feud with the goddamn Don Callis Family, circling Okada like a shark.
Will knew what that meant. Knew the danger, the stress. And that made this even harder. Because Swerve didn’t need another thing weighing him down—especially not this.
Especially not him.
So Will hadn’t told him. Hadn’t said a word about the diagnosis. Not over text. Not over FaceTime. He’d downplayed everything, told him he was just sore, just taking it easy.
Because if he said the truth out loud—that their plans were derailed, that Will was going to be benched for weeks, that their red-hot momentum as a tag team had just been extinguished by a chair and a goddamn spinal injury—it would all become real. Tangible. Disappointing.
So here he was now, pacing backstage at Dynamite, dressed in track pants and a BRUV jersey, trying to mentally compose his speech.
A few stagehands walked by and nodded, surprised to see him. Some wrestlers looked at him sideways, probably thinking he was just visiting. No one really asked. That was fine. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Not when his chest was tight and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Swerve was somewhere in the building, probably mid-warmup or stretching out. Will was grateful for that. Because he didn’t know if he could face him just yet. Not before he got the words out. Not before he let the crowd hear it from him first.
Will had been running through the same sentence structure in his head for ten minutes now.
“So, uh, I’ve got a bit of bad news—no, not like that, too casual—so, as you all probably saw at All In—no, that’s too backward looking, fuck—okay, okay, maybe just... good evening Chicago—wait, why the fuck would I start with good evening—"
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, annoyed at himself, pacing slow circles behind the stage crew.
Every time he landed on something that sounded half-decent, it vanished before he could mentally stitch it to the next line. All he needed was five minutes of coherent speech—five minutes where he didn’t say “like” or “umm” every three seconds.
That shouldn’t have been so hard. He’d cut promos half his career. This should’ve been routine. But somehow it felt impossible.
It wasn’t even the fans that were scaring him. Deep down, he knew they’d understand. The audience was never the problem. They wanted him to rest. They wanted him to be okay. Will could already hear the chants—“Take your time! Take your time!”—and he knew, logically, that no one in the crowd would boo him for putting his body first.
The issue was… it wasn’t them he was trying to convince.
It was himself.
Will had a stupid habit of sabotaging his own recovery. Pushing through pain when he should’ve tapped out. Hiding injuries from the trainers, from medical staff, even from Swerve—because if no one knew, then it wasn’t real.
It was cowardly, he knew that now. It wasn’t brave, or tough, or noble.
It was fear. Fear of being benched, fear of falling behind, fear of disappointing people who believed in him.
And now here he was. 32 years old. Spine worse than a man twice his age. Still aching from a stomp that damn near ended his career. And yet somehow, still having to force himself to stop pacing, stop clenching his fists, stop spiraling.
Because no matter how much he pretended this wasn’t a big deal, it was. This wasn’t just a pulled muscle or a stiff neck. This was serious. This was real.
And Will wasn’t going to fuck it up again.
He was going to recover. Properly. Seriously. Not half-assing physio, not lying about flare-ups, not brushing it off when he couldn’t sleep from the pain.
He was not going to miss Forbidden Door—not in London, not in front of his own people. He’d already disappointed Swerve enough. He wasn’t going to disappoint everyone else too.
So why did it still feel like he was about to throw up?
Will chewed his lip, hands twisting together as he stalled near the curtain. He kept repeating little phrases in his head like mantras.
“I’ll be okay. It’s just a month. I’ll be back soon. It’s treatable. They’ll understand.”
But even those started to feel shaky. Hollow. Like he was already prepping for worst-case scenarios.
He flinched at the sudden voice.
“Will?”
Shit.
He turned slowly.
Swerve was standing just a few feet away. Gear pants on, a black tee clinging to his chest. Hair pulled back. Hands open by his sides. Face—confused, but more than that—shocked.
Like he was seeing a ghost.
Will’s stomach dropped.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He hadn’t told him. Hadn’t said a word about flying out. Hadn’t even hinted at showing up.
In Swerve’s mind, Will should’ve still been thousands of miles away, propped up in his bed in Essex, neck braced against a thick pillow, TV remote in one hand and phone in the other, watching Dynamite while sending dumb commentary in their text thread.
And now here he was. In Chicago. Standing a few feet from gorilla. In a hat and jersey and backstage pass. Not in the crowd. Not in the back locker rooms. Right here.
No hiding it now.
Will’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t even manage a smile. His mind immediately scrambled for excuses.
