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The arena is mind-numbingly, eye-numbingly, head-achingly bright. There's LEDs everywhere, at his sides, above his head, and even under his feet, paving the elevated walkway, all flashing incessantly, changing color and shape. It's also loud, tremendously loud in the arena, which makes the sensation of the bright lights worse. His entrance theme rumbles in the speakers, shaking every beam and every screw of the venue’s structure.
Rozanov is waiting for him in the ring.
It feels weird and wrong to walk in after him, after months, which passed like years, of doing the opposite. Rozanov looks oddly bare, even a little small, without the red strap of leather and ostentatious flash of gold he paraded around his waist and over his shoulder for all that time; the same red and gold that enters the arena on Shane’s own left shoulder now, heavy, neither warm nor cold.
In the blue corner, your reigning International Heavyweight Champion, ‘The Genius’, Shaaaaaane Hollander!
Shane tightens his jaw at the nickname – still the same bestowed on him upon his debut, a marketing strategy planned while he was still working on putting enough weight to step in the ring. Back then, it’d felt like a new shoe one size too small; he hated how it made him feel, and the fans hated how it made him look. Nowadays, after some work, the shoe has started to fit. He hears cheers.
Rozanov waits for his entrance to end, lying back against a cornerpost, chin up, his icy, distant gaze following him from behind his eyelashes. Like a predator who can't bother with prey too small for his size.
Despite being the previous champ, Rozanov’s momentum isn't good. Of course, as a heel, he’s supposed to be hated, but he's still being hated in a way that doesn't sell, and that's the most serious shortcoming a wrestler can have. He seems to know this; ever since winning the belt, his posture has become tense, and he stopped smiling. He's not the same man Shane had trained with in his rookie days.
The referee checks them cursorily, retrieves the belt from Shane, then tries to promote a handshake. Shane knows nothing will come of it, but still steps ahead and offers a hand, eyes expectant on his rival’s form.
Rozanov doesn't move. For a moment, it seems like he won't.
But just as Shane is about to give up, he leaves the corner to meet him in the middle of the ring, eyes trained on the hand offered to him. Shane hopes the cameras won't pick on the minute trembling of his fingers.
Rozanov’s gaze travels, from his hand to his eyes. Shane's mouth feels dry.
But no, no handshake. Instead, Rozanov slaps his hand away, and attacks him with an elbow square to the jaw. The bell rings, and it's on.
Shane knows he has to win.
Rozanov’s wildly unpopular reign of terror had lasted almost the entire year. He'd squashed some midcarders and invaders along the way to puzzlingly mixed reception from fans, until the up and coming babyface of the moment, Shane Hollander himself, turned it all around and snatched the belt after first beating him in their biggest yearly tournament, twice – groups, then the final. If he beats Rozanov today, it’ll be the fourth time in a row. A reason to celebrate for Rozanov’s many deriders.
Still, it's not, by any means, an easy ride. Rozanov hits hard. His chops tear Shane's chest in half, his knee strikes bruise his bones to the marrow, and he's got a vicious German Suplex that he uses almost excessively in the match. Even just locking hands with those bear paws of his hurts like hell. Not to mention the chairshots…
But Shane has to win. There's no way around it.
The match feels days, years, ages long. He's exhausted, aching all over. Rozanov’s skin is slick with sweat, and his mouth red and shiny with fresh blood. He's thoroughly disheveled, but the opposite of spent. His eyes are vivid with a hot, unyielding light, intense to a point where it can only be hatred.
Shane exhales, and runs towards him. Jumping knee. Rozanov staggers. Shane grabs him by the neck, grits his teeth, and elbows him, once, twice, a final third time, until he falls down.
He runs to the ropes. Runs back. Double knee to the chest.
It's a little off-center. His right knee hits his rival’s cheek.
Rozanov knocks his head back, and something goes flying into the bright lights.
Celebrations over the win are briefer than Shane usually likes them to be, pressured as he is by the medic that shows up at ringside like an apparition, eyeing him sternly. As soon as he steps through the threshold, out of sight from the crowd, he's rushed by a flurry of a thousand hands to the makeshift infirmary backstage.
He's dumped on the nearest chair, and someone, must be Hayden, right?, holds a bag of ice to his rapidly swelling right eye. He tells about a hundred people that he's fine, about a hundred times. He reassures them he can see. complains about pain in his shoulder, to try and distract them, but it only attracts more concern. They test him for concussion, he's in the clear. They offer him painkillers. He celebrates like a kid getting ice cream.
