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It had been a whirlwind few weeks since that Dynamite appearance, the one where Will had stepped into the ring, looked out at the Chicago crowd, and informed them on his herniated disc situation.
A few weeks since Swerve scolded him backstage for not telling him his MRI results, for flying overseas on impulse, for freaking him the fuck out with his secrecy.
At least that moment was followed up with kisses and sweetness and hugs so gentle Will might as well have been made of glass.
With strict R&R and a gradual physio regime, Will was optimistic that all this bullshit would be cleared up before the most important Sunday of his life.
Yet—
Just this Wednesday, Will had to share the words he never thought he’d have to say out loud: he still wasn’t cleared, not fully, and he might need neck surgery.
Not so much might, but more-so he was definitely getting neck surgery.
Didn’t wanna tell the crowd when exactly he was going under the knife (fans were worried enough about him), but still vowed to keep his promise that he was fighting in that goddamn lights out steel cage match as if it were his last time on Earth.
And maybe it would be.
It was practically a death wish.
Come on, Will was compromised enough, with his neck in the condition of someone three times his age, and it didn’t help that 3 out of his 4 teammates were also hanging by some threads.
Didn’t also help that they were going against the most violent faction in wrestling history, the Death Riders, including the Young Bucks, who were still so incredibly salty after their loss to Will and Swerve at All In last month.
Don’t even get Will started on how he feels about fuckass Gabe Kidd. That was a story for another day.
Private conversations with Swerve after Wednesday had been… tense, to say the least.
Swerve didn’t want Will touching the ring at Forbidden Door. Not one last match, not a steel cage, not even a “just for the fans” thing. To him, it wasn’t worth the risk.
And Will, well… Will was a lunatic.
His stubborn streak had been running at full throttle for 10 months, and this was England, his home crowd, the crowd that had seen him grow from a scrawny dreamer into the legend he was today.
He couldn’t not go. Couldn’t.
The day after Dynamite, Will had scrolled through social media, half asleep and half regretting staying up too late to watch clips, when he saw it. An article, talking about:
Swerve Strickland's meniscus tear. Six years in the making, and he probably needed surgery.
And Will? He had absolutely zero warning.
He had Facetimed Swerve immediately.
“WHAT?!? You never told me about this??”
Swerve’s response had been a mix of sheepish and resigned. “It’s… been a thing for a while. Thought it’d heal on its own by now.”
Will had snorted, shaking his head, laughing despite himself. “Oh, so I’m not allowed to push myself through neck hell for months, and I have to tell you every little twinge and crick, but you—Swerve ‘I’m invincible’ Strickland—can hide a six-year-old meniscus tear from me? That’s a little hypocritical, innit?”
Swerve had groaned, rubbing the back of his neck like it was a public apology. “Okay, okay, I get it, I was dumb. You happy now?”
It was so ironic.
Swerve had harped on Will taking care of his neck more than enough. When they were in different cities, he had to text Swerve about every bit of pain, how he’s laying down, what he did for treatment that day.
Now Swerve was the one hiding things, hiding pain. Should Will nag him the same then?
Will’s silly 10 months of on-and-off neck issues was one thing, a torn meniscus since 2019 (yes, pre-pandemic) was another.
Will had wagged a finger at him through the screen. “Happy? I’m furious! And you know what, bruv? If you didn’t want me at Forbidden Door, maybe you shouldn’t fight Okada either, huh?”
Swerve’s silence had been enough to make Will cackle. He ate his words, smirking and muttering something about not wanting to make Will even more stressed.
It was classic them. Cute, domestic, teasing, a little chaotic, but full of love.
They had laughed through it, had another late-night video call after that initial shock, and it felt like… home. That sense of home they carried even while on opposite sides of the world, still juggling injuries, expectations, and whatever the wrestling universe threw at them.
And now, here they were, in England, the weekend of Forbidden Door, injuries looming over both of them.
Will’s neck and Swerve’s knee weren’t just minor setbacks anymore; they were official roadblocks.
But Will, naturally, was pacing his house, hands in his hair, plotting out how he could still somehow get one last hurrah in without literally breaking himself.
Because stubborn, ridiculous, utterly in love Will Ospreay was exactly that kind of lunatic.
Which led up to tonight.
Will collapsed onto the couch, a temporary neck brace pressing into his collarbone, feeling every knot and bruise from the last ten hours of insanity.
His knees were bent, arms awkwardly crossed over his chest, and yeah… he looked ridiculous. Probably pathetic. And maybe kinda funny too.
Across from him, the Swerve Strickland himself was perched on the edge of the armchair, thick knee brace strapping his right leg in a way that made him look both invincible and completely hobbled at the same time.
Will couldn’t help but smirk.
Their night had been a mess of extremes—his moonsault from the top of the steel cage fueled by adrenaline and a death wish, Swerve wobbling around the ring on a bum knee, Okada and the Death Riders raining chaos—but now they were here.