Just visiting. Came to support you. Wanted to surprise you. Missed you. Thought I’d sneak in to see your match. Just checking in. I’m okay, I swear. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t look at me like that.
But he said none of it. Couldn’t. Not yet.
Because even he wasn’t dense enough to believe Swerve would buy any of that.
A flight from Essex to Chicago wasn’t some casual, last-minute whim. It was hours of prep. It was bags and taxis and security lines and nine hours in the air.
This hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment decision. This had been planned (to an extent).
And that meant every hour of the past day, every step that brought Will closer to this building, was another moment he’d chosen not to tell Swerve what was going on.
And even if he tried to pass it off as just watching from backstage, even if he tried to fake a sweet smile and give a soft “hey love, didn’t want to distract you,” none of that explained why he was pacing by the curtain.
None of it explained why his name had just been printed on tonight’s run sheet.
None of it explained the look on his face right now.
So Will froze. Tongue like sandpaper. Excuses caught in his throat.
And Swerve? He just stood there, staring at him, eyes scanning his expression with a hundred silent questions written behind them.
Will didn’t know which one would come first.
He just knew none of the answers were going to be easy.
Swerve blinked, like maybe Will would vanish if he just stood there long enough. But no—Will was still there. Hands twitching at his sides. Eyes wide and guilt-struck, like a kid caught sneaking past curfew.
“…What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t a yell. But it still hit Will in the chest like a punch. Because it wasn’t just surprise in Swerve’s voice. It was that sharp little undertone—frustration. Worry.
“You’re supposed to be in England.”
Will opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing came out.
“And why the hell didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
This time his tone was sharper. Not cruel. Not yelling. But enough that a few heads nearby turned and pretended not to listen.
Swerve didn’t care. His hand was already reaching out, grabbing Will by the sleeve, dragging him gently but firmly out of the way—into a darker corner by one of the empty production crates, partially obscured from view. A sliver of privacy in a hallway full of movement.
Swerve let go of the sleeve, arms folding tight across his chest. His stare was unwavering.
Will’s heart was pounding. He could feel the flop-sweat creeping under his collar.
“I’m serious, Will. What’s going on?”
Will blinked. Tried to make his mouth form something. Anything.
“I just…” he started, voice thin, shaky. “I wanted to, like, show support. Be here. For your match.”
It came out like a toddler trying to lie for the first time. Instantly flimsy. He knew it was shit the second it left his mouth.
Swerve’s brows furrowed. “What match?”
Will flinched. Fuck.
“My match with Hechicero? No one even knew about that until like an hour ago when it was finally posted on Twitter.”
Will’s mouth opened, but the response crashed and burned before it could form. A stammer came out instead. Then a muttered “well—no—I mean—yeah, but—” followed by a helpless gesture that only made the silence louder.
Swerve just stared at him. Watching the gears spin. Watching them fail.
And that was the thing: he knew Will. Too well.
He knew what it meant when Will’s words came out tangled. When he couldn’t make eye contact. When his hands hovered and fidgeted like they didn’t know where to land.
It meant something was wrong.
It meant Will was hiding something.
“…Will.”
It was softer this time. But more pointed.
“You’re not here to support my match.”
Will froze.
“You’re not here to work. Not cleared. You’re not even in gear. So what is it?”
Will’s throat bobbed, but he still couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find a single strand of logic to wrap around.
Swerve stepped in, voice dipping lower.
“Did you tell Tony you were coming?”
A short beat. Will didn’t answer.
“You planned this, didn’t you?”
Silence.
“Not just today. Not just this morning. You’ve been sitting on this. You flew across the fucking ocean without saying a word?”
Still nothing.
Swerve's jaw tensed. He dropped his arms, hands flexing open and shut like he didn’t know where to put all the emotion suddenly rushing up behind his ribs.
“Will, what is going on?”
He wasn’t mad. Not really. Not yet. But there was that current in his voice again. Worry. Sharp and cutting.
And Will knew—if he didn’t say something soon, if he kept letting the silence grow heavy between them—it was going to hurt more than it needed to.
And yet… he still couldn’t speak.
Because how do you tell the person you love that you’ve been lying by omission? That you’ve kept them in the dark because you didn’t want them to see how weak you felt? That you didn’t want their pity, didn’t want to become someone else’s burden, even though now you clearly were?
Swerve didn’t fill the silence. He just stared at him. Waiting.
Knowing.
