Chapter Text
03.2023
Heartbeats, old wounds (nothing). longest month since 2020. no time at all.
A drop of sweat rolls down my forehead. I’m breathing slow– too damn slow, not scrambling to my feet, the pain in my body a two-month old ache. It’s not the ring. It’s just the heat. I roll over on the couch, blink in the bright sunlight from the patio door. Do something. Anything.
I could plant the grocery bag full of seeds and soil that waits by the patio door. I could go swimming – the whole place is nice , a Florida home that feels like a palace. The kind of thing that New Japan top gaijin money can buy, and it’s just as well that I have the AEW advance to pay the mortgage.
I didn’t – expect it to be that easy. Feels like it shouldn’t be this easy.
But isn’t that the switchblade name? Khan shaking my hand, sweaty-palmed, saying he loved my last match. I grimaced, nodded. They all love to see me fall– isn’t that their entertainment ? And I guess. I will keep delivering.
There’s a barely-eaten bag of chips scattered on the coffee table. New Japan playing on the flat-screen TV. It’s like a money mark lives here, rather than my ghost. This might as well be a resort for me, for all the time I’ve spent here. In the pandemic, it felt like a prison. I used to call the Club from poolside, brag about what they were missing. And then? Swim a few laps, work out, and try not to think about where all of this was going.
I think I bought those seeds in 2021. Do seeds go bad?
A low drone comes in from the speakers and I snap upright. The Club’s theme. David swaggers in, shoulders decked with knives, like he’s the Switchblade now. The crowd isn’t really buying him as leader yet. My stomach churns. In front of him, Phantasmo pulls out a sign, admiring it. David rips it in half.
It should make me happy, shouldn’t it? Seeing discord in my absence. Kenta stalks in behind, boredom in his eyes. No, seeing this just makes me feel sick. I promised to be there. And they’re – fractured.
It’s a week old match, so I skip away to David’s comments– big talk about taking down baby boy Umino. I know that kind of talk well. David Finlay is a killer now. I’ve been waiting – so long to see him take that up. But it’s all wrong. Like some kind of pastiche. He’s stepped into shoes that just. Don’t. Fit.
I could watch him lose to SANADA. But I don’t…think that will make me feel any better.
I shut the TV off. I should probably eat something. Work out. Do something before I’m the one behind that camera again. I take my shirt off, half out of habit. My shoulder twinges, hard enough to make me gasp.
God. This has been the longest rest I’ve had in months, and there’s still pain that I’m practically used to. No wonder Ibushi the god fell apart. No wonder.
I shuffle outside, past the unplanted seeds and into the bright sunlight. The pool glitters, blue like those American tag belts they have on Strong. A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek. I could get in. It would probably feel–
The sound of the slap hits my back, I wobble, balance off, hit the water with the grace of a young lion, then surface, sputtering and coughing.
“What the–” I sputter. Juice’s laugh hits my ears before I get the water out of my eyes. I glare up at his sunglasses. “What the fuck, Juice?”
“You looked hot! Still look hot, of course, but…cool. You know.”
I feel like a drowned rat. I push myself out on to the edge. The sweat is off me at least. Maybe I even feel the ache a little less. Juice kicks off his sandals and sits beside me, fluttering his legs in the water.
I squeeze the water out of my hair. He grins, pats me on the back. I guess this is just how it’s going to be with Juice. “Very funny. So. Did you come to get the play for my debut? Because I have to be honest with you Juice, I have no idea what I’m going to do there. Not a clue.”
“I was too busy thinking about this awesome pool to think about that. Do we need a plan? Too-sweet, amirght?” he offers his hand with a crooked grin.
“I dunno that we can do that anymore, Juicy. Are we…Bullet Club?”
“Sure, we’ll make our own bullet club! With black jack! And hookers!”
“You’re crazy, we can’t just–”
“Oh right, right, no hookers for Jaybay. But we’ll make it happen. Just you and me. Like when we got started, but better.” He’s like an eager dog. And worse yet, he knows me– I owe him this bone at least.
“Alright. Yeah. Yeah, no hookers, gold-members only.”
“Me?” he says it so genuinely surprised. I give him a gentle shove. I should dunk him in the pool.
“Course I mean you.”
He responds by pointing his fingers, like a series of guns. Huh.
“Hey, do that again,” I say, imitating the movement. Water from my fingers glints in the high noon sun. Yeah.
“What, like?” he tries to cross his gun with mine. Yeah–
“Higher. Yeah, like that.”
“Guns up?”
“Oh now we’re getting it. Again.”
“Guns up!” And this time, I do shove him in the water, the splash hitting my cheek as he sputters, then replies with: “YEAH!”
I laugh, something like relief seeping through me. Yeah, that’s new. That’s something we can use.
05.04.2023
Knuckles stinging (cheap shots to a hard skull), jaw smarting (got one good one back, but it’ll fade). No real marks.
The drums of my own entrance music thrum in my ears as I walk out– Juice behind, I turn around, give him one last touch, my gun to his. Absorb the cheers of the crowd. Smile, smile. Scream at the camera, Still! My! Era! As if that means anything here.