England. Essex. His home living room. Braces on. Nando’s delivery plates balanced precariously in front of them.
Somehow, it all felt right.
They were recounting the night, each other’s matches, moments of stupidity and vulnerability combined.
“You’re so dumb for that jump,” Swerve said with a shake of his head, nudging Will with his foot.
Will groaned, letting his head stiffly fall back against the couch cushions. “Says the guy running around doin' House Calls for like half your match tonight. Totally realistic, bruv”
Swerve grinned, swiping for a stray chicken nugget in his hand, and Will laughed despite the soreness running down his spine.
He remembered his tears in the ring, the blood caked on his face, the panic when the Death Riders had targeted his neck, and the blacking out as they stomped him into oblivion after his monumental win.
And yeah, the tears back at the hospital. And in the locker room. And subtly in the car on the drive home.
Still… here he was. Still alive. Still ridiculous. Still Will.
“I’m telling ya,” Will said, reaching for a piece of chicken, “my neck’s basically hanging on by hopes and dreams right now, bruv. That moonsault? Maybe the dumbest, most beautiful move of my life.”
Swerve shook his head, a mix of exasperation and admiration. “I can’t even with you.” He paused, smirked. “And somehow, you’re still a cute crier.”
Will flushed, ducking his head (as much as he could), but the warmth from the compliment spread through him, mixing with the relief of finally unwinding.
They were both wrecks, both bruised, both sore as hell, but they were together. Nando’s in front of them, small bits of sauce probably smeared on the couch cushions somewhere, and the absurdity of the night somehow made it all feel cozy.
Will took another slow bite, letting himself savor it. “And you, Mr. Knee Brace, are a bloody hypocrite. Givin’ me hell for takin’ care of my neck for the last month, and here you are, wobbling through a title match like nothing’s wrong.”
Swerve laughed, groaning, and held his hand up in mock surrender. “Touché. Maybe I did deserve some of your nagging.”
They sat in that comfortable chaos for a while, joking, teasing, and letting the tension of the night melt a little.
Despite everything—neck injuries, a torn meniscus, blood, bruises, tears, and a nearly ruined tag run—the moment was theirs. Silly, chaotic, tender.
Will looked over at Swerve, trying not to groan as he shifted in his neck brace yet again. His boyfriend’s hair was messy, ponytail pretty disheveled, knee brace straps slightly askew, and Will couldn’t help but think how absurdly perfect it all looked.
The perfect mess.
Will continued to chew on his Nando’s, though he couldn’t even remember what the taste was anymore at this point.
His mind had gone rogue.
Didn’t take too long for it to do so.
Neck surgery, time out, months of rehab, maybe never doing the insane moonsaults or top-rope Hidden Blades ever again…fuck.
The thoughts were… awful.
Will felt the sting behind his eyes start, the lump in his throat, like it was gonna sneak up on him even though he’d cried a million times tonight already.
He’d cried before the match, down the runway, after winning, on the stretcher, at the hospital.
He was overstimulated and devastated but also happy and proud—overall a mess, really.
And now? Sitting here, braces on, food in front of him, it still kinda hurt.
Not physically—well, yeah, a little—but emotionally.
Wrestling had been his life, and suddenly the thought of extended downtime, of missing out, of maybe losing what he loved most in the world, was making him feel like a dumb kid all over again.
Swerve noticed.
Of course he did.
He’d been watching Will the whole time, playful jabs and teasing aside.
He leaned forward, voice soft but firm, hand lightly brushing Will’s shoulder. “Whatcha thinking about, Billy?”
Will blinked, startled.
Shit.
He must’ve been zoning out, staring at the same bite of chicken for what felt like an eternity.
He knew Swerve could tell when he dissociated, knew exactly what the stare meant.
Will instantly tried to deflect, muttering something about the sauce, about the heat, anything.
Swerve didn’t budge. He tilted his head, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve been chewing that same bite for like two minutes, man. Come on, Billy. You’re thinking about something.”
Will sighed, finally letting himself lean back, brace still tight on his neck.
“Okay, fine…Yeah, I’m thinking about it. Surgery, being out, all that shit. Tonight…winning, getting jumped…It’s just a lot. I dunno, bruv. I thought I’d be fine, happy even, but… it still kinda fucking sucks.”
Swerve’s expression softened, eyes flicking over every inch of him, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the crease between his brows.
He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t say anything dramatic.
Just sat with him. Just…listened. Which, fuck, helped more than anything else.
Will’s shoulders sagged a little further. “I didn’t mean to turn our vibe all sappy and sad. I just—shit, it’s hard. I’ve wrestled every PPV since I signed. I’m not… used to this. Time off, long-term injuries, sitting here. It’s weird. It feels wrong, mate.”
