Title: Biting Down
Author: Alyssa Kendall
Pairing: AJ Styles/Samoa Joe, hints of AJ Styles/Christopher Daniels, and excessive mentions of Joe's towel
Rating: PG-13 with a little excessive language.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own.
Summary: From when the cameras stopped rolling. AJ Styles' breakdown, and how only one person could bring him back. Because true friends are the ones there to catch you, no matter how hard you fall.
It's essential to know that this story takes place during Thursday's episode of iMPACT, in which AJ was thrown out of the arena by Flair in order to "recoup" and think about who he wants to be. AJ was shown outside the 'Zone, having something of a mental breakdown, and well...this here is where it continues. Below the line, I've transcribed the scene in italics. The actual story begins the following paragraph. I did my best to explain the quadrangle-love-affair of Wolfe/Daniels/Styles/Joe from Samoa Joe's perspective, because he's the one that tells the story. Yeah, we're in second person, guys. It's more or less my specialty.
In the mean time, I'm new to - I'm used to the format of LiveJournal, so...be patient with me, and...enjoy the story! I believe I got all the format from the HTML document out, but if you see a stray tag here or there, please let me know.
"Almost human, but I'll never be the same" -John Rzeznik
"GAH!" AJ kicks the door, slamming his hands against the orange, Stucco wall. "Want me to go home, and recoup...think about who I wanna be? I'm a pro-wrestler! I'm gonna be the best wrestler in the world." He pauses and breathes heavily, leaning against his fists on the wall. Panting, he whispers the next words. "I gotta kill Jay Lethal is what I gotta do. It's exactly what I wanna do. I'm gonna tell Eric Bischoff that I want Lethal at Slammiversary!" With another slam of his fist, he cries out, "Ugh, FREAK!"
He takes off past you in a whirlwind of blue and black tights. Short brown locks with hints of blonde and yellow seem to swirl together as you hear the door slam. Beside you, Shelley grunts to Sabin something that sounds like "What's his problem?" but quickly shuts his mouth, wide-eyed, when you target a death glare in his general direction. No one asks why you're friends.
Outside the door, you can hear the rattle of an aluminum trashcan, and a dull smack! against the wall. A muffled voice carries through the cracks as you stand up, wearing just your trunks and your signature towel around your neck. The door is only a few yards away from the bench where you've been sitting, another crash, another shout.
"-I gotta kill Jay Lethal is what I gotta do…"
You raise an eyebrow as he continues to speak the words – spoken hushed and muffled in that Southern inflection – and open the door so quietly that he doesn't even notice. Lost in his words, he presses his face to his hands as the wall is sure to leave a textured imprint.
"No, you are not going to kill Jay Lethal, Jones." Unable to continue listening to him, you interrupt, watching as he screams again, cursing, and turns away to meet the eyes of a young, intimidated cameraman that neither of you have noticed until this instant.
You scowl. Bischoff's boys don't even have the decency to let you have a breakdown without having to stalk you all over the 'Zone, catching it on film, and chopping and screwing it all up in the editing room until there's nothing left of your pride for the fans to swallow. A fine price to be paid with nothing in return, you think. AJ raises his hand at the kid – who only looks to be about twenty – shouting, "GET THAT OUT OF MY FACE! DON'T YOU DARE EVEN CUT THAT, I'LL MAKE SURE -"
When it's obvious that the kid is about to wet himself, you take a step in, grabbing AJ's hand and snarl at the camera to "JUST GO!" AJ whips his head back, eyes cutting like daggers into yours as you stare back, holding his hand, twisting and locking him into an arm bar behind his back. You learned the technique in Judo back when you were only thirteen, but it's the one move that works the best of any when you want someone to stop what they're doing without hurting them.
Never in your life have you seen him intentionally act this way. Even after everything you'd been through together – you, and him, and Chris – he's never broken down so hard and so fast before. You have to admit that while the recent development of this 'too cool to care' AJ Styles didn't really fit the motif you went for in a friend, seeing him like this wasn't the alternative you'd searched for. Swallowing, you hold his arm, patiently waiting for the outburst to pass.