Eventually, he's left to his bag of ice and meds, with promises of being examined again once the swelling goes down. Everyone leaves. There's still one match left in the card; Shane is, frustratingly, still not big enough to be the main event.
He looks around, and who does he find in the infirmary, other than Ilya Rozanov himself?
“Oh,” he says before he can stop himself. “Hi.”
Rozanov doesn't answer.
He's sitting, for what is worth, on the other side of the room, on a chair identical to Shane's own. The room isn't so large for them to be very far apart, but he still feels distant. His head tilted down, eyes trained on his own idle hands.
Shane tries again. “Um, so.” he pauses. “Are you hurt?”
Ilya looks at him like he's dumb. Looks around, shrugs, makes a face that says, obviously, why the fuck would I be here if not?
“Where?” Shane presses on. Then, “wait. the double knee. Was that…?”
Ilya’s eyes on him turn venomous.
Shane can't help himself. He chuckles. “Open your mouth.” The venomous stare intensifies. “Come on! I thought I saw something flying. Did I knock your teeth out?”
The eyes on Shane are still narrow and disdainful, mercilessly piercing. But then, Ilya’s lips twitch.
He smiles.
“Are you pleased with it?” He asks, and Shane sees it right away – frontal incisor, upper. A chuckle pours out of him like beer from an overfilled glass. “Oh, so you're laughing now. This is funny to you.”
“I'm sorry. I swear I didn't mean to,” Shane's voice among the giggles sounds ridiculous even to himself. thin with joy. “My finisher was off-center. I'm sorry, this is all my fault.”
“No shit, your fault! I didn't pull that out myself!” Rozanov rolls his eyes, making exaggerated teeth-pulling gestures and worsening Shane's giggling fit. “This is because you don't want anyone but you to look good. You're a jealous man.”
Shane puts a hand over his good eye, trying to stop laughing and calm down, but he can't hold his lips in place. He feels like a helium balloon in an open field, floating towards the atmosphere with nothing to stop it.
“I said I'm sorry, didn't I?” He objects, but he knows well that it sounds like he doesn't mean it. “It's just a tooth, Rozanov. Just—” another giggle, “just screw it back in.”
Ilya shoots him another nasty look. “I hope I broke that for you,” He says viciously, pointing at his own right eye. Shane's bruised eye stings in response.
“Now that's just mean,” He protests half-heartedly. “It hurts like hell.”
“Let me see.” All too suddenly, Ilya jumps up from his seat, making Shane's heart jump along, in startle. He closes the distance between them, bending over Shane's form, carefully pushing the ice bag away. Shane is suddenly aware that he's still in his gear, no shirt, no blanket, streaks of dry blood still visible on his chest.
He examines the bruise, and hums. His fingertips brush gently against the swelling. Shane winces, lips tight.
“Hurts that much?” Ilya asks, voice so quiet it sounds weird and alien and unsettling.
“Your hand is cold,” Shane uses as an excuse, turning his head away, but Ilya’s fingers follow. His thumb traces the underside of the bruise, and Shane swallows.
“Don't do anything. If it's broken and I mess up the bone now, it might end up needing surgery,” he word-vomits, trying to make eye contact to show he's serious, but finding it a little difficult with how close he finds Ilya’s face to be.
He does see, from the corner of his eye, that Ilya rolls his eyes. “Not going to shove my fingers in there, Hollander.” He pushes the ice bag back in place a little forcefully, earning a genuine ouch from Shane this time. When he sits back down, it's by Shane's side.
His body radiates warmth.
“I’m going to go away for a while,” Ilya confesses.
Shane's entire body goes stiff.
His blood starts running cold. Mean-spirited social media posts and headlines in second-rate online rags flash before his eyes. ‘Insider’ information that's wrong eleven times out of ten. Something something contract something something release something trade something whatever. Shane swears he doesn't pay attention to any of that. He doesn't.
His head snaps in Ilya’s direction, good eye blown wide.
Ilya expression is neutral, hard to read, but, when their eyes meet, it softens around the edges.
“Relax. Not forever,” he says, but Shane doesn’t relax. “Just to study some stuff. Try something new.”
What is he even feeling right now? What emotion is he even experiencing? Is it just cold? Pain? Fear? Anger? Frustration? What is the cause for his chest to feel like it's crumbling down like an old building? For the words ‘don’t go’ to be perched on the tip of his tongue?
He swallows them whole.
“Where to?” He asks, voice quiet.