Swerve reached across the small coffee table, brushing a stray crumb off Will’s arm, then holding his hand, fingers intertwining without a word. Will felt a warmth hit his chest, grounding him, making the knot behind his ribs ease just a hair.
“You’re not wrong to feel like that,” Swerve said softly, voice steady, calm, with that quiet authority that only Swerve could pull off. “It’s shitty. It’s a lot. And yeah, it sucks. But you’re not alone in this. Not at all, baby.”
Will looked at him, blue eyes hot, a little guilty.
God, it was like his mood could change with a flick of a light switch.
Since getting home, he went from groggy, to laughing, to sentimental, and now… to whatever the fuck this feeling was.
He’d cried so much tonight, but Swerve just knew. He didn’t flinch at the chaos of Will’s thoughts, the ebb and flow of panic and sadness. He just…was there.
And shit, Will loved him so much. Even debated if he deserved him from time to time.
This whole night, top to bottom, had been ridiculously overstimulating for Will. He was surprised his brain was even functioning enough to form words and not just immediately defaulting into static mode.
Then Swerve—thick knee brace and all—got up from his arm chair and limped over to the couch, sitting next to the hopeless Brit.
“And hey,” Swerve added, thumb brushing over the back of Will’s hand, “we still have each other. And the Nando’s ain't going anywhere, so you can sit here and brood for a while if you want. But you’re gonna get through this. And you know you got a boyfriend who'll make sure you do it safely.”
Will chuckled, a low, relieved sound, and let himself lean into Swerve’s hand, fingers intertwined. “Yeah—yeah, you’re right. I’m just… processing. I know I have to, but—fuck, it’s weird not being out there every week.”
And then it hit him—a lightbulb moment that made him sit up straighter, despite the neck.
Swerve. Torn meniscus. Potential surgery. That little nugget of truth he’d nagged Swerve about all week, that Swerve had danced around and brushed off every single time.
Will’s eyes lit up, bright, a little manic with excitement. “Heyyyy,” he said, leaning forward just a smidge, voice conspiratorial. “Why don’t you—hear me out—try to schedule your surgery this week?”
Swerve blinked, mid-chew, brow twitching. “Uh, what? Why would I do that?”
“So we can be out together,” Will said like it was the most obvious, life-changing idea ever. “Both on the couch, both healing, both doing nothing, side by side, bruv. Think about it—days of literally doing nothing, helping each other get ice packs or chicken nuggets or some shit. Guaranteed companion. Emotional support. Physical support. All the support, y’know. And yeah, maybe some…uh…other activities that don’t involve putting pressure on our injuries.” He waved his hands vaguely.
God, Will felt like he was pitching a product idea on Shark Tank.
Swerve’s eyes widened a fraction, and Will could tell he was processing.
He saw the small smirk tug at the corner of Swerve’s mouth. “You’re insane,” Swerve muttered, shaking his head.
“And so are you if you don’t do it,” Will shot back. “The longer we put this off, the longer we risk making things worse. You know I don’t want you hobbling around on a bum knee either, dear.”
Swerve exhaled, leaning back into the couch, one hand on his knee brace, the other brushing against Will’s hand.
“…I guess…recovering together wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said softly, voice low, a little vulnerable.
He was warming up to the idea, clearly.
Will grinned, the first full, triumphant grin of the night.
“Exactly! We’ll be pathetic together. Like a two-person recovery squad. You with your knee, me with me neck, eating Nando’s every night and watching TV, complaining about pain meds side effects, whining about how we miss wrestling but secretly enjoying doin’ literally nothing for once. We can make this a thing! Document it. Daily updates. Maybe even a leaderboard for who can, like, hold still the longest. God, I’d probably suck at that, but you get it, bruv.”
Swerve laughed, soft and low, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous. But… yeah. Yeah, I kinda like that.”
Will leaned back against the couch, feeling the warmth of Swerve next to him, the sound of Swerve’s small chuckle echoing in the living room.
The idea of being forced to slow down, of having someone there to share the pathetic little victories and irritations of recovery, made his chest feel full in a way nothing else could.
Somehow, the braces, the soreness, the bruises, the tears he’d shed tonight—they all felt a little lighter because Swerve was here.
“And hey,” Will added, teasing but soft, “we can bitch at each other for dumb things, like whose Ibuprofen dosage is more excessive, or like, who hogs the heating pad. Or we can just… lie here and moan about missing wrestling. Mutual whining, bruv.”
Swerve’s smirk widened, nudging Will with his knee brace. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
“Of course I have,” Will said, letting out a sigh that was half relief, half exhaustion, as if this totally wasn’t an impulsive thought he was spewing right now. “We’ll be pathetic, sore, probably in pain half the time… together. And that’s perfect.”
Swerve nudged him again, this time just letting his hand linger on Will’s thigh, a small touch that said more than words.