The whole thing had been a roller coaster ride, after all, ever since you'd returned to the tapings and the tours. Your knee still hurts, you think, but overall, it's heeled nicely while everything else seemed to fall apart. When you left, AJ Styles had consumed all he had known of Allen Jones, but Christopher Daniels was still on the roster, and Desmond Wolfe was merely the loudmouth in the corner. And now that you're back, you think, you should've just stuck with the fucked up knee. Now, you've found yourself doing everything you can to bring back the one person you for whom you brought your own self back. Your only welcome back gifts, you think, were Chris's departure in a rage of fury, and a bunch of missing puzzle pieces caught somewhere between Allen Jones, Desmond Wolfe, and the Lord God and Savior.
AJ breaks your thoughts with a groan. "I'll kill him!" he says through gritted teeth to you when you don't let go immediately. "I'll kill him, I'll kill him and Lethal both! There'll be nothing left!" The cameraman runs off and AJ struggles slightly against your hold, but your feet are planted firmly into the pavement.
"No, Allen," you speak your words calmly and slowly, but loudly enough for him to hear you over his struggling and the occasional roar of chants from inside the building and alongside the arena in the Universal Studios. "You are not going to kill anyone. You're not even going to assault anyone, okay?"
"I'LL DO IT!" he shouts louder while you persistently keep your grip. "I'LL MAKE SURE OF IT! YOU'LL SEE! AND KAZ'LL SEE! AND DES AND RIC'LL SEE! I'M SERIOUS! LEMME GO, JOE! UGH!" his shout turns into a whimper as you torque his arm just a little to keep him from getting worked up again. Fighting fire with fire, as the old saying goes.
You've never been attracted to any other man. And in a way, you aren't sure you can even say that you're attracted to AJ, either. With him, it's different – moving beyond the nights in the bed kept like dark secrets in the back of the top shelf in storage. In one way, it was the lips, and in another way, it was curiosity and desire, folded into something more, something so complex you aren't even sure you could label it, even if you wanted to. In the end, you've kissed him, you've touched him, you've tasted him, you've fucked him. Still, every time, he's left you wanting to explore more. No longer was it about testing the waters or your limits. A shiver runs down your spine as you watch him twist now, so different from all the times before.
"No, Allen, no one is going to see you kill anything." You continue to speak slowly, "Not Lethal, not even a spider. It's against the Bible, remember? Your Ten Commandments – Thou Shall Not Kill?" You're sure your voice dips to be a little condescending as you say it, but giving into him would just reinforce him now. He doesn't need hugged, he doesn't need his ass kissed. The only thing he needs, you think, is what you're currently giving him: tough love. No one else has been able to provide it. The rest have either run off or given in, and you've watched the birth of AJ Styles – the Man, the Myth, the Monster.
"I DON'T CARE!" he shouts again, turning his head as best he can to look at you, but when he does the muscles in his shoulder work against the ones in his forearm that you're holding, and he groans out in pain and grits his teeth. "I don't care anymore!" he lets out another scream as he twists in your grip, trying to duck down to pull the locked arm up over his head. His shoulder joint creaks and you pull his back closer to your chest.
"Yes, you do care. Don't be an idiot." you say the words as he pants, a new bead of sweat falling from his brow and dripping onto your wrist where you're holding him back. Your other arm is still locking his behind his back, and for a moment, AJ pauses. "The harder you struggle, the more it's going to hurt, Al."
"No, no I don't care! I don't care!" he repeats the phrase and gasps, a small whimper of an "ugh!" escaping his lips as he presses back up against you this time. You can see his eyes close, and without even realizing it, you frown and clench your own jaw while your stance is unmoving
The words cut through you, but you stand your ground, wondering if he's still the same person. A man possessed, he shouts the words though you know he doesn't mean them. Part of you wants to shout at him, to ask him who he is and how he used to care, but you know it's the last thing he needs to hear now. You feel a sensation flip-flop in your gut, when you consider how much he used to care about everything in the business, when he and Lethal had even been friends. Everyone on the roster had been friends, before the cut-throat nature of competition set in and the pressure built up. In walked Hogan, Bischoff, and Flair when suddenly the world of TNA as all of you had known it was flipped upside down.
The cameraman that you scared off only moments ago must've gone in and squealed on you, because moments later, the same dented door flies open again, and there stands Morgan, Jesse, Bubba, and Devon, rushing toward you. For a moment, you're certain you can hear Sabin and Shelley's distinctive voices in the background. It's Bubba's voice that interrupts the loud chaotic hum, questioning, "What the fuck is going on here?"