It seems to mean something to them.
To me, I walk backstage and feel like this…switchblade-suit I’m putting on is about to unravel at any second.
“You good, Jay-bay?”
“Think so. Yeah,” the curtains shuffle back and forth, the crowd’s reaction still audible from here. Hell of a flashy setup for a house show. That’s just how they do it in America.
“Sit here,” he hops up on a large box, and I nod, joining him. The vantage point is good. I can scope the rest of the roster, moving to and fro. Who might be sizing me up. Making me a target.
Juice knocks his head into my shoulder gently. “You know, I’m pretty excited. You and me, teaming up. The crowd is hot on Ricky, so it’ll get eyes on us when you crush him. Maybe both of us if he can get himself a partner…”
“Tagging. A little warm-up, just like…over there huh?” the word Japan sticks in my throat.
“If that’s what you want it to be, people take the tag champs seriously here. The Young Bucks wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“And you want–”
He cuts me off, one hand on my shoulder “I’m just going with the flow. Don’t rush into a chase, Jay. I was just getting excited to be back together.”
“Right yeah, yeah.” I don’t want to ask him about the last time he was together with a tag partner, the tag partner that’s at the head of Bullet Club right now, no ‘gold’, no cute little gun pose. Gedo-gilded, the real deal.
Or that’s probably what David is telling himself. It was easy to do, early days with Gedo. He knows how to flatter. He flatters the same way when he’s lining up the replacement.
The dim backstage lighting catches a familiar face. Shit. Shit, it’s Kingston. Can he see me? What’s he expecting? I forgot that he’s front and center, bigger here than Strong. And I've lost to him. I have to take that seriously, need to fight to establish my place here.
The sweat rolls down my neck. I stand up on the box, the height ridiculous enough that one of the security staff starts to glance over.
“Hey Kingston. Where do you think you’re running – “ across the room, Kingston’s granite sharp-eyes zero in on me. The target “– to.”
Juice tugs on my jeans. One of the bald security man waves me down, “Hey, uh, can you get down from there. This isn’t the ring.”
I hop down to the floor, eyes still on Eddie. He’s crossing the room, ease in his movements. Shit. I should have– scoped the exits before he– he’s standing right in front of me. Smells like blunt and cigarette smoke. He glances to Juice.
“This your dog?”
Juice just grips my arm, making a small noise.
“Oh, so you’re his dog. Even though he’s the one yipping. Okay.”
“You– don’t talk to him like–” I’m losing it, fuck, I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be anywhere, he’s staring at me with that split eyebrow cocked.
“Now I put you down too soon for you to ask for seconds. So why you asking?” Kingston asks it so mildly. Not a threat, just honest curiosity tinged with a bit of annoyance. I swallow a lump in my throat. I don’t know how to answer him. Not with a fist.
He taps one finger on his temple, walking away. “Mind your head. I don't got time for whatever's going on in there.”
I watch him swagger off to where Moxley waits. Moxley at least glares at me. Kingston– doesn’t even look back. Juice shakes my shoulder with a small noise. Right. Fuck.
“I'm. I'll get him.”
“You don't need to do that, Jay,” he says, shaky, uncertain. And I don’t really believe him.
My hands are tied. Arms, too, legs, knotted, how in the fuck did one sheet tangle so badly?
I surface from my bed, kicking all of it off, finally. I tap my phone, the glow answering me. It is still around four in the morning. I’m lucky I don’t have to be on the road tomorrow, don’t have to wrestle for a week more at least.
I stretch my feet onto the floor and head in to the kitchen. Get a cool blast of air from the fridge. Stare at the overflow of half-used containers, molding leftovers, and close it, get a glass of water from the sink. God I wish I could sleep. Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s the fact that Kingston’s words keep buzzing around my thoughts like flies, no matter what I do.
Mind your head. Really. What’s been going on in my head lately. Because when I think about it? It’s been shit. And maybe I do mind.
Everything is changing, all around me, new places, new faces.
It would be well into the afternoon in Japan. I check my phone for the date, but somehow I know: Sakura Genesis is today. A sigh ripples through me. I’m getting up, before I’ve even consciously committed to it.
The early dawn half-light from the floor to ceiling windows casts a yellow miasma around my living room. I switch on the television, fiddle with the settings and load up New Japan. The home I’ll never return to.
Just in time for the finish of the Bullet Club match. Just my fucking luck. I swallow a lump in my throat. It’s Phantasmo’s music that’s blaring, as he slumps in the corner, grinning, spent. David scrabbles his way from the barricade to the ring, stormy-faced. He grabs a piece of the action, smashing his belt into the traitor Tama’s face, and Phantasmo just — watches. Watches until David starts to go at defenseless Tama, and then pulls him off as the crowd starts to cheer his name.
Oh god, he’s in the snake pit. Alone. Gedo and Kenta, acting the peacemakers as the crowd murmurs, but I know them, know that Kenta is just waiting for an opening to –
There it is. There he is– the goddamn reason to keep every member of the Club at arm’s length. Go2Sleep. The bell sounds, ineffectual as always, and I should just turn this off, the way that Gedo swarms his helpless body.
