Chapter Text
Pure rice. Pemium sake. Supreme bliss.
These are the promises offered by a bottle of sake, or, at the very least, this is the spiel that AJ had been given by his Bullet Club buddies about two years ago. This premium, refined commodity, brewed in the Nara Prefecture and locally imported to Tokyo, was historically served only to the imperial court. Okay, that last part had always sounded a little embellished, but AJ had never been keen on fact-checking it. Being the Ace of the Bullet Club, he had truly felt like a king, so what did the truth matter, anyway?
Relatively speaking, AJ's time in Japan had been brief, his NJPW stint a quick blip between his decade with TNA and his new beginnings in the industry-leading WWE, but the impact of those two years had been nothing short of revolutionary. The newfound victories, alliances, adventures, and delicacies had been countless, with just one of those sweet delights being sake. Never before had a sip of rice wine been a possibility, or even an idea, on the rare fortnight when he drank, but during that wild whirlwind of a run, he spent a few merry evenings sharing a drink with his newfound buddies — his newfound kingdom.
The Kanji printed on a bottle forever remained a foreign code to AJ, but boy was that language barrier a road worth crossing. Only one July after his last hurrah in Tokyo, after the coup d'état against the Bullet Club’s natural leader, he was crossing that same road again.
In a dimly lit bar just a stone’s throw away from the Sumida River, the low tables were jammed disharmoniously together, the red lanterns lit deep into the night. The gentle quiet of Tokyo’s historic sumo district was disrupted by chattering, laughing, and a constant beck and call to a handful of aproned waiters, who coped decently with the demand to understand English. AJ had been to a few izakayas before, but this one, which had been fully reserved by WWE for the night, was fresh to his eyes.
Amid the orders and passing of drinks, the constant clattering of glassware, the superstars chatted merrily amongst themselves, unanimously impassioned by their brief tour in Japan. The last three days had been a sequence of chaos, translations, and house shows, so quick and turbulent an affair that even at the end of it, a few guys were still complaining about jet-lag. The cries were annoying, but worst of all were the incessant niceties being offered to a particular superstar.
“I'm so glad you're back, John.”
“Your match yesterday was amazing, John.”
“John, what drink are you having?”
John, this, John, that. Would it never stop? Upon Cena’s return to WWE a couple of months ago, the unbridled delight over the franchise's darling had become persistent noise. Everybody idolized him, convinced that anything he touched would turn to gold. After years of hearing about the guy from headlines, catching the occasional match on TV or VHS, and finally a few months of knowing him personally, grappling with him one-on-one, AJ still wasn't sure why the world thought John was so special. In fact, his most extraordinary trait was probably his knack for being handed golden opportunities. The neverending commotion had snowballed to the point that AJ’s blood boiled at the very mention of John’s name, because once someone got started up about the guy, they seldom shut up. Unfortunately, the only thing more annoying than the endless chatter about John was the man himself.
“A round of Junmai Ginjo sake for the table. Arigatou.” John said to a young, freckled waiter. He bowed his head slightly as he pointed a meaty finger over the flimsy menu. “You guys have to try this, it’s incredible.”
He sat at a table enmeshed in happy colleagues: Sheamus, Enzo & Cass, Jimmy & Jey, among others — a whole bunch of clowns. The table was low and cramped, emphasizing John’s hugeness, which was further enhanced by the lowness of the ceilings. In AJ’s experience, the low ceilings of many Japanese establishments (especially the less modern ones) had a way of making his colleagues appear larger than life, but John in particular had a uniquely ballooned-up physique that was generally reserved for comic books, so he just looked ridiculous. Add in his perfectly square jaw and chin dimple, and it almost seemed like he was deliberately trying to convince the world that he was something of a real-life Superman.
From the table across, AJ rolled his eyes.
“What next? Does he speak fluent Japanese?” he scoffed, mindlessly twirling his empty glass.
Karl and Luke laughed. They always laughed at AJ’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny. Their loyalty had been unwavering since day one in NJPW. Everyone else could go to hell.
Having loyal subordinates in your corner was always reassuring, even though AJ didn’t really need any help to win his matches. One such example was when he was faced with John. AJ hadn't needed outside help during their match at the other night’s house show, but that was just how the Club operated. No mercy. Also, beating up John Cena made for a fun group activity.
The clammer continued.
“Hey, do you actually speak Japanese?” Jimmy asked John above the rising noise.