Morgan is standing over the both of you like the shadow of a skyscraper, and Jesse's hair brushes against the skin on your shoulder. Another hand reaches over and rests on your back, when AJ shudders in your arms. "You're hurting him!" Jesse accuses, only to be shushed by Devon
"I GOT IT, ALL OF YOU, PLEASE!" you hear yourself shouts as AJ squirms, telling everyone, including you, to "keep their paws off of him." "LEAVE ME ALONE, GET OUT! I GOT THIS! HE'LL BE ALRIGHT, JUST – FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!"
It turns out that it is one of the Machine Guns' hands on your back after all, because the last thing you remember hearing is their protests when Bubba shouts, "AND YOU PRICKS, GIVE THE MEN SOME SPACE!" while Devon leads the rest of them out. You look up for a moment just to see him look you directly in the eye, warning, "We'll be right inside if you need us, Joe." You can't remember if you nodded or not.
AJ pushes up against you, and then tries to pull away once again, groaning before you decide you cannot take this frenzy any longer. You quickly drop his arm and pull him into something of a lopsided bear-hug from behind as the exit door slams from the 'Zone. "LET ME – THE FRICK – OUT, JOE!" he gasps. You can feel the friction his body is creating up against your arms and chest, ignoring the fact that you're certain it'll be chafed in the morning. Resting you chin on his shoulder, you deepen your voice, and speak loudly
"THAT'S ENOUGH, ALLEN! KNOCK IT OFF! YOU'RE CAUSING A REAL FUCKING RIOT OUT HERE, ACTING LIKE A CHILD! Now stop!"
Even after five long years, nights in Florida are still so humid for you, and you can feel the beads of sweat on your own brow begin to break as you struggle against him. AJ may be smaller than you, but he's still two-hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle working against you as you tighten your grip on your wrists. You can feel his fingers trying to tear the grip on yours apart. The tape on his wrist and his elbow pads are beginning to slide off in his unfruitful efforts.
"SCREW YOU! GET ME OUT OF HERE, LET ME OUT, JOE!"
"Not until you calm your ass down, Jones!" you respond, gritting your teeth while your biceps burn.
The struggle lasts a few moments longer as he kicks his feet, grunting and twisting for a few minor seconds that seem to last for hours, when suddenly, it's over. Suddenly, he's lying limp in your arms. With the exception of his chest expanding and contracting against you, he abandons the fight and collapses. The sudden lack of force and counter force that you learned about in some sort of high school physics course only-God-knows how long ago throws your balance, and you take a singe step back to keep from stumbling.
"Allen," you speak the words calmly, softening your tone. There's no reason to scold him, you think, when he's finally learning to cooperate, even if it is a little more dramatically than you would have preferred. "Allen, look at me." He continues to slump in your arms as his shaking breaths are the only indication to you that he's still alive. You relax your grip just a little. "I'm going to let you go, alright?"
He gets a three second count to get to his feet as you slowly let him go. Yet, as he takes a step forward, all the strength in his body seems to give away. You watch, almost as in slow motion, as his legs crumble beneath him, and he collides with pavement, face-first, into the gravel. A panic signal sounds in your body as you quickly dive forward after him, trying to catch him, but it's too late. You ignore the jarring in your knees as you land beside him, reaching out over him, calling his name. "ALLEN? SHIT, ALLEN! Are you okay? Fuck!"
An image flashes through your mind of a similar situation in a simpler time – back in '06 at Against All Odds, in a triple threat match between the both of you and Daniels. Neither of them would never let you forget that you had botched the ending about ten minutes too early, leading to an impromptu series of high-risk maneuvers that left Chris with a sprained neck, AJ with a sprained ankle, and yourself with the start of many knee injuries to come. The difference then, was that you were able to all walk away laughing, pinning different blames amongst yourselves when Jarrett was still in charge – laughing as well.
Even though you've been told by management that you aren't supposed to help your co-workers if you think they've been legitimately injured - because you could make the situation worse - your instincts tell you to act otherwise. You reach over to him, kneeling down close alongside him, when all you hear is the quiet burst of hushed tears. His chest heaves against the ground as you slide your arm underneath his chest and pull him up. As you go to turn him over, to rest his head on your lap, he catches himself on his palms and continues resting on his hands and knees. Wet and matted pieces of highlighted hair are plastered to his forehead. With nothing else you can think to do, you press a hand to his back and begin to trace small circles, hanging your head parallel to his. AJ's eyes are clenched shut, but it doesn't seem to keep the tears from falling freely from his eyes and splashing onto the ground.
