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The thought strikes Nick as he and Matt are frantically packing away their gear, praying they’ll be able to get out of the arena before Moxley and the rest of the Blackpool Combat Club – or the Death Riders or whatever they’re calling themselves – can get to them.
“There’s something I gotta do before we leave,” Nick says, slamming shut his suitcase and quickly zipping it closed as Matt continues to haphazardly stuff anything that’s within arm’s reach into his own suitcase, and Cutler does his best to shred the stack of documents Nick and Matt had forced into his hands as quickly as possible, likely suffering an exorbitant number of papercuts in the process.
As Nick gets to his feet, both Matt and Cutler stop what they’re doing and stare at him, their expressions contorting into looks of utter confusion and – in the case of Cutler – abject fear. They're the same looks Nick imagines they would give him if he suggested they apologize to Kenny and re-form the original version of The Elite.
“You’re going out there?” Matt asks, and the disbelief in his voice’s so palpable it almost sounds like it’s bordering on disgust. “By yourself?”
“I’ll be quick,” Nick reassures him, before shooting a withering glare at Cutler, who immediately looks away from Nick and returns to shredding the seemingly unending pile of papers in front of him. “Just don’t leave without me.”
Matt doesn’t verbally respond to this, but from just a single glance at his countenance and body language, Nick can still hear the wordless quip he’s effectively projecting nonetheless: “Like I’d ever even think of doing that.”
Before Matt can attempt to convince him to not go do what he’s about to do, however – because there’s no way he wouldn’t try to do exactly that if given the chance – Nick slips out of The Elite’s personal locker room and into the fortunately empty hallway, closing the door behind him. Tonight’s show’s well underway by this point, not to mention that there’s just been a pretty significant title change, so it’s not like Nick expects there to be a lot of activity backstage – at least, not in an area as out of the way as where The Elite’s locker room is – but considering that it wasn’t too long ago that they practically had to chase Marvez off to get him to leave the three of them alone, Nick couldn’t help but fear for the worst.
Because knowing his and Matt’s luck, Moxley and his followers could’ve easily been waiting just outside The Elite’s personal locker room, ready to pick through the scraps that Private Party had left for them.
They’re not, though, and Nick doesn’t know how long he has until they are, so he doesn’t waste any time making his way through the backstage hallways, all the while hoping that he’d correctly read the sign that’d been posted to help the AEW roster and crew navigate the arena earlier and isn’t instead heading in the complete wrong direction. Thankfully for Nick, it’s not long before he does in fact find himself standing in front of the door to a different personal locker room than The Elite’s, incessantly knocking without any regard for how rude and desperate he almost certainly seems in doing so.
For one second, then two, then three, Nick continues knocking, the sound of his fist striking the door seeming to endlessly echo through the otherwise silent hallway, and the longer he receives no response, the tighter Nick’s chest becomes as anxiety starts to steadily fill the space behind his ribs. Because this wasn’t part of his plan, because he’s starting to understand why this’d probably been a bad idea, because by this point he must be drawing attention to himself, regardless of whether or not that attention belongs to the person he wants it to–
And then the door suddenly opens, pulling Nick out of his quickly spiraling thoughts and revealing exactly who he’d been hoping to find.
Jericho.
“Hey,” Nick says, the greeting a little more breathless than he’d intended it to be, but considering he just had a match – just lost a match, actually, just lost an important match, just lost the AEW World Tag Team Titles – and he’s currently actively being hunted by Moxley, Pac, Claudio, Yuta, and Marina, he’s willing to cut himself some slack. He can only hope Jericho will be, too.
“Uh, hi?” Jericho says, confusion so visible in his body language and audible in his voice that what’d presumably been intended to be a statement comes across more as a question. His choice of blazer for tonight’s fittingly tailored for Halloween tomorrow: black with pumpkins and skulls patterned across it. The ROH World Championship’s also clearly visible framing Jericho’s abdomen, the main plate gleaming brilliantly under the florescent lights of his personal locker room. He looks good, as far as Nick’s concerned – Jericho’s one of those people who just looks right with a championship belt slung around his waist. Like it’s something that’s obvious, that just makes sense.