Will felt a soft smile spread across his face.
Despite the injuries, despite the long night, despite the unknown months ahead, they had each other. And somehow, that made the whole thing feel not so bad at all.
Being miserable was one thing. Being miserable beside your hot boyfriend who was also miserable was another.
And Will was oddly looking forward to it.
Will tried to lean his head on Swerve’s shoulder, but the cushioned neck brace made it a disaster.
It bounced back like some spring-loaded pillow, and Will groaned. “Ugh…this is not working.”
Swerve smirked. “Here, I’ll do it.” He leaned in himself so Will didn’t have to twist his neck. “Better?”
Will let out a small laugh. “Yeah, much better. God, I’m ridiculous.”
“Nah,” Swerve said softly, brushing a hand along Will’s arm. “We’re both ridiculous. But… AEW without us? That’d be, like, a huge gap, man.”
Will blinked, thinking. “Yeah, someone’s gotta fill the hole. But… who?”
And just like that, they were two nerds dissecting the wrestling world from a couch in England, full of Nando’s, talking like they ran the company.
Like they were the EVP’s they never became.
“Darby,” Will said, eyes lighting up. “After tonight, nearly losing his fuckin’ ear to Mox, still managed to fling himself and Gabe Kidd off the cage into those tables. Crowd loved it. He could step in, big shoes though.”
Swerve nodded. “Takeshita too. G1 winner, super popular. Just needs to shake off the shitty Callis Family first. Fans won’t fully accept him til he does.”
They bounced ideas off each other, weighing pros and cons, pausing only to grab more bites of food.
Will smirked at how ridiculous they looked. “Can you believe us? Two of the most influential guys in the company, sitting here nerding out?”
Swerve nudged him lightly. “Yeah, this is dumb. But, in a cute way, I guess.”
Will glanced at himself—neck brace, tired eyes, a little bruised from earlier chaos—and then at Swerve, knee braced and aching.
Neither of them were too pretty-looking right now.
But somehow, it didn’t matter. They were alive. Together. Talking wrestling at 2 a.m. It felt safe and silly and perfect.
Will smiled, realizing he hadn’t felt this calm since before Forbidden Door, before all the chaos.
Sitting here, sore, stupid, leaning into each other—it was the little normalcy he needed.
Will shifted on the couch, trying to make himself comfortable in the cushioned neck brace, fingers still laced with Swerve’s. “By the way, you know what?” he said, out of nowhere, his voice quiet but mischievous. “You looked hot as fuck tonight.”
Swerve blinked at him, part shocked, part amused. “Excuse me?”
“I mean…your gear. White pants? Delicious. High ponytail? GOD, never getting sick of that. Honestly, my favorite hairstyle on you so far.”
Will leaned back, trying to act casual, but his cheeks warmed anyway.
Of course he picked the least romantic moment to blurt this out. Here they were, sore, strapped up in braces, eating delivery at some ridiculous hour, and he was… basically flirting.
Classic Will.
He himself knew he had the romantic timing of fender bender and the suaveness of a gravel road.
Swerve smirked, leaning a little closer, gentle ruffling Will's curls.
“Look who’s talking. Because I saw you out there too.” He raised an eyebrow, playful but dangerous. “Watching from the trainer’s room—yeah, I was worried you were gonna die out there, snap your neck in half. But also…” He let the pause stretch just long enough. “Your ass in those tights? Made it jiggle like water.”
Will nearly choked on his food, coughing and laughing at the same time. “You—seriously? That’s your first thought?!”
Swerve shrugged, looking completely smug. “Jealous of everyone else getting that view up close and personal. Couldn’t help it.”
Then Swerve sighed with utmost dramaticism. “Shame that Mox got to touch you in those pants before your own boyfriend.” Feigning self-pity of course.
Will’s laughter bubbled over, spilling into the cozy room, and for a moment, he forgot the pain, the braces, even the tears he’d shed earlier.
Even forgot his boyfriend was such a horndog sometimes.
“Okay, fine. After recovery? When we’re back? I’ll wear those tights again. Just for you.”
“Hmm, might not stay on very long if you’re wearing them around me,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.
Well, damn.
Will wasn’t so opposed to that thought, and found himself blushing.
He laughed, breathless. “You’re evil, bruv.”
Swerve—with his perfect, dimpled smile—leaned down, brushing his lips across Will’s forehead, his temple, planting several gentle pecks that were soft, careful, tender. Not one of their usual chaotic locker room makeout sessions—this was careful, like he was saying, I’m right here. You’re safe.
Will’s neck was protected, but his heart felt like it was about to explode.
“Love you, Billy,” Swerve whispered, one hand now cupping Will’s cheek, the other gently resting on his waist. “You crazy man, I love you.”
Will’s heart did that stupid fluttery thing again. “Love you too, you prick.”