“No, no,” John smiled, his dimples deep and smug, “Just a couple of words. I know more Mandarin than Japanese.”
“You're a real life-long learner for that. That's wild,” Sheamus said disbelievingly.
“Oh, shut up,” AJ sneered, not loud enough for his neighbour's ears, though John must have had superhuman hearing because he shot a no-nonsense, dead-eyed stare in AJ’s direction. AJ waved sarcastically back.
Karl obliviously chimed in and changed the subject. “Hey, I think tonight is our last chance to go back to that arcade from the other night. Do you guys want to go when this is over?”
“Ah, I don't think so,” Luke huffed, “Don't want to go all that way. Besides, I'd rather talk to that waitress than watch you die again in Time Crisis.” His beady eyes were set on a tall, ponytailed woman a few tables away.
Their corner table, flush to a wall of old sumo posters and paraphernalia, provided a fair view of the rest of the bar. The event was still gaining steam, with some empty seats scattered about and all the superstars clustered with their usual friends.
By the end of the night, the scene would be unrecognizable, with more empty glasses than attendees, multiple friend groups enmeshed, a few drinks accidentally shared, and maybe even an unlikely friendship. If the indies were any reflection of how things worked in WWE, that would be the night's natural conclusion. At the very least, AJ was sure that the indies were a reflection of real life, which was supposedly quite different from life in WWE. Thus, AJ was quietly curious to discover how the night would pan out, especially in a setting so foreign to his new colleagues. Though he had only lived in Tokyo for two years, and though there were no matches or battles to be won at an izakaya, AJ felt reinforced by something like a home advantage.
“Let’s try and go tomorrow before our flight. Tonight ends here,” AJ said, “And you know that'll go nowhere, right, Luke?”
“Who said anything about going anywhere?” Luke retorted dumbly, though his eyes were still on the pretty waitress.
A minute later, the freckled waiter returned with the round of sake for John's table. The glasses glistened like jewels, almost frosty from the chilled drink. John couldn't possibly have known it when he ordered with his pompous pronunciation, but a platter of chilled sake had been shared by the Bullet Club on more than one celebratory occasion during AJ’s reign as Ace. The sight was so tenderly familiar it seemed a mistake that it was being handed to John and his silver-spooned friends. The group clinked their glasses and took a synchronous sip.
“Ah! Now that’s a cup of bliss,” John exclaimed after a deep gulp, his dimples deep and merry.
AJ couldn't help but roll his eyes again. The guy spoke as if he were in a commercial.
In fact, at any point in time, John always seemed to sense a camera on him, a set of eyes, even if there was only a fly on the wall. It wasn't immediately noticeable, but his every gesture was marked by quiet deliberation. A pause. A swallow. A scrunch of his brow. This tendency could have been mistaken for endless reverence, but AJ recognized it as a product of his arrogance and status as a rising celebrity. Though he loved to toot his horn about caring for the WWE and eventually leaving it better than he found it, John would probably forget about wrestling altogether quite soon. With his recent bout of success in the film industry, he had found a greener pasture with brighter spotlights.
No problem. Or, rather, there should have been no problem, since there was better talent eager to occupy John’s spot. The major issue was John’s insistence that none of these inferences were true, that the WWE was his only home, and that AJ lacked the respect required to be the face of the company. Worst of all, he stubbornly insisted that his stamp of approval was required for the success of any future WWE headliner. The notion was absolutely laughable; AJ had just as much wrestling experience as John, and there was nothing John could do that AJ couldn't do better.
Mindlessly twirling his empty glass, AJ didn't realise how intently he had been glaring until John returned a skeptical frown. AJ bitterly turned away.
“Is it just me or does John look pissed?” Luke asked.
“Huh? He's drunk?” AJ perked, an eager grin tugging at his lips. The night was too young for even a slight drunkenness to be appropriate.
“No, no, I mean pissed off,” Luke corrected. “He did drink that sake like it was water, though.”
“Oh. So what?” AJ scoffed. Glancing aside, he accidentally locked eyes with John again, who wore a stoney pokerface, sitting silent as he pretended to listen to his babbling friends. What did he have to be pissed about? Was it because AJ had glared first, or was he still upset about getting beat up the other night?
Luke shrugged. “I dunno."
AJ frowned, slow as he turned away from John's illegible stare. “You don't know what?”
“I don't know… Wait, what are we talking about?” Luke squawked idiotically, his eyes narrow with thought.