"Shhh, hey. Allen, things'll be alright," you whisper to him as his chest continues to heave. He shakes his head back and forth, choking on a sob.
"No, Joe, it's not alright, IT CAN'T BE ALRIGHT, FRICKIN'…FREAK!" his choice of words and consistent lack of swearing always makes you want to smile, but tonight, all you want is for him to relax. You continue to trace your hand along his spine, and as long as he isn't hurting himself or anyone else, you figure it's probably best for him to get it all out now. More tears fall toward the pavement.
"DOES IT LOOK ALRIGHT TO YOU, JOE? DO THINGS SEEM ALRIGHT? Ric wants me to go home, he says, because I can't even beat Jay Lethal right now – wants me to think, to recuperate because I used to be the best, didn't you HEAR him, JOE? Are you frickin' deaf? I'm supposed to be the best, Joe! Dixie and Hogan and Flair and Bischoff and everyone want me to be the best and I CAN'T EVEN BEAT LETHAL? Now they're bringin' up Kaz so I can be replaced when-"
"Allen, get a grip," you hear yourself say in a firm tone before you can stop yourself, still bending over, eyeing closely. "No one said you had to be the best, okay? Lethal's great, and you are allowed to make a few damn mistakes every now and again, you know that. Don't be ridiculous!
For a moment he goes quiet again, with your hand still running along his back. In a quick rush he sits back up on his knees, looking up. You can see the hot tracks streaked along his face as he wipes the back of his hand along his nose and takes a breath before snapping his face back to you. His eyes meet yours and for a moment, you see a swirling combination of fire and ice.
"I…I c-can't do it!" he speaks with a plead. "Please, freaking ilisten/i to me when I tell you I CAN'T DO IT! I CAN'T DO IT, JOE!" You raise an eyebrow before he can continue.
"Can't do what? Whatever it is, yes you can-"
Before you finish your statement, he cuts you off with a mouthful of fire. "ALLEN, AJ, AJ, ALLEN, I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FRICK I'M SUPPOSED TO BE, AND DAMN IT, I CAN'T TURN IT OFF, JOE!" Hysterically, he screams, and you can see the small flecks of saliva fly from his mouth as he grits the words. A new, fresh path of tears marks his face as his voice cracks. His fingers dig into his thighs in what looks to be a grip of steel. "I C-CAN'T!"
"LISTEN TO YOURSELF," you respond the same way, looking directly at him. You lower your hand so that it's resting on his waist as his body shakes with each word he speaks. "LISTEN TO YOURSELF – YES, YOU CAN DO IT! You're Allen Jones, and you are STRONGER than AJ Styles! DON'T YOU TELL ME YOU'RE NOT!" You glare at him for a few moments as he continues to quiver, inching yourself over on your knees so that you are kneeling directly in front of him. Despite the fact that he still won't look directly at you, you reach out, extending your hands to hook onto his shoulders. "You look at me right now Allen Jones, and you better fucking tell me right now that yes, you know you can do this; that you can work through this."
"No, Joe!" he speaks at last. He breaks the grip of your hands when he practically bends in half at the waist as he says it, and within another moment, he's banging his fists against the pavement once more. "WHAT WOULD YOU FREAKIN' KNOW ABOUT THIS, JOE?" he looks up, screaming once again. The words hit you in the face like a windstorm. "WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW, HUH? THEY TRIED TO GET RID OF YOU, AND –and they warned me, they told me! I can't…I can't…I can't…" you hear him stumble over the words as he looks back up at you. "And I l-lost Chris, and I c-can't lose you!"
The words hit you like a DDT, grabbing your head and taking you down into the ground with him. For all that you know Chris has meant – and still continues to mean – to him, he's just placed you on the same pedestal. Nevermind the nights they've spent together in hotel beds, ignoring you and waiting for you to sleep. His voice says it all as the words fall from his lips; the same lips you've kissed and have kissed you back. The words replay in your head a second and third time, twisting in your chest, taking your breath and holding it for several seconds before you can regain your own composure.