Will then had the glorious decision to try to get up from the couch. For dessert of course.
What should have been a simple act turned into a full-blown circus.
Neither of them could manage a step without the other lending a hand.
They waddled toward the kitchen like two very awkward penguins, arms hooked, teetering in tandem. Will’s neck kinda clicked softly with every movement, and Swerve’s slow, deliberate steps were almost comical.
“Should we, uh, pick up our trash?” Swerve gestured vaguely at the scattered Nando’s wrappers, plates, and empty soda cans.
Will waved him off. “Nah. Tomorrow. Or, you know, sometime this week. Or next week.”
Swerve laughed, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, probably next week. We’re too busy being pathetic right now.”
The fridge held their prize: pie Will’s mum had made as a homecoming gift.
Swerve helped Will maneuver the chair back toward the dining room table, careful not to bump into anything. They settled into their seats like two humans on stilts, balancing braces, extra caution, and sheer exhaustion.
Then came the classic couple move: feeding each other bites.
Because why couldn’t they?
Will carefully held a forkful of pie toward Swerve’s mouth. Swerve leaned in, took the bite, and somehow managed to smear a little filling on his nose. Will laughed and tried to swipe it away, but Swerve leaned forward and planted a berry-covered kiss on his lips. Will felt the sticky sweetness spread across his mouth and couldn’t stop grinning.
“Delicious,” Swerve teased, brushing a thumb across Will’s cheek.
“Yeah, deliciously messy, you bastard,” Will laughed, berry juice still on his chin, staining his blond beard a little bit.
Finally, full from pie and Nando’s, sore from their matches, and still nursing their injuries, they slowly made their way toward Will’s bedroom.
This should have been a straightforward task.
But no.
Because hypochondria mode was fully activated on both sides.
“Careful, Billy—don’t twist your neck like that,” Swerve warned as Will pivoted slightly near the door frame.
Will froze mid-step. “I’m fine! Are you okay?” he countered, hovering over Swerve’s knee like it might shatter with a single misstep.
Swerve huffed but let Will inspect him like a cautious nurse. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though Will wasn’t buying it for a second.
He gently adjusted Swerve’s leg as they shuffled toward the bedroom, hands occasionally bumping against walls, furniture, each other, anything that could spell disaster for their fragile bodies.
“Seriously… are we grown-ups?” Will asked, laughing despite himself.
“Nope,” Swerve said, smirking. “We’re like newborn deer, man.”
And then—
Reaching the bed was its own challenge.
Will had to maneuver his neck brace carefully, Swerve hovering to make sure he didn’t twist wrong or fall.
Then it was Swerve’s turn—Will guiding him, steadying his arms, making sure his knee landed gently on the mattress.
Even after they finally settled in bed, the hypochondria battle™ didn’t magically end.
Nope.
It just upgraded to Level: Ridiculous Couple.
Will’s neck—on top of the brace—was caged in a fortress of pillows courtesy of Swerve, who made him promise he wouldn’t move a single millimeter.
Will was already laughing softly because yes, he was basically encased in a pillow coffin, and yes, he looked like a ridiculous mummy, but damn it, it felt safe.
Swerve’s knee, meanwhile, was propped up on its own castle of pillows Will had painstakingly arranged like a little throne. He had even tucked a small cushion under the back of Swerve’s leg to stabilize the angle.
“Billy,” Swerve said, already laying sideways so he could hover a bit over Will without putting any pressure on his knee. “Don’t…wiggle. Don’t even think about it. I’ve got your neck.”
Will rolled his eyes, muffled by a pillow. “I’m fine, mate. I can barely—”
“Don’t talk,” Swerve interrupted, waving a hand like a general issuing orders. “No sudden movements. And I swear if you move an inch, I’m smacking you.”
Will groaned dramatically. “Yes, sir. Captain Hypochondria.”
“Ha-ha. Funny. Now stay still.”
Will raised one eyebrow under his pillow, but complied, because Swerve’s glare was just…too effective. He could barely move his head anyway.
Then Swerve nudged himself slightly closer to adjust one of Will’s pillows again. Will wanted to roll his eyes, but the way Swerve’s hand carefully tucked another pillow under his shoulder made him snort.
He couldn’t help it.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
“You too,” Swerve said, smirking.
Will reached out a hand that Swerve immediately grabbed. Fingers laced instinctively.
“I can’t even…this is so stupid,” Will said, resting his temple on the side of Swerve’s arm. “We’ve survived cages, chairs, Death Riders—and now we’re terrified of pillows.”
Swerve chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of Will’s head. “Because now we have to survive each other,” he said.
“Oh shit, you’re right,” Will groaned in mock horror. “You’re worse than any steel cage.”
They both laughed, though quiet now, the kind of soft chuckle that only comes when you’re exhausted, full of food, and completely comfortable with someone special.