“Cena,” Karl quickly answered.
“Yeah. We were talking about John Cena,” AJ scowled under his breath.
Perhaps John was indeed still pissed about losing the other night. Karl and Luke's intervention at the house show had helped AJ out of a tough spot, but regardless of outside help, that win was a total lock. Unfortunately, John loved to deflect from AJ’s wins by whining about legacy and respect and fairness, but he was really just just a sore loser. Heck, he was probably still resentful about Money in the Bank. That win had also been cinched with the interference of the Club. A pattern was definitely developing on that front, but was there really a need to assert once and for all that AJ required no help to beat up John Cena? Was that not already an obvious fact? Not only to the general public, but to John? And what about Karl and Luke?
The illegibility of John's expression was annoying. Everything about him was annoying. Even the way he smacked his lips after sipping his drink was annoying, his sudden return to merriment as he and his good-time buddies decided on another round of delicious sake. Before the waiter could leave, AJ beckoned his attention.
“Hey. We'll have what they’re having,” he said impulsively, gesturing vaguely at John’s table.
“Wait, wait. We? Who is we?” Karl asked. Generally, he only drank beer.
AJ allowed a silence to settle over the table. For the first time since they had sat down half an hour ago, the bar naturally settled to a near-quiet, and the timid radio jazz emanating from the speakers rang crystal clear.
“We is you three,” the waiter answered skeptically, sliding his finger to point to all three men. “Or am I wrong?”
Luke laughed. “You are absolutely right.”
“Come on. For old time's sake,” AJ nudged. “Who knows when we'll all be in Japan again.”
Karl playfully rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
Minutes later, when the waiter returned with two platters, AJ and John's tables raised their glasses and cheered in accidental unison.
AJ's first taste of the chilled sake went just as the saying goes: supreme bliss. Silky. Fragrant. Refreshing. Like a bursting river dam, memories of the Bullet Club — and not just Luke and Karl, but the full Club — flooded to mind: being hoisted up in victory while the crowd of Ryōgoku Kokugikan roared, the late nights at quiet izakayas, the crack-of-dawn convenience store runs, and marveling at how new everything and everybody was.
One particular night from early on burst through the crowded memories like a glaring light: at an izakaya just like this one, everyone was laughing, cheery with victory when Kenny reckoned how AJ was red in the face after one drink, how he would need to be carried home. At the time, AJ had snapped back with a joke — something about his phenomenal body changing colours — but even then, the moment had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Looking back, the remark wasn’t about being a lightweight. Sitting with a group of professional athletes, several of whom were straight-edge, the statement implied something much worse, something damning: an inherent need for help. A lack of self-sufficiency and firmness. The need to be carried by others. The moment was fleeting, inconsequential, but in hindsight, maybe there had been signs of disrespect early on in AJ’s reign as Ace. Maybe he should have been more attentive to possible competition.
Glancing back at John, AJ finished his drink quickly, as if it were water, and ordered another.
When his second order again matched John’s, he wasn't sure who was copying who anymore; after all, it seemed impossible that out of all the drinks on earth, two rivals were craving the exact same bottle. All AJ was certain of was that he wanted another cup of bliss. His and John's glasses were quickly emptied and more memories flooded in: fireworks, laughter, and raising the IGWP championship.
By the third drink, John was shooting dubious glances in AJ’s direction. One look lingered a little too long, a little too deliberate, and with that, AJ quietly committed himself to matching his rival's consumption for the rest of the night. He wasn't sure what motivated this; after all, he'd never before done anything remotely similar. Deep down, he recognized a shallow yearning for the still-recent past as well as a vague apprehension for the future. He never doubted himself, though; he simply knew how WWE guys loved to sideline any indies competition, self-made talent deemed unworthy by egotistical industry leaders. Above these other factors, the self-righteous flare of John's Superman dimples was really starting to piss him off. The guy needed immediate humbling.
Thus began a series of rounds, platter after platter precariously balanced on the waiter’s hand. As the night progressed, AJ kept a mental inventory of John's consumption and consistently matched it, flashing a discerning look with each glass that was served to him. Karl stopped drinking early, and Luke eventually talked to the pretty waitress, but AJ was never alone when the crowd of colleagues around him grew endlessly. In the throbbing heart of the chaos, there were moments when he could barely hear himself think, and yet John's laughter was always audible, hearty and deep and smug. That alone was enough to make a man sick.