Finally, you think, when the hysteria begins once again, this needs to end. He isn't making sense, and if he doesn't learn to relax soon, the whole roster will be celebrating the premature death of Allen Jones and AJ Styles all wrapped up into one oak casket because he'll end up having a heart attack or an aneurism if he keeps going in the direction he's headed. You jump to your feet and grab your towel from the ground. You shake it off and twist it as you quickly take a step behind him and kneel once again, and reach over his shoulders with the terrycloth rope.
"Bite it," you speak firmly as he breathes quickly. Judging by the way his chest is rising and falling rapidly, turning a vivid shade of red, he's hyperventilating. He sits up just a little, turning his head only a few degrees before he listens, sinking his teeth down hard into the cloth.
His chest continues to rise and fall when you reach with your free hand around his waist and seize his hand. "Squeeze," you instruct in the same way. It takes him a few moments to comprehend what it is that you mean specifically, but within seconds he's got a steely grip around your thick fingers. You let him do most of the work, but occasionally you squeeze back; if anything, for reassurance.
"Let it go, Allen. All of it. It's done now, it's over. Let it go."
Words you've heard before, you think, even as you say them. Words he's told you, before, straddling you, with fingers trailing down your sides. In a way, it's the same, you think. Crossing lines neither of you have ever thought you'd have to cross before with one another. Reassuring words taken beyond their meanings.
You let him sit a few moments, wrapping your arms around him as the minutes tick slowly past. You can feel tiny goosebumps forming on his sweat-dampened skin as a warm breeze rolls through, ruffling the trees in the distance beyond the arena. The sky seems to stay a permanent shade of twilight, even into the middle of the night, you think, amongst the Orlando city limits. AJ is still trembling against you, despite the intervals between quiet sobs growing longer and fewer. It impresses you, you think, when you consider how fast everything happens. Any moment, you're anticipating Morgan or even Stinger to come out and call you for your match, but as AJ's grip seems to loosen on your fingers, no one yet comes to the door.
Inside the arena, you can hear the crowd to continue to shout muffled chants, when AJ's hand lets go of yours entirely, and he reaches up to pull the towel from his mouth. Without saying another word, he leans forward. Instinctively, catch him by the shoulder. The second thing you do is sling your towel back around your neck.
"No. No more, Al. C'mon, let's get up."
He doesn't resist you this time. Instead, as you hop onto your feet, he lets you pull him onto his while you let him find his own balance for certain this time. You catch a glimpse of his eyes as you wrap one of his arms around your shoulders and then hook your hand under his armpit. "C'mon, work with me here, Allen," you mutter, narrowing your eyes.
"Joe, please. Not back inside, not like this. Just…get me to my car, let me go to my hotel, something, anything…" his voice trails quietly as he practically begs you to let him go, and you grunt a small laugh. Like he's in any shape to drive; you shake your head. Maybe his brain really is fried, you think for a moment. You remember that this is serious, and that joking won't make anything go away this time.
"Al, you seem to forget that I still have a match tonight. You're in no damn shape to drive, and I'm not about to leave your ass lyin' out here on the ground. C'mon. Take it easy now, walk with me."
He bears his own weight, but you don't trust him yet to walk safely on his own. AJ, if anyone, you think, has a strong will when he puts his mind to something; the problem is that he does it without thinking through first. The last thing you want to hear, you scowl, is that your best friend veered off Interstate 4 in a heavy rush of traffic. Against you, AJ's body shudders with a chill as you guide him through the door and help him step up into the backstage halls of the iMPACT Zone once again.
Morgan and Jesse are standing directly on the opposite side of the door, and you nearly collide with them, head-on, as you lead AJ down the corridor. Morgan holds up his index finger, opening his mouth to speak when you cut him off before he manages to get the first word out. "Not fucking now, Matt. Don't you see that I'm a little preoccupied?" A little further down the hall, Devon and Bubba are sitting on a bench; Bubba eyes you curiously while Devon folds his hands across his chest.