“I, um, I’m here for that fashion advice,” Nick says, telling himself that if he just ignores his own embarrassing stuttering, Jericho will, too. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous right now, thought he’d gotten over being starstruck by Jericho quite a few years ago at this point, though he supposes that, aside from one other singular occasion about a month or so ago, none of the interactions he’s ever had with Jericho have been comparable to the one he’s initiating right now. “Y’know, if you’re still offering.”
There’re a few long moments then where Jericho doesn’t say anything, just stares at Nick, his expression uncharacteristically unreadable, before he suddenly proceeds to give Nick such a deliberate and unmistakable once-over that Nick can feel heat rising up his neck at how unabashed the gesture is. “Well, first of all, you could’ve gotten more into the Halloween spirit.”
At this, Nick blinks, almost instinctually glancing down at his obnoxiously patterned gear that he’s still wearing, the idea of showering and changing back into his street clothes seeming infeasible due to the limited amount of time he and Matt have before Moxley and the others inevitably descend upon them. Briefly, Nick wonders if maybe this’s Jericho’s idea of a joke, and, honestly, if the circumstances were different, Nick thinks he’d probably find it funny, but considering that he’s effectively on borrowed time right now, he can’t find it in him to enjoy playing around with Jericho right now. When Jericho doesn’t start laughing, though, doesn’t even start smiling, Nick realizes that Jericho actually doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that Nick somehow misinterpreted what Jericho had said to him last month, that Jericho probably doesn’t even remember the conversation the two of them had–
“Oh,” Jericho eventually says, once again dragging Nick back to reality, and when Nick meets his gaze, he can see what looks to be a glint of recognition in Jericho’s eyes, like he’s only just now understanding what exactly Nick had meant. “When I said that, I hadn’t meant it as a euphemism.” As Nick’s mind processes this single sentence, his blood immediately becomes ice in his veins, a visceral feeling of embarrassment overwhelming him so intensely in that moment that he almost misses what Jericho says next. “But I’m okay with it being one. Right now? Because I’ve got this promo I’m supposed to be doing–”
“Oh, uh, no, actually I’m leaving right now,” Nick interrupts Jericho almost without meaning to, struggling in his current state to keep up with the endless twists and turns this conversation seems to be going through, and proceeds to offer him an awkward smile in apology.
“I see,” Jericho says, an undertone of suspicion to his voice as he raises one of his eyebrows, but he doesn’t actually push Nick for any further explanation, and, for that, Nick’s grateful. “Yours or mine, then?”
The question rolls off Jericho’s tongue so easily – clearly practiced, familiar – that Nick can’t help but wonder how many times and to how many people Jericho’s asked it over the years. “Yours,” Nick replies, probably a little too quickly, a little too desperate, and maybe that’s why he decides to provide Jericho with some context to his decision. “It might take me a while to show up – I’ve gotta wait for Matt to fall asleep before I leave. But I’ll be there eventually. Just wait for me.”
This time, both of Jericho’s eyebrows raise. “You’re keeping this all a secret, huh? Fun,” he says, and there’s something about his tone that Nick can’t place, doesn’t know if he should be worried about, but before he can think about it too much, Jericho’s expression suddenly softens and he nods. “But alright. I’ll wait.”
An unexpectedly soft warmth flares to life inside Nick’s chest, then, and he’s about to thank Jericho when Jericho abruptly turns around and disappears further inside his personal locker room, leaving Nick to stand alone at the doorway. For several seconds, Nick waits there, uncertain if that’d been the end of the conversation and he’s supposed to have walked away by now, before Jericho returns and extends not only his hand, but the item he’s clutching within it, out to Nick.
“Here,” Jericho says as Nick accepts what’s being handed to him, only to find that it’s a plastic hotel room key card. “Room 1109. Let yourself in.”
Looking down at the card he’s been given – a more unmistakable show of trust than anything Jericho could possibly say to him – that warm sensation centered in the space behind Nick’s ribs starts to spread out through the rest of his body, and for the first time since losing the AEW World Tag Team Titles, Nick thinks that maybe everything’ll be okay after all. “Thanks, Chris,” Nick says, relocking his gaze with Jericho’s, and he tries to sound as sincere as he physically can, wants Jericho to understand just how much he appreciates this. “Seriously.”
At this, Jericho blinks, and though Nick can’t tell for sure, it also seems like he’s caught off guard. “You’re welcome.”