Because that’s the worst part—Swerve knew this look. This spiral. This specific type of locked-jaw panic.
It meant Will was either conflicted.
Confused.
Or lying.
And right now?
It felt like all three.
Will rubbed the back of his neck—gentle, cautious, like he’d forgotten for a second and just remembered the reason he shouldn’t be here in the first place. His fingers drifted back down, fidgeting at the hem of his sleeve.
Avoiding Swerve’s gaze didn’t make the air between them any lighter.
“I just…” he muttered, finally, voice small. “Wanted to talk to the crowd today. That’s all.”
Swerve didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked at him. Slow.
Will tried again. “Y’know, people saw what happened after All In. Cameras caught me gettin’ wheeled out. Whole celebration got scrapped. Everyone’s been asking questions, bruv. Just wanted to tell ‘em I’m alright.”
That part was technically true. Kinda.
But Swerve’s brows drew together—half doubt, half frustration—like he was trying to figure out if Will even believed his own excuse.
“You could’ve tweeted about it,” Swerve said flatly.
Will flinched.
“Or sent in a video. You’ve got a whole production setup at home—hell, Tony would’ve flown someone out to film you if you asked.”
Will’s mouth twitched. He knew. Of course he knew.
“This isn’t you being sweet, Will,” Swerve added, softer this time, but no less sharp. “This is you being reckless. Again.”
Will’s gut clenched. Because yeah, that hit a little too close.
“You’re not even supposed to be traveling unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Swerve went on, stepping in closer now, quieter. “You told me the turbulence hurt like hell on the way home. What, did you just figure it’d hurt less this time?”
Will didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Swerve exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge between his eyes before dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus, man…”
Will couldn’t even defend himself. Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he did.
And that answer was just too messy. Too personal. Too full of guilt and shame and insecurity to say out loud.
Because yeah—he could’ve filmed something from his bedroom. Could’ve sat on his bed with his neck pillow, cracked a joke, made the fans feel at ease. Could’ve edited something together, made it all look neat and planned and polished.
But that wasn’t him.
That wasn’t Will.
He needed to feel the crowd. Needed to see them. He wanted to be under those lights, if only for five minutes. Wanted to feel the warmth, the pulse of them chanting his name, even if it was just a moment before he had to disappear again.
But how do you explain that to someone whose face is twisted with worry and disbelief? How do you tell your boyfriend that the reason you risked your already fragile spine to fly across the ocean wasn’t logical, wasn’t rational—it was just that you missed the ring so much it physically hurt?
So instead, Will just stood there. Shuffling his feet. Swallowing down a thousand thoughts that all felt too dangerous to say out loud.
Swerve was still watching him, gaze narrow and scanning. Trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.
And Will knew. Knew this wasn’t over. Knew Swerve wasn’t gonna let it slide. He never did, not with him.
Swerve shook his head slowly, voice low. “You didn’t come here just to say hi. And you sure as hell didn’t come just to watch my match.”
Will winced. That one landed deep.
“I know you,” Swerve continued. “And I know when you’re not telling me something.”
Will’s fingers flexed at his sides.
“I’m not mad,” Swerve added, gentler now. “I just—look, man. You scare me when you do shit like this. You think you’re fine until you’re not. And then suddenly it’s me stuck in some sterile-ass hospital room in Texas watching you get strapped into a neck brace and wheeled out of a building.”
Will’s breath hitched, just a little.
Swerve stepped in again, close enough now that Will could feel the warmth of him, his presence grounding, steady, painfully real.
“I just want to know what’s really going on.”
Will looked at him then.
Really looked.
And for a second, his face crumpled, just slightly. Like the weight of all the words he wasn’t saying was pressing down on his chest, threatening to leak out through his eyes instead.
God. Will didn’t wanna cry.
He cried to Swerve enough already. Cried when the Young Bucks busted his nose with those stupid thumbtack-covered shoes—tears blurring his vision while he spat blood into a towel backstage. Cried tears of relief, of joy, of disbelief, when they won at All In, when he could barely stand but grinned like a madman anyway with Swerve’s arm around his waist holding him upright.
And now—again?
Shit. How embarrassing.
But these tears weren’t clean. They were heavy and complicated and so damn human it made his chest ache.
It was the pressure of Swerve’s interrogation. The stress of figuring out what the hell to say to the fans tonight. The shame of letting his body get to this point. The guilt of not telling Swerve a thing about it for almost two weeks. And the grief of what could’ve been—what should’ve been—this epic, historic tag run that was now just… stalled. Halted. Out of reach.