At one point, you think, TNA used to be a family. Everyone had their own set of ibest/i friends, but in short, everyone was also there for one-another. It was close-knit, comfortable, and relaxing. The road trips were fun, the events were challenging, but you were each there to support and encourage one-another. There was no jealousy, no feuding, no threats to leave. Most of all, there was no division. You can feel your nostrils flare out when you think of the concept of the two locker rooms you have now, even on road trips. One set for what has officially become known as "Team Flair" – AJ, Storm, Roode, and Wolfe. Stinger, you think, comes and goes everywhere as he pleases and keeps to himself. Unless it's business related, he hasn't spoken with anyone since before he gave up the title to AJ back in September, as far as you can recall. You shake your head. The animosity within your family now is to the point of boiling. Like watching a sinking ship, you think. The fucking Titanic.
In a sense, you feel it's strange; that Morgan, Jesse, and the 'Guns have been concerned. Bubba and Devon have been around a lot longer, enough to write the book on different brands and sideshow promotions. None of the other guys in Flair's locker have once come to check on AJ, and yet, here was the random handful of those from the general locker room – the locker room where AJ has told you that he's afraid to go back to.
"You need anything, Joe?" You shake your head and keep going. From behind you, Morgan calls that your match together is in twenty minutes. You hold up a hand to show that you've heard him. You've worked together long enough for him to know that you're not going to bail, and if he wants to worry about it, you think, then that's his problem. Right now, you're more concerned about a set of different problems – the ones that are slouching from your shoulder like dead weight. You still aren't entirely sure where to take him. His locker room is out of the question – neither Storm nor Roode came to check on him, and it's a given that leaving him with Wolfe would almost certainly ensure a premature death wish. You roll your head to the side and wipe your face against the towel on your shoulder. "C'mon," you mutter to him. "Let's go."
"Where?" AJ questions quietly. The Southern drawl is exceptionally prominent in his voice now, and it takes you a second to adjust to it, even with a single-syllable question. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for your match?"
"And do what with you?" you snap a little faster than you mean to at first. "—sorry," you add quickly. "But what, I mean, you gonna come to the damn ring with me?"
"Joe, you're the one draggin' me around – I can walk. Where're we going anyway…" his voice trails when you open the door to one of the public, backstage restrooms. "The bathroom?" he questions again, looking at you as you let go from under his armpit and he slouches to his feet, but remains steady.
You can't help a slight grin on your lips. "When you gotta go, you gotta go." The expression on his face is priceless as he raises an eyebrow at you, his lower lip drooping, and his face still red and tear stained. You feel your stomach flip a little, disappointed in your slight amusement at the pitiful sight. "M'Playin'," you continue, walking to the sinks. "Come here."
He takes a few steps toward you, and you can't tell if he's just exhausted or apprehensive. His eyes catch yours as you gesture toward the sink. "Really, Allen. It's a sink. It's not gonna do anything."
"Well I know that!" he says indignantly, and you smile. "But what're y'all playin' at?"
"Seriously, you need to ask? Look in the mirror a second…don't ambush me for pointing it out, but…you kinda look like shit." Not even he can deny it, you think, as your eyes trail over the dried tear tracks mixed with gravelly dust and faint orange streaks of fake tanner. "C'mon, rinse your face. You'll feel a lot better, trust me."
It's been a long time since he's had that trademark sparkle in his eyes, without an underlying smirk fueled by Flair. Since Chris had left and was replaced by a title belt and Desmond Wolfe, you think, the only time you've seen that sincere glimmer has been only in small intervals at a time in your hotel rooms that no one else has shared.
You watch as he clenches a fist for a second, gritting his teeth behind his closed jaw, when it dawns on you that maybe you shouldn't have so literally asked him to 'look in the mirror.' At any rate, he lets out a breath that you're not even sure he realizes he was holding, and nods, stepping toward the sink. He looks over at you, and then into the mirror, pressing his palms to his eyes, sighing.
"You're right, man," he mutters. "I do look like shit."
You snort when he says the words, again feeling badly as you do. "Sorry, pal," you say, reaching over to turn on the hot water for him. "Just that, I think I can count the number of times you've said 'shit' on one hand." You stick a hand under the water, and adjust the temperature so that it's hot, but nothing that will scald his flesh or burn his eyes.
He lets out a small, breathy chuckle. "It's true," he whispers looking into the mirror again, and then down into the basin. "I do. Everything about this – the hair, the earrings – it's just making me look like crap. And I feel like crap."