And Nick has a feeling, then, that even if tonight didn’t go the way he’d hoped – the way it should’ve – right now, at least, he’s made the right choice.
#
Lying swathed in the silken sheets of the king-sized bed in Jericho’s luxurious hotel suite, Nick can’t help wondering why he spent so much time pretending to hate Jericho to appease Matt when he could’ve been doing this instead.
Nick’s not sure exactly what he’d been expecting when he’d let himself into Jericho’s hotel suite at just past one in the morning and found him drinking from an already half-finished mug of black coffee, waiting for Nick just like he’d promised to. Now, though, he feels more satisfied than he has in a long, long time, the way that Jericho had touched him, had almost cared for him, in a way, as if he’d known just how much Nick had needed this – and maybe he did, maybe that’s why he agreed to it in the first place – feeling as if it’s been seared into Nick’s synapses, like he can almost still feel it if he thinks about it hard enough. Jericho had given Nick everything he wanted, even though he didn’t have to, even though he probably shouldn’t have, considering their history, and – just like when Jericho agreed to this in the first place – Nick’s not sure exactly how he can accurately convey to Jericho his gratitude for that.
Currently, Jericho’s lying beside Nick, propped up on an elbow as he smokes a cigarette – which Nick’s certain he’s not allowed to be doing, but it’s not like rules have ever stopped Jericho from doing whatever he wants before. And it’s not like Nick personally minds anyway; for years – perhaps the best years of his career, if he wants to be a pessimist – he grew used to the smell of cigar smoke permeating every locker room he ever stepped foot in, and, to him, at least, there’s something sort of comforting about Jericho smoking right now – it reminds him of better, simpler days. In a way, Jericho looks almost ethereal, smoke pouring past his lips and twirling up towards the ceiling, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his body, his long, gray-blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, and, completing the visual, the ROH World Championship visible on the bedside table just past him, propped up against a lamp – the king and his crown.
“I’ve never held a World Title before,” Nick says, just to say something, really, the quizzical look that ignites in Jericho’s eyes as his attention turns to Nick and his statement causing Nick to clarify it further. “A singles World Title, I mean.”
Jericho’s head turns to follow Nick’s gaze, his own stare inevitably landing on the ROH World Title as well. “You wanna try it on?” Jericho asks as he returns to looking at Nick, a playfulness shining in the way the corners of his mouth start to slowly pull upwards. “Go ahead.”
For the briefest of moments, Nick hesitates, before curiosity gets the better of him and he lets himself accept Jericho’s encouragement, rising from the bed and circling around to the other side of it to stand in front of where Jericho had placed the ROH World Championship however long ago. As he does, there’s a voice in the back of Nick’s head that wonders if he should feel more embarrassed that he’s currently walking around completely and unabashedly naked in front of Jericho, but he’s quick to dismiss it – they’ve both now seen and felt more of each other than either of them probably ever thought they would, after all. At this point, there’s really nothing left for them to hide from one another physically speaking, nor is there any reason to hide any of it.
Even just taking the ROH World Title into his hands, Nick can’t help but feel like it’s heavier than any Tag Team Championship he’s ever held, and even though Nick’s pretty sure that sensation’s nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him, it nonetheless doesn’t fade when he straps the title around his waist. After doing so, Nick turns to face Jericho directly and holds his arms outstretched, the pose more reminiscent to one of Jericho’s various recognizable entrance poses than Nick had even really intended it to be, to which Jericho wolf whistles – a reaction that, despite himself, has heat flooding Nick’s chest and rising up his neck – before his expression suddenly shifts, something distinctly contemplative bleeding into his expression.
“Have you ever thought about doing more singles matches?” Jericho asks, his eyes going wide for a split-second the moment he does as he seems to realize the underlying insinuations that could be present in such a question. “Not that I’m implying that you guys should, y’know, break up the Bucks or anything. I was just curious.”
Nick immediately waves Jericho’s concerns off, hadn’t had so much as even the time to make the worst possible interpretation of what Jericho had asked him. Not to mention that the prospect of a singles career, of existing as more than just one half of the Young Bucks, of no longer being completely interchangeable with his brother in the eyes of practically everyone, has definitely been something that Nick’s turned over in his head more than just once or twice. And yet, for all the time he’s spent imagining it, the idea’s never been more than a what-if scenario as far as Nick’s concerned. He and Matt have spent practically their entire careers working to put tag team wrestling back on the map, to give it the prestige and respect it deserves, and despite sometimes wishing that things could’ve been different, Nick doesn’t think he’d actually change them even if he could.