Will hated disappointing Swerve.
It was one of his deepest, sharpest fears. Had been ever since the night he proposed the match stip against the Bucks at Dynamite 300. He remembered pacing the hotel room afterward, stomach in knots, the “what ifs” gnawing at his brain like termites. What if Swerve said no? What if they lost? What if he let the whole team down?
He cried himself to sleep that night, clutching Swerve’s shirt like a lifeline, terrified of failing him.
They didn’t lose. They made history.
And Will was still terrified.
Swerve saw all of it—of course he did. That sharp, perceptive quiet fell over him like a switch flipping. His brows softened, his shoulders lowered, and after a breath, he gently reached out and took Will’s hand.
“Baby.”
That single word, spoken soft and low, made Will’s throat close. Yet it also provided a slightest bit of relief.
If Swerve was pissed at him, he wouldn’t dare call him a pet-name. So at least there was that.
“Please,” Swerve said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
His thumb stroked across Will’s knuckles, grounding, patient. The anger was gone.
This wasn’t the captain or the champion talking. This was his boyfriend. Cool-headed. Steady. Someone who loved him enough to hold space for the truth—even if it hurt.
And finally… Will cracked.
Not crying. But close.
His voice was quiet. Fragile.
“I got my MRI back,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “Couple days after I got home.”
Swerve’s brows knit, but he said nothing yet.
Will swallowed. “I’ve got two herniated disks in my spine. C2 and C6.”
There it was. The truth, cracked open and barely holding together.
“And I’m gonna need some time outta the ring,” Will added, almost like it pained him to say it out loud. “Real time. Like—weeks. Maybe longer. They’re still talking about it.”
Swerve’s breath hitched, just faintly. But he didn’t interrupt.
Will’s eyes were hot again. He blinked hard. “It’s not even just from All In. I mean… that match didn’t help, obviously, but—truth is, I’ve been having neck issues for like… ten months now.”
Swerve’s eyes widened.
“Ten—ten months?” he echoed, voice sharper now, but still rooted in disbelief more than anything else. “You’ve had neck problems since All Out??”
Will winced. “Sorta. On and off. It’d flare up, then go away. Thought it was a pinched nerve at first, then maybe just muscle strain. I—I dunno.”
Swerve stared at him. “And you didn’t tell me? Or medical staff? Or anyone?”
Will’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t even try to defend himself. He knew how it sounded.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know it was dumb.”
Swerve didn’t respond right away. His jaw was clenched, but not in anger—in sheer worry. Like his brain was trying to catch up with all the red flags he hadn’t seen because Will had been so damn good at hiding it.
Will’s voice cracked slightly as he stumbled on. “I just… I didn’t wanna disappoint anyone. You, the fans, Tony—hell, even Hangman. I didn’t wanna lose momentum. Didn’t wanna get benched when we were so close to taking the world title back.”
He sniffed, irritated at himself. “I mean, fuck—I worked so hard to get here. I thought if I kept pushing, I’d get through it. Just one more match, one more week. Then I could rest.”
His shoulders sagged. “But now it’s worse. And I can’t hide it anymore. They told me I’ve gotta be out. For real this time.”
He finally dared to look at Swerve.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t wanna let you down.”
Swerve’s expression cracked.
And in one slow motion, he pulled Will into his arms, wrapping him up like he was something fragile and precious, something worth protecting—even from himself.
Swerve hugged him gently, like he knew Will was in pain, like he understood what pressure could do to a man with too much pride and too much heart. Like he saw all of Will: the scared parts, the stubborn parts, the soft parts he didn’t show anyone else.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” Swerve murmured into his hair. “You didn’t let anybody down, baby. Not me, not the fans. No one.”
Will swallowed hard.
“Yeah, you scared the hell outta me,” Swerve added, voice thick but warm. “But that’s all. You didn’t disappoint me. Not ever.”
He pulled back a little, one hand moving to cup Will’s face—his thumb brushing gently along a flushed cheek, the other hand rising to kiss the dark blond lashes that were slightly damp with the tears Will refused to let fall.
Will let him.
Swerve’s lips lingered a second longer. “So what’s treatment look like?”
Will blinked and found his voice again, still a little hoarse.
“I talked to a few doctors. Here, and back home,” he said. “All of ’em said I don’t need surgery, thank fuck, but… I do need a lot of R&R. Like, serious rest, bruv. Gradual physio, check-ups. They’re watching real close. Cuz injuries like this could get worse if I’m not careful.”