"Your gimmick is crap," you mumble in response, without really thinking about the words before they leave your mouth. "Now come on. Wash up." You rest a hand on his back, guiding him down gently as he leans over the sink, cupping his hands and splashing the water onto his face. He gasps loudly as the water soaks his ears, his hair, and runs in tiny droplets down his neck. You pull him back up as he takes a breath with widened eyes. He takes a moment to blink as the tiny droplets fall from his eyelashes down onto his cheeks. Only a few traces of dirt remain on his chin.
"There," you say quietly. "One more time, and you should be good." He nods, looking over at you and then back to the mirror again before leaning forward once more to splash his face clean. You pat his shoulder lightly, and when he stands back up again, you take the towel from your neck and hand it to him. "Better?" you ask, as he wipes his eyes with the square inch of the corner and reaches to turn off the faucet.
He nods, still taking deep breaths. "I need to sit down," he groans, looking around. "Here is as good as anywhere," he continues, and while you raise an eyebrow in disgust – certain that a public restroom is about as far from sanitary as one can get – you know it's because he's still not ready to go out and face any other members of the roster just yet. You nod as he moves with enough sense to at least sit away from the stalls, and closer to the door. "Joe, shouldn't you get going? Your match'll be any minute now."
You shrug as he sinks to the tile while you follow suit, squatting beside him. At this rate, you're certain that you've already gotten more of a work out performance with him than you've gotten in any of your previous matches. His eyes are a little glazed over, but he's calmed down. Occasionally, as he exhales, you can see his chest quiver. With a small smile, you look down to him, resting a hand on his thigh.
"I ain't worried about it. Morgan knows where I am, and he'll come get me if he has to before we go in the ring. I'm not bailing on anyone – not you, not him or RVD or Stinger, not the fans, no one." You pause while he contemplates your words, nodding. It's true, you think. The Samoan Submission Machine doesn't turn his back on family. And Allen Jones, if no one else, is definitely family.
It's the first time you've really gotten a moment to think about everything, despite the chaos from only moments earlier. While it seems like a lifetime ago, you were telling the young cameraman to get out of your face, life, you think, seems to move in fast and slow motion all at the same time. You gently squeeze the muscle on AJ's thigh, contemplating everything
There's no secret in TNA about your past friendship with AJ Styles. You were in Ring of Honor together, along with Christopher Daniels and several other members of the roster – Homicide, Lethal, Sabin and Shelley – even Wolfe, whom you hated back then, too. Even though your personalities and his are totally different and your belief systems conflict, no one questions the fact that he and you and even Daniels have considered yourselves best friends. Of course, you think, clenching you jaw for a moment, AJ only slipped up enough recently to tell you about himself and Chris – only now that you've slept with him, too. And while for a few nights you felt like he may've been using you as a mere replacement, tonight's actions confirm that he can trust you more than anyone else. He isn't faking this. In a sick sense, you think, he needs you. Again you look down to him, watching him closely.
"You gonna be okay, if I leave you for a little bit?" you ask, trying to keep a sense of masculinity in your voice not only to let him know you haven't gone completely soft, but that you do still have expectations of him. He looks back up and nods. "Yeah. I'll be alright." You continue to run your hand up and down his thigh.
"Allen, listen." You sigh, more than positive that he's going to dislike the things you say. "I know you don't want to do it, but I think a little time off for you wouldn't be so bad anyway. After next weekend at the pay-per-view, I think you should really consider it. Go back to Gainesville and just…relax, man." You try to keep your voice as simple as you can, trying not to sound like you're telling him what to do, because after all, he is a grown man. Still, you think, after today's display, his ability to take care of himself completely on his own may be lacking a little bit in the sanity department. "You really should take some time to get your head together…and to get away from Wolfe and the locker room, if nothing else."
You know that mentioning the manipulative bastard's name is probably one of the other last things he needs to hear right now, but it's necessary. AJ has told you time and time again that he's been avoiding him, but the more he seems to need space from the Brit, the more time Wolfe seems to want to spend in their locker room. The general locker room, you think, would eat him alive.
"Probably," he responds with a groan. "I just freaking hate it when other people are right." He rolls his head up to glance at you, a faint smile curling up on his lips.
"Heh," you chuckle a response. "I hear you. But still – you can't work like this. You're being eaten alive, Al.
"I know," he nods. The faint smile fades again.
