Work Text:
Jon lay sprawled out on the locker room bench. Dried blood stuck to his forehead. His hands ached.
He could still hear the crowd cheering for Adam Page. He could picture confetti raining down from the ceiling. He could picture some heartwarming speech about the world title being out of the briefcase.
“You look like shit.” Marina leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Jon looked up at her, sending pain through his shoulders and causing him to wince.
“Thanks. Exactly what I needed to hear.” Marina tutted and rolled her eyes.
“Do Claudio and I need to drag your sorry ass to the car?”
“Nah.” His breath came out warbled. “Go on, I’ll catch up.” Jon lay his head back on the bench and closed his eyes. He heard Marina scoff again, followed by departing footsteps.
Somehow, his hand found his duffel bag in the dark. Jon unzipped and rooted around until his fingers closed around metal.
A small crucifix on a chain, meant to be worn around the neck. He expected an uproar when he started wearing it on TV, but no one complained. Jon clicked his tongue and pulled his hand up to his chest.
He remembered asking Eddie about Catholic guilt once. That turned into a two-hour conversation over beer, back before Jon went to rehab. He thought Eddie gave him the crucifix then, but he honestly couldn't remember where he got it.
What he did remember was the discussion of weight on one’s shoulders. It was a feeling Jon had known his whole life, regardless of continent or degree of sobriety. It was a feeling he’d assumed was normal until he met Renee. He remembered the first time she noticed the tension he carried. He remembered cracking his neck so loudly that it scared her.
That was the whole point of the Death Riders, the entire point of retiring Bryan Danielson, and of keeping the company’s most prestigious belt in a briefcase. Jon wanted to show AEW how complacent it had gotten. He wanted to show that the fighting and pain never went away, no matter how much one tried to block it out.
His hand closed around a sharp edge of the crucifix, drawing blood. Jon ignored the cut on his palm and closed his eyes again.
He hated how happy everyone was when Hangman won. He hated the confetti cannons and celebration. But most of all, he hated losing.
Jon sensed that he’d keep losing for a while. He sensed that the darkness in his head would only get thicker. And he sensed that his shoulders would keep hurting until they popped out of position for good.