“Not telling,” Ilya smiles again, this time mischievously. “You're going to hear about me.”
Fractured eye socket. Not too severe, heals in one month. He doesn't vacate the belt.
Overseas excursion. No destination, no return date. One announcement, as few words as possible.
Past the time he should be asleep, Shane stares at his phone with his good eye. Type in, backspace, type in, backspace.
He sends, when is your flight?
No answer.
Two years fly by.
Shane is warned beforehand, yes, but it's immediately before he heads out for his match. At the gate, even. Immediately before he has to get his head into the game, into fighting someone else, someone who's got nothing to do with any of that. No belt on his shoulder this time, so he has more to prove than ever, even though nothing material is on the line, and he's even further from the main event than the last time he's been to this arena.
The match goes on fine. He puts the information in a box, stacks it away. Forgets about it.
Which is why, as he's getting his arm raised to signalize his victory and he hears the first accords of a familiar song hit the speakers, the shock in his face is real. He does really, genuinely, stop dead in his tracks, pale and out of breath, feeling like a house of cards in the path of an incoming tornado.
The crowd is deafening, roaring, chanting – once more, those shitty online posts from years ago flash before his eyes, a bitter memory – and even from up in the ring, Shane can hear everyone at the commentary table losing their minds. They scream into their microphones, he made a name for himself in Mexico, made history in Japan, and left a big mark in his homeland of Russia! With a new look and a new attitude, this is the Return of the King, the Big Boss, The Hotshot, Roooozanov!
Rozanov looks like a different man entirely. Big sunglasses, long fur coat, blood red short shorts instead of black long pants. His hair is longer now, not as long as it’d been during his peak in Mexico, just before losing a lucha de apuestas against a beloved local maskman and getting shaved bald in the middle of the ring, the photos of that match were pretty funny—no, just a little longer than it had been when he left, curling right above the ears where Shane knows he’ll find new piercings, too. When he smiles, wide and malicious and positively joyous, his teeth are all in place.
He walks down the walkway, gets into the ring, and faces Shane in silence for a long while. Someone offers him a mic. He declines.
Instead, he extends a hand.
The crowd roars.
Shane feels a billion emotions revolt inside him, clawing at him, like the hands of the fans when he walks through them after a match, or like his colleagues and staff had been that time Rozanov knee’d his fucking face in. He feels pulled in every direction. He wants to laugh. He wants to say something. He wants to start a fight. He wants…
He steps forward, ready to accept the handshake. He extends his hand.
Rozanov slaps it away, and kicks him to the curb. Of course he does.
Their grudge match is a big deal when it comes. Most unusually, Ilya finds Shane backstage right before it. Shane lets himself be found.
He's not of the habit of talking to opponents before matches, friend or foe. Rozanov is definitely a foe. He doesn't know why he doesn't rush out of the waiting room when Ilya comes in, boots and pads in hands, but he doesn't.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
Shane is afraid of what he’ll say if he does.
He’ll go crazy if he doesn't, though.
“So,” he breaks the ice, rubbing his palms together. “How was Mexico?"
Ilya scoffs. “You know how was Mexico.”
Shane smiles. “I want to hear it from you.”
“Was fine.” Ilya starts fixing himself. Their match is up next. “Fun guys. Fun parties. Hot place.”
“The weather?” Shane doesn't know why he asks.
“Everything.” Ilya leers. Shane wants the conversation to be over. He longs for silence. “Have you been to Mexico?"
“No.” Not yet, he thinks. He feels like he's one identity crisis away from doing the Rozanov special, as they call it on the internet. Rebel against the company, go anywhere that pays, start dressing like a cartoon pimp and hitting people with construction tools and metal pipes when the ref isn't looking. People talk about it like it's a good thing.
Ilya nods at his answer. Kneepads on. One of them, only the left one, is discreetly trimmed in gold. It stands out to Shane's eye, distracting him. Rozanov’s new gear is entirely red and black, save for the fur. Even his piercings are silver.
His own gear, though, is white, blue, and gold. Sometimes white, red, and gold, or blue, red, and gold. The gold is just in the details, to symbolize his ambitions to be champion (is what he tells everyone) and to help him feel less like a walking flag (the real reason).
Shane eyes the gold trim like it's an extraterrestrial life form. He forgets to think.
“Come with me someday.”
Ilya’s voice breaks him from his spell. He looks up. “What?”
“To Mexico." Ilya smiles. “Let's tag-team.”