"I mean," you hear yourself adding, unsure as to why, "you could actually hurt yourself – or someone else, y'know? And…I'm pretty sure you don't actually want to kill Lethal, do you?" you chuckle again, just a little as you say it, knowing full well what his answer will be before he even speaks.
"No," he says firmly. "I don't. And I know – it might accidentally happen if I don't get my head in the game. I know, I know."
There's a pause, and everything seems to go quiet in the arena. Outside the restroom walls, there is silence amongst the halls, weighing heavily on you as you look at him. Before you can stop yourself or think your question through, you're blurting out, "Did you mean what you said earlier, about me and Chris?" Yeah, smooth move you think to yourself as you wait to see if he gives you any response besides the deer-in-headlights glare.
"Of course I did," he whispers at last and looks to the floor as though the mildew has suddenly become fascinating.
You pause a few moments before you continue speaking, this time actually taking the time to formulate something you want to say, the things you feel like you just ihave/i to know. "You know I'm not going anywhere, right? I can talk a big game and all, but…I'm not about to leave anything or anyone." You watch the floor as he does, following the tile pattern with your eyes.
"You are big game, Joe," he finally responds, looking back to you. You snap your head back to face his just in time to see that awkward grin spread across his lips. You know he means it to be a joke on your size, and for a moment, you narrow your eyebrows at him.
"Nice. But if I weren't here, who else would be around to whip your ass back into shape when you get out of line?"
He takes you by surprise when he doesn't respond with words, but rather, a small chuckle as he leans in next to you. You fall back against the wall on your heels, slapping a hand against the tile to steady yourself. You over to him with several different witty remarks brewing in your head, he stop you before you can speak while he presses a kiss to your lips.
You can't keep your eyes from closing as you crane your neck forward just a bit to meet his lips and press back. Neither of you open your mouths as he continues to lean against you, keeping himself steady. You take small breaths through your nose, and the only thing you can think of is the flavor of honey when he pulls back, takes a breath, and then leans in once more, soft and gently. Instinctively, you rest your hand on the bare skin of his back, finally dried after enduring a match and the Floridian humidity. Muscular curves and tough skin fit snugly against the palm of your hand, wrapped in tape. One, two minutes longer, you move your head but keep your mouths shut; it isn't about sex or even desire. This time, you know it's about trust – your mutual trust and need for one another, no matter how difficult and fucked up everything gets.
It's as though he has telepathy or something when he pulls away and leans back against his own section of the wall only a mere three seconds before Morgan and RVD throw open the door. You roll your eyes when you see the top of Jesse's hair poking up from behind him. That nosey bastard, you think. He's probably just trying to help, but honestly? The thought to buzz his ridiculous hair while he's sleeping in the motel crosses your mind as Rob waves his whole arm at you and Morgan shouts, "C'MON, THEY WANT US TO START IN TWO MINUTES, AND BORASH SAID THAT THEY ALREADY CUT FOR AN EXTRA COMMERCIAL BREAK!" He acts like it's a life or death emergency. In a way though, you think it's true.
You look to AJ, questioningly, before looking back up to them. He nods.
"Devon said to tell you that if you want someone to uh, keep you company, AJ, you're welcome to chill out with him and Bubba," Rob throws in hurriedly. From behind him, you can see Jesse's hair nodding.
"Maybe," you hear him whisper in response.
Morgan is looking frantic as you stand up, adjusting your tights before grasping your towel. It's already damp and worn from the evening's events, but you don't particularly care about that. You roll your neck to crack and loosen it, as Rob laughs, "Haha, it's show time!" and in a way, you envy him, because he has no idea what life is like outside of wrestling and weed. There's not a single way he has any idea what the roster has been put through since before his arrival, and he couldn't possibly comprehend anything about you or AJ, especially not together. Instead of rolling your eyes, you opt to flash them a half-smile for reassurance that you're on your way, but your mind is still primarily focused on the other man on the floor.
AJ stretches out his arms, groaning in the process, as he struggles to his feet. "I'll find you after," you say to him.
He nods, looking up, as his eyes meet yours. "Go kick their butts, Joe," he says quietly. The faint smile on his lips has returned.
"Is there anything to feel?
Is it pain that makes you real?
Cut me off before it kills me"
-Goo Goo Dolls, "Long Way Down"