Fuck, Phantasmo won them the match. And they're still at him like a pack of dogs.
One more surprise as David raises the shillelagh. Ishimori pops up, stops him. My heart beats in my throat. They were a good tag team once. Maybe that –
Ishimori smiles. David– he has them now. I know it. Whatever promises of gold, whatever help Gedo gave him– the Club is his. And Phantasmo? I force myself to watch his exile, watch the shillelagh find its mark. Ishimori and Kenta laughing beside him.
I thought– I always thought this would be my end, if I’m honest. Bullet Club leaders don’t ‘ ride off into the sunset ’, whatever Phantasmo said. They’re sacrificed to a new altar of success.
I pace, up and down the kitchen. Pour myself another glass of water, hesitate, splash water in my face instead. Didn’t Phantasmo text me? How long does he need for backstage comments? I shouldn’t call during them. That would be – too much. Probably.
I cross back to the bedroom, find the 😎 marked entry in my phone. Breathe in– dial. The phone rings once, twice. Three times– maybe I should–
“Mm. Hey,” the voice on the line is thick, painful even. I pause. I didn’t really plan what to say.
“Hey. I just saw you – are you okay?”
“Jay? That you?” Phantasmo laughs, shaky but– joyful. “Oh my god. It's good to hear from you man. Uh. No I dunno that I am okay, but you know, it's fine, that's wrestling. Right?”
“You hurt? make sure to ice what needs to be iced. Easy to forget,” I keep the last words light, feel stupid saying it. But it did feel like months before the color of Kingston’s chops faded, so–
“Right. Right. Ice. Got it got it,” he mumbles. There’s some rustling on the other line. “Ooh. Ow . Okay yeah good call. Yeesh.”
“It looked like that shillelagh hurt.”
“And my balls. Fuck, man. I didn’t like where things were going but. Fuck.”
“I'm sorry I couldn't be there. That bastard got you good. And god, Ishimori. I mean, I would have thought, but I never thought he’d do that to you. ”
“Yeah. So much for 4Life, huh?” I can hear him shaking his head. “It was no fun without you anyhow. I'll find another stable.”
I sigh, watching the orange of the sun start to climb along the horizon. I’ve spent so much time here wishing I was somewhere else. “I should be taking you out for drinks like you did for me, after Wrestle Kingdom.”
“Ah if only I was on the card for Capital Collision. Say hi to Okada for me, I guess.”
“Okada?” my heartbeat kicks up double time, all my muscles tensing. There’s a quizzical silence on the other line. I force a laugh, a moment too late “Why would I–”
“Oh, sorry I just thought–”
“Right. Um. No. I haven't seen him. I mean, I did see him at Battle in the Valley. But. Um–” – what then? It was just business? That I let him choke me out and left my shirt in his room? That I still wish–
“Yeah I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Right,” god, I still wish. Shit. get it together. Um– “Did Robbie call you too?”
That’s so direct – more so than I ever would have been as leader, couched in euphemism, of course I know (have to know where everyone’s desires are, always) – but of course some indiscretions are permitted (it won’t interfere, he wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t push back)--
“Yeah he was texting if I was okay. He's probably going to say he's proud of me or some shit. Stupid asshole.” There's a smile in Phantasmo’s voice. My heartbeat clenches in my chest.
“Glad you can see him– that he’s there for you,” I manage it, almost a whisper.
“Hey, me too. Also I’d love to catch up but it’s pretty late there isn’t it.”
“Yeah – I wasn’t sleeping too well. I’d better go,” take that graceful exit, before I fall apart from the head down.
“Call me Saturday? I think I could get up for 8am, if you’re around Friday night. I’d really like that. Jay. I miss you a lot man.”
“Course. Saturday. Er, Friday. It’ll happen.”
“Talk soon.”
The line goes dead. I drop the phone on the coffee table, collapse back down on the couch. Exhausted and yet– still buzzing. More than ever. The skylight on the high ceiling stares back at me.
There’s a kind of insanity to Phantasmo just…calling Robbie. Going out for drinks with him. Have at least someone to console him from being tossed out of the only home he’s ever fought for. I never thought I’d be envious of Phantasmo. He’s low-card, comedy– he’d say so himself. It’s why he was so easy to be around.
Kingston’s quip slaps me again.. Mind your head . That’s the last thing I’ve been doing with Okada. The last thing.
I roll over, facing the soft dark of the couch. This time, it's Okada's words that come back to me. I wish we could have.. Before. I feel like I can trace back exactly when before is – it’s not when I left CHAOS and took Gedo with me. It’s before he threw himself off the deep end, red hair, clownlike pants. And I wouldn’t go fishing with him.
Stupid to think about that now. I’m here, in America, I’ve lost it all, and he’s halfway across the world in a country and company where I’m not supposed to go. I’m not welcome there.
It’s high noon by the time I open my eyes again. Glance at my phone, scroll through the latest match outcomes. A world away, Kazuchika Okada has lost the IWGP championship. And I’m still thinking about fishing.