Swerve shifted, then readjusted one of Will’s million pillows again for might as well have been the 80th time. “Better?” he asked.
Will huffed out a laugh. “Absolutely… ridiculous. But yeah. Perfect, bruv.”
Then, of course, Will’s mind started wandering.
Neck surgery. Knee surgery. Recovery time. How long they’d be out.
It was hard—downright impossible—to not think about it.
After all, it was like someone just put a massive car crash in the middle of the highway that was Will’s life, and Will either had to detour around it or wait it out until it cleared up in order to move forward.
But having Swerve right there, fussing over him, holding his hand, treating him like the fragile treasure he apparently was, made it all feel… not quite so heavy.
They collapsed into that absurd, pillow-laden nest, two grown men who had battered themselves in front of thousands, yet here they were—pathetic little dweebs, exhausted, bruised, fed, and safe. Pillow forts, braces, hypochondria battles, and all.
Will shifted slightly under his pillow fortress, just enough to glance over at Swerve, who was lazily adjusting his own knee pillows again. They were side by side, hands barely brushing, and for some reason the quiet of the room made the air feel…charged.
Then Swerve’s voice cut through the haze of exhaustion and Nando’s-induced food coma. “You know baby, since we’re gonna be basically immobilized once we get surgery, maybe… we should have, like, one last hurrah.”
Will froze.
Huh?
His eyes went wide. “One last what now?”
Swerve tilted his head, smirk teasing the corners of his lips. “You know. For old times’ sake.”
Will was terrible at picking up hints and implications, but knowing Swerve and the context of right now, it wasn’t too outlandish to assume what Swerve was referring to.
And Will had a feeling he was right.
Will’s cheeks heated instantly. “For old times’ sake, huh? You mean like… sex?” He mock-nagged, poking at Swerve’s shoulder with a pillow. “From the same guy who’s been depriving me of making out for a month now?”
Swerve raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, that guy? The one who needs to give you constant reminders not to twist your neck in a million ways? Yeah, him.”
Will groaned dramatically, throwing one of his many pillows across the bed. God when the fuck did he get so many pillows?
“Yeah, yeah, I remember that night at Dynamite. Backstage, you scolding me, telling me no sexy time, no bare minimum of snogging, nothing bruv! All to apparently save my fragile little neck.”
Swerve chuckled, looking almost proud of himself. “Exactly. I did what I had to do.”
Will rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched into a grin he couldn’t help. “Well congrats, mate. You successfully built a fuckin' month-long torture device of pent-up frustration, and I am fully aware of how long it’s been since…y'know, anything.”
Swerve laughed, tilting his head to brush a strand of curly hair from Will’s forehead. “Mm, yeah. Seattle feels like ages ago, huh? Back when we weren’t even, you know, serious.”
Will shivered a little, thinking of that first time.
God, it had been thrilling, reckless, and way too quick. Yet way too fucking good.
Confusing feelings and all that kinda stuff aside, that was the most mind-blowing pleasure Will had ever experienced in his life. They weren't even boyfriends at the time—weren't even a situationship—and still Will could never forget the sensations of that evening. Swerve's hands, Swerve's kisses, Swerve inside him...fuck.
And yeah, it was in a lockerroom shower. And yeah they were late to their match because of it. And yeah Mark Briscoe’s wild self may have saved both of their asses from getting a forfeit against Blake Christian and Lee Johnson of all people.
But ever since, every other make-out or horny little moment they tried to have got cut short. Other people around. Injuries. The fucking Death Riders probably showing up out of nowhere for chrissake.
Timing always somehow managed to be wrong.
And now? Now they were here, side by side, necks and knees supported, still sore but with enough range of motion to tempt them.
And the thought of finally… doing it, finally, just them, for real, made Will feel suddenly alert, alive, a little shaky.
He magically wasn’t so tired anymore.
He glanced at Swerve—in all his effortlessly handsome glory—who was smirking knowingly, and Will couldn’t help but let a small, sly grin creep onto his face. “You’re really trying to tempt me now, huh?”
Swerve just shrugged, casual, hands still brushing against Will’s. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends if you’re brave enough to take the risk.”
Another moment of blooming irony.
Just two minutes ago, they were doting on each other like helicopter parents with the deathly fear of each other moving a centimeter the wrong way.
And now they were teasing the possibility of intercourse.
Literally. Swerve was just threatening to smack Will if he moved a millimeter, and now is questioning doing something that would require a lot more movement than said millimeter.
It was hysterical, hypocritical, but kinda cute. It showed a side of Swerve that wasn't the most sound, reasonable, or collected for once. And Will loved that.
Maybe Will should nag him about that later.
But… could it be so bad?
Will’s breath hitched slightly, and he realized his entire body was suddenly awake.
All the soreness, the exhaustion from Forbidden Door, the bruises, the braces—none of it mattered right now.