Swerve nodded, face serious.
“I’m lucky, all things considered,” Will added. “Could’ve been worse.”
“And recovery?” Swerve asked gently.
“If I take it serious—like, super serious, better than I’ve ever done before—then I could be cleared in time for Forbidden Door.”
Swerve blinked, and a breath of relief escaped him, shoulders easing just a little.
Will gave a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wanted to tell the crowd in person. Cuz I know how it sounded when they announced I was banged up. ‘Indefinite’ sounds scary, and… I didn’t want them to think I was done. Or that I didn’t care.”
Swerve’s hands moved again, thumbs swiping gently across Will’s cheeks—and that’s when Will realized tears had fallen, quiet and unnoticed.
“You care too much,” Swerve said softly. “For your own damn good.”
Will gave a weak little laugh through his nose.
“You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met,” Swerve added, his voice steady. “But you don’t gotta kill yourself to prove that.”
Will’s expression crumpled for just a second. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, like the guilt was cemented into his bones. “For not tellin’ you. I should’ve. I just… I didn’t know how.”
Swerve rolled his eyes—affectionately.
“You’re really dumb sometimes, you know that?”
Will let out a breath that turned into a quiet chuckle.
“But I love you,” Swerve said, dead serious.
That got a soft laugh out of Will for real this time. “God. I’m such a fuckin’ mess, mate.”
“You may have teared up like a bitch,” Swerve teased, leaning in.
Will groaned, smacking his chest lightly. “Don’t say that, you prick.”
“At least you’re a cute crier.”
Will turned red and gave him a warning glare, but his smile betrayed him.
Then Swerve’s tone sobered a little, serious but fond.
“You better take this recovery serious, Billy. I mean it. Or I’ll respectfully kick your ass.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “How you gonna kick my ass when I’m already injured, bruv?”
Swerve shrugged, cool as ever. “Then maybe I’ll just deprive you of kisses instead.”
Will gasped—genuinely horrified. “Don’t you dare.”
Swerve smirked. “I will. Don’t test me.”
“That’s evil,” Will said, clutching dramatically at Swerve’s shirt. “Cruel. Unbelievable. I need those kisses to live.”
“Well, then,” Swerve said, smug. “Guess that means once you fly back to Essex, you are not moving a muscle. You’ll watch wrestling on your little British telly like a civilian. And that also means no…”
He gave a pointed look.
Will blinked. “No what?”
Swerve raised his brows. “No you know.”
Will stared. “What—no sexy time??”
“Nope,” Swerve said, annoyingly calm.
Will whined. “Not even making out?”
“Not until you’re cleared. Sorry, baby, can’t jostle that neck. Doctor’s orders. And mine.”
Will’s whole soul left his body. “You’re heartless.”
Swerve kissed his forehead. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Will slumped against him, half-dramatic and half-earnest, mumbling, “Fuck, now I have to take this seriously.”
“Damn right you do,” Swerve said, arms slipping around his waist again. “Because if I catch you doing some dumb shit, I will have you on FaceTime all day. Or I’ll just fly over to England and handcuff you to the couch.”
Will winced, because yeah… that was fair. He would say he’d rest and then be in the garden trying to do flips the next day.
“…You know me too well,” he muttered.
Swerve gave him a look that was part amused, part deeply fond. And once Will had calmed—once the tension in his shoulders softened and the heat behind his eyes faded—Swerve let out a breath of his own.
“I’m sorry,” he said, low and a little sheepish. “For how I came at you earlier. I wasn’t mad. I was just… worried. You know?”
Will nodded.
“And stressed,” Swerve added, rubbing the back of his neck. “Got that match with Hechicero coming up, and it’s not even him I’m thinkin’ about.”
Will tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Swerve said, scoffing under his breath. “I know Don Callis is gonna pull some shit. Probably Okada too. After what went down last week, they’re gonna find some way to stick their noses in it—whether I win or lose.”
Will let out a low whistle. “Tell me about it. Sounds like a headache already.”
Swerve grunted in agreement. “So when I saw you here, and I thought—you know, worst case scenario shit—I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Will smiled, small and understanding. “It’s alright. I shoulda told you.”
Swerve looked at him seriously now, his hands still resting light on Will’s waist. “Just… don’t hide anything else from me, okay? Not even the small stuff. Not even if you think it’s dumb. I wanna know, Billy. Please.”