Shane laughs humourlessly, in pure disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Why not? No one cares in Mexico,” Ilya shrugs. He doesn't seem to have noticed the kneepad issue. “It’ll be fun. I would take you to parties.” He smiles wide, throwing his head back lazily, an old habit of his that itself has the habit of stealing Shane's words from his mouth. “I want to see you drink tequila.”
“We can drink tequila,” Shane says dismissively, “but we cannot tag, Ilya. We're about to have a grudge match, for God’s sake! In, like, ten minutes!”
More like fifteen, really, and Shane half expects Ilya to correct him right away, because that's another annoying habit of his – when they trained together, Shane would say something like, you’ve been jumping rope for hours to get him to relinquish possession of the rope, only for him to correct him with the exact time elapsed, and keep jumping. He doesn't realize he has that memory of his colleague so deeply embedded in his mind until he's faced with the strangeness of the silence that follows.
Ilya doesn't correct him at all. Instead, he looks at him with unreadable deep blue eyes, and says, “you said my name.”
Shane stops breathing.
Something in his chest – throat, lungs, whatever, wherever it is – swells like a fresh bruise, sealing his airways shut. He can't get a word of response out. Can't even get his thoughts in order.
At the precise moment he thinks he might do something mortifying, like faint from oxygen deprivation, or make an unsightly choking sound, a member of the staff walks in, walkie-talkie in hands. His steps stagger when he sees them both in the room, sitting side-by-side – surely a most alien scene, in context – but quickly recovers, clearing his throat.
“Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov, to the gate, please.”
Fighting Rozanov is completely different this time. Right before making his entrance, Shane had briefly worried about the effects of their talk in the waiting room on his fight – he wouldn't be weird about this, right? he couldn't fuck this match up! – but no, them cozying up to each other had no ill effect in the viciousness of their face-off. If anything, Shane felt even more vicious. Meeting Rozanov’s eyes on the ring filled his veins with fire. Fighting him felt electric, chaotic, magnetic, fun.
Rozanov’s style is a little different post-excursion. More measured, more inventive. Still hurts a whole fucking lot though. His chops still bruise him black and blue.
He hits him with a smile now. Every single white, perfect tooth on display.
Shane holds his ground in the center of the ring as Rozanov gets his offense in, putting his pectorals through absolute torture. Even when there's a lull in his rhythm, Shane can't do much other than grimace, a hand to the injured skin. That's when he feels a touch on the tip of his chin, out of place – delicate.
Ilya tilts his head up. Their eyes meet. Lights bright as ever right above them.
A brush of knuckles against Shane's right eye, still delicate, still careful. But the grin on Rozanov’s face, the way he bites his lip, all too pleased with himself, says all there is to be said. Taunting him.
Shane slaps him. Rozanov responds with a dropkick. A nasty addition to his arsenal, picked up in Mexico.
Shane gets up within the second, and dropkicks him back. Rozanov staggers to the ground. He takes his distance, rushes forward – double knee.
Hits him square on the jaw, right side. The crowd roars. Something goes flying – no, no way, there's no way.
He's frozen in place, mouth agape, until Rozanov comes out of it, vaguely aware of the commentary table screaming something into their mics, sounding, of all things, ecstatic. There's only a vague noise of disbelief in his brain as he watches Rozanov stare back at him, blood trickling from his mouth, every bit a ferocious wild bear back from a hunt. He spits a spray of red onto the mat.
Then, he smiles. A wide and toothy grin, the missing spot in the top row, right at the front, in full display.
Shane bursts out laughing.
Never mind the fact you should never laugh at someone losing a tooth, or the fact Shane Hollander never laughs in the ring, not even during comedy matches, he feels like he's possessed by a spirit, the way laughter pours out of him in bubbles, like it's lighter than air. Something about him managing to send that exact same tooth flying twice – like it somehow remembered him and acted accordingly, you hit, I fly away – fills him with a ticklish emotion, entirely too strange to examine mid-match.
Rozanov kicks him on the shins with force, still smiling.
“Jealous man,” he accuses, pressing their foreheads together in what he might’ve meant as intimidation, but fills Shane with the urge to run a thousand laps around the venue. “You will pay for this,” still smiling.
“In tequila, I suppose?” Idiot Shane says before thinking his words through.
Ilya’s grin widens.
“You said it.” His voice is a whisper; to everyone else, it must look like he's cursing Shane to death. He pulls closer. “I'll remember that.”
Before Shane can regret his words, Ilya spins him around, and hits him with a suplex that makes him see stars.