The thought of one last hurrah, just them, was, fuck, too damn tempting to ignore.
And just like that, the room felt warmer. Funnier. Dangerous.
They carefully rolled onto their sides, facing each other, a precarious arrangement of pillows and braces keeping them safe from their own bodies. It was surprisingly comfortable, the way they fit together like puzzle pieces that had learned to be careful.
Will’s eyes flicked to Swerve’s, and, hell, he didn’t even have to think about it.
He leaned in, chasing Swerve’s lips, because God, he hadn’t realized just how starved he was of them.
Since finding out about the herniated discs, the pecks and borderline pecks were nice, sweet, but not enough.
Not even close.
He wanted more. He wanted Swerve.
“Don’t move,” Swerve murmured against Will’s mouth. “I can do all the work.”
But Will barely registered the words before Swerve angled his head and took the lead, tilting gently so Will’s neck didn’t have to do anything but follow.
The kiss hit him like fireworks—soft, precise, impossibly tender, but electric.
Will could feel Swerve’s eagerness beneath the careful restraint, the little pressures of his lips and tongue coaxing Will’s own.
The gentle exploration made him shiver.
He loved how bloody considerate Swerve was, how he held back for Will’s neck, how every touch felt intentional.
Will’s hands rested lightly on Swerve’s shoulders, adjusting subtly to the pillowed positions, leaning in whenever possible without putting his own neck at risk. Swerve hummed softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against Will’s lips, making him melt a little more.
The kiss deepened, just a touch, teasing, tasting—enough tongue to send heat through Will, enough restraint to make him crave more.
He could tell Swerve wanted this too, wanted to push limits, but the care, the absolute meticulous thought for Will’s safety, made it feel almost sweeter.
They pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together. Will’s chest heaved a little, heart racing. He let out a shaky laugh, breathless.
“You’re… so good at this,” Will whispered.
Swerve smirked, brushing a loose curl from Will’s forehead. “Considerate and hot. You’re welcome, baby.”
Will chuckled again, leaning closer, careful, whispering, “I could get used to this.”
Swerve tilted his head back into the kiss, hands threading behind Will’s neck brace to stabilize him further, and Will groaned softly, realizing just how long he’d been waiting for this—how starved he’d been not just for affection, but for Swerve.
It was slow. It was soft. It was so good.
And yet, beneath the caution and laughter and pillow fort, the heat was building, inevitable and teasing, and Will could feel it in every careful touch and bite of a lip.
And oh God, it was so frustrating.
One soft, berry-stained kiss from Swerve and Will felt his blood on fire.
His hands drifted over Swerve’s muscles, hesitating at every tiny movement, because one wrong shift and someone’s neck or knee might scream in protest.
Swerve’s lips were warm, teasing, lips sliding over Will’s with gentle pressure, soft flicks of tongue that made Will’s body go weak—well, the parts that weren’t braced, anyway.
Little soft sighs and murmurs slipped past both of them, breaths mingling, hearts hammering. Every brush of a hand, every fingertip grazing a sensitive spot made them shiver, but also terrified them with how precarious their current bodies were.
Will let out a muffled whimper when his hand accidentally brushed the side of Swerve’s thigh.
“Shit,” he whispered, heart racing, and Swerve shivered too, lips still on Will’s.
“Will… careful,” Swerve murmured, voice low and ragged, but even that warning sent a pulse through both of them.
They tried adjusting, angling closer, but every tiny movement required so much calculation.
One tilt of Will’s neck? Could be catastrophic.
One shift of Swerve’s leg? Pain central.
And fuck, the more they tried to figure it out, the more ridiculous it became.
They were grown-ass men who had taken brutal bumps and nasty chair shots, and here they were, laying like idiots with pillows around every joint, whispering soft nothings while their bodies screamed for way more than that.
Will teased, lips brushing Swerve’s cheek, “You’re… so unfair. Hot and careful. You’re killing me, bruv.”
Swerve laughed, a breathy, teasing sound. “Oh yeah? Look who’s whining. I’d say you’re just as dangerous, but… well, the neck. You’d probably break me in half if we tried anything serious.”
Their hands were everywhere but nowhere at once, tentative touches, brushing arms, stroking backs, grazing thighs. Each accidental touch, each lazy brush of a finger made their hearts hammer.
Tiny noises—soft hums, muffled groans, short breaths—escaped them both, because God, they needed each other, but couldn’t fully give in.
Fucking shit.
And then the real comedy: trying to find a position that would even allow a shred of sexy time was like solving a Rubik’s cube blindfolded.
Neck braces, knee braces, pillows everywhere, hovering hands.
It was physically impossible without risking some sort of pain or discomfort.
And the thing was, if either had a shoulder or a hand or a foot problem, maybe, maybe!