“It’s not like it’s never crossed my mind or anything,” Nick ends up admitting, and when he momentarily glances down at the ROH World Championship hanging around his waist, he can’t shake the feeling that, for as exhilarating as it is to see such a sight, there’s a wrongness to it, too. “But I think I’ve already made my bed at this point, and, honestly, I don’t mind lying in it.”
At this, Jericho’s expression visibly softens, a smile once again pulling at his lips as he nods in agreement. “That’s probably for the best,” he says, and Nick can hear the sincerity coloring his voice when he speaks next. “I meant it last year when I said that you guys are the greatest tag team of all time.”
Nick can’t help but think back to last year’s Full Gear, then, back to his and Matt’s match against Jericho and Kenny, back to how Kenny had effectively chosen Jericho over them and abandoned the security of The Elite for the potential of the Golden Jets. In a way, that match had been the catalyst for everything that’s happened to both Nick and Jericho over the past year, and maybe that’s why Nick often finds himself wishing that it’d never happened.
“I miss Kenny sometimes,” Nick says, the words spilling past his lips before he has the chance to really deliberate over whether or not he should actually be saying them. Despite how close he and Matt are, after all, Nick would never admit such a thing to him. Even if perhaps Nick should be afraid to make himself so vulnerable in front of Jericho – someone who’s made an entire career out of being manipulative and opportunistic – however, he nonetheless can’t find it in him to regret what he’s said. Probably because if Jericho wanted to blackmail him, what the two of them did together before this conversation would almost certainly be much more compelling than the idea that Nick still cares about one of his former best friends, even if he keeps trying to tell himself that he doesn’t – that he shouldn’t.
Completely unaware of the internal conflict Nick’s experiencing, a distinct tinge of sadness becomes etched into the lines of Jericho’s face at Nick’s effective confession. “Yeah,” Jericho says, and the yearning in his voice’s so palpable that Nick can feel a spark of jealousy flare to life in his chest, regardless of whether or not it has any right to. More than anything else, though, he just understands Jericho’s sorrow. “Me, too.”
There’re several long moments, then, where silence stretches between Nick and Jericho, and Nick simply watches as Jericho takes a deep drag of his cigarette, a distant look in his eyes as he seems to become temporarily lost in his own thoughts – thoughts that Nick would give anything to be able to know right now. Eventually, Jericho’s gaze does slowly refocus on Nick, the frown that’d been pulling at his lips shifting into something that resembles his patented smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“So, I heard you’re gonna be taking advantage of that PTO built into your contract,” Jericho says, and while there’s an undoubtedly comedic tinge underlying Jericho’s words, something else – something more serious, almost even accusatory or betrayed – that Nick can’t exactly identify is entwined with them as well.
“I’m considering it working from home,” Nick quips back, and despite the way the corners of Jericho’s mouth briefly twitch upwards, widening his already present grin, the broader smile doesn’t stick, causing Nick to explain himself further in a quieter, more solemn tone. “But, yeah. Things here are just…too much right now.”
The AEW World Tag Team Titles had been Nick and Matt’s defense against Moxley and his followers, had placed them in the upper, untouchable echelon of the AEW roster, had served as both sword and shield when anyone tried to question them and their power as EVPs. Now that they’ve lost the titles, though, he and Matt have become no better than any other lowly members of the AEW roster, with nothing to protect them from Moxley’s reign of terror, from his path of destruction. Nick’s seen the violence Moxley’s been raining down on AEW since even before he won the AEW World Title a few weeks ago, since he returned after All In, of course he has, and neither he nor Matt want to become just another couple victims of the war Moxley’s waging on AEW, of his attempt to cleanse the company of all its ills by burning it down as it is and rebuilding something new from the ashes. If safety from the hell on earth Moxley’s determined to raise every week until his vision of AEW finally manifests means running away, means being branded cowards, means never being respected by the rest of the locker room again, then so be it – it’s not like Nick and Matt haven’t already had every insult, threat, and disparagement under the sun already hurled at them over the course of their careers anyway.
Fleetingly, Nick finds