Will nodded, eyes wide and earnest. “I promise. I won’t. I swear.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Swerve said.
“You better,” Will said softly.
Just then, a stagehand jogged over, headset perched over one ear. “Will? Two minutes ‘til we cue you.”
Will looked up, then back at Swerve, a little hesitant. “Can I get a kiss first?”
Swerve didn’t even hesitate. “’Course.”
And the kiss he gave him was everything Will needed right then, slow and unhurried, delicate and grounding. Not heated or hungry, but gentle in a way that made Will’s stomach ache with love. Swerve’s hands stayed steady on his waist, and his lips were soft, so careful like Will might crack under too much pressure.
When they pulled apart, Will blinked a little dazed, voice light with a huff of a smile.
“I’m not gonna break, y’know.”
Swerve let out a low laugh, head dipping. “Yeah… I’m not so sure about that.”
Will laughed, too. Fair point.
Then, Swerve tucked a curl behind Will’s ear and said, “I’m gonna stay here. Wait for you.”
Will’s brows lifted. “Yeah?”
“I wanna hug you the second you’re done out there,” Swerve said, quiet but firm. “You deserve that.”
Will’s heart clenched, and he couldn’t help the soft, full smile that took over his face. “But your match—”
“I can wait five minutes,” Swerve said, brushing his knuckles against Will’s beard. “You’re worth that. And more.”
Will leaned in, forehead resting lightly against Swerve’s. “You’re the best.”
Swerve chuckled. “Damn right I am.”
Will was smiling, already starting to turn toward gorilla when something tugged at him from inside—an ache, a want, something a little greedy. He paused, glanced over his shoulder.
“…One more?” he asked, sheepish.
Swerve didn’t need clarification. He just stepped in again, one hand still resting on Will’s waist like it belonged there, the other rising to cup Will’s cheek so carefully you’d think Will was spun from glass.
The kiss was… different.
There was no push behind it. No edge of urgency, no press of tongue or teeth. No heat threatening to boil over like usual, no stubble-burn from jaw-grinding passion. This was just lips—warm, slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that said everything without a single word: I’m here. I love you. I trust you.
Swerve tilted his head just enough so Will wouldn’t have to strain his neck. Always so considerate, always one step ahead, even in this. Will’s hands found their place on Swerve’s shoulders, thumbs brushing along warm fabric and steady muscle like he was memorizing the feel of him. Breathing him in.
Swerve kissed him again, barely more than a soft press. Then again. Just because he could.
Will nearly forgot he had to leave at all.
When they finally pulled apart, Swerve’s fingers lingered, brushing along Will’s jaw, then moving up to gently tuck some of those unruly blond curls beneath the rim of his white baseball cap.
“Go knock ’em dead,” Swerve murmured. “And I’ll be right here.”
Then, low, tender—“I love you.”
Will’s chest squeezed tight.
“I love you too,” he said, eyes warm, heart wide open. Even if he’d be back in five minutes tops. Even if they were gonna see each other again in mere moments, that never lessened the weight of it. Never lessened how much it mattered.
And then he turned and walked off toward the curtain, feeling steadier than he had in days.
Yeah, this whole situation sucked. Being out of commission sucked. Missing out on matches, momentum, everything he’d been working toward—it sucked.
But still. Given everything he’d been through, everything he’d put himself through… this? This could’ve been so much worse.
There was still a chance he’d make it to Forbidden Door.
And this time, he wasn’t on his own. This time, he wouldn’t be home alone in Essex telling himself he’d rest and recover only to get distracted and start doing goddamn shooting star presses in his bedroom.
No—this time he had a whole team checking in daily. Medical staff. Tony Khan himself. Physio. A plan.
And, maybe most crucially of all, a very nosy, very loving boyfriend who would absolutely FaceTime him at random hours, grill him on whether he actually iced his neck, and possibly even fly across the world just to hold him to his word.
Will wasn’t gonna screw this up.
Because screwing it up meant more time away. Away from the career of his dreams. The man of his dreams. The fans who believed in him.
No, Will was gonna do it right this time.
And maybe—maybe—if he played his cards right, let the neck brace stay on a little longer than necessary, dragged his feet a bit with the timeline... maybe he could have a little fun with it too. Let Swerve pamper him. Wait on him hand and foot. Be his nursemaid and his boyfriend all in one.
Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
With that thought, Will stepped through the curtain, still sore, still healing, but standing tall.
Ready to tell the fans what came next.