But no. Neck and knee. Their worst possible injuries. What a combination.
Comedy gold.
Will huffed a laugh, pressing his forehead against Swerve’s temple. “We’re so fucked, bruv. Literally.”
Swerve groaned softly, smirking against Will’s hair. “Yeah, no kidding. Just our luck.”
But the heat didn’t fade. Every soft kiss, every tiny brush of skin kept it there, simmering, impossible to ignore.
They were painfully aware of each other’s wants—completely aware—and yet completely helpless.
They collapsed back into their pillows, laughter spilling between pants and soft kisses, all the while humming with need, groaning softly when a shift went too far.
It was ridiculous, humiliating, frustrating—and the most perfect, intimate, utterly Swervespreay moment imaginable.
The kisses were driving Will insane. Soft, berry-sweet, slow, teasing kisses that made his heart hammer and his blood pressure spike—but the more they tried to escalate, the more painfully clear it became:
SEX. Was. Not. Happening.
Every time Will leaned in, thinking maybe, just maybe they could work out a position, his neck pillow fortress was a literal barricade. Swerve’s knee brace propped up like a throne of metal and foam made every shift a tactical nightmare. Even sliding a hand over Swerve’s leg required calculations, precautions, and quiet apologies in case of accidental pain.
Will flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling with dramatic despair. “Bruv,” he muttered, voice muffled by the neck brace, “I’m like totally rock hard right now.”
Will clearly had such a way with words.
Swerve’s head lolled back against his pillows, one hand lazily stroking Will’s hair, the other bracing his knee. “Ain’t alone, baby,” he admitted, voice soft but teasing. “But, shit. Our injuries are so fucking inconvenient. Universe hates us.”
They both groaned in unison, because yes.
The universe. Absolutely. Hated them.
This was their life now: side-by-side, pillow-propped, hearts racing, blood pumping, hands drifting, tongues dancing…yet completely, frustratingly, painfully unable to actually, you know…do the thing.
Will sighed dramatically, rolling onto his side to face Swerve again. “Even just laying here making out…” he trailed off, voice shaky, “Not gonna lie, bruv, I’d probably like…come. In my pants. And I really don’t have the energy to clean up, and you, with your bum leg? No. Impossible.”
Swerve’s breath hitched in laughter, shaking his head against Will’s hair. “Oh my God, TMI. But uh… yeah, same. This, this is—” he gestured vaguely to their cocoon of pillows and braces “—literally impossible.”
Sexy time: zero. Comedic frustration: one hundred percent.
Eventually, both of them reluctantly admitted defeat.
Sleep was non-negotiable.
Sex? Absolutely not tonight.
The universe had spoken, and the neck brace plus knee brace combo had won.
Will let out another dramatic sigh, staring at the ceiling.
Swerve crawled closer, careful as ever, draping an arm over Will without jostling anything. “Maybe we’ll figure something out before surgery,” he murmured with a mischievous glint.
Will scoffed, rolling his eyes but hiding a smirk. “Don’t get your hopes up, mate.”
They shuffled and fidgeted, finding a comfortable, safe, ridiculously engineered cuddling position. Side by side, pillow forts and braces intact, bodies warm against each other. A few more soft, careful kisses were exchanged, and they both giggled quietly at the absurdity of their hypochondria-meets-horniness predicament.
“You know, I’m proud of you. For everything tonight,” Swerve whispered, a moment of genuine softness amongst the dissipating frustration.
This is where Will would usually tease him for being a sap, but let's be real, he didn't have the energy anymore.
“Same,” Will replied softly, brushing a hand against Swerve’s arm. “You worked so hard.”
No alarms would be set in the morning. They deserved to sleep in, to rest, to just… be. For once.
Will let himself relax fully. How could he not? In his own home, his own bed, with the man he loved laying warm and safe next to him.
Swerve’s slow, steady breathing was hypnotic, calming, and for the first time in days, he didn’t have to think about Death Riders, steel cage moonsaults, or even his upcoming surgery.
His brain ran briefly through the logistics of recovery—how they’d probably bumble through like two geriatric old people, leaning on each other, watching each other like hawks, slowly healing together.
If they were even gonna recover in the same country was a matter for another day.
He thought of the fans, of how ecstatic they’d be to see them back, and the other wrestlers holding the fort in their absence. Darby, Takeshita, whoever else.
He thought of the glorious, long-awaited moments him and Swerve would inevitably share once fully recovered. Sex wasn’t… exactly the priority—as Will knew he’d be clawing at the walls to get back in the ring as soon as possible—but it definitely wasn’t something to be ruled out.
And finally, Will let the exhaustion take him, soft, warm, cocooned in blankets and love, drifting into a blissful, well-earned sleep.
He was still sore, still moderately horny, still tasting berry pie on his lips, but at least reality didn’t seem so hard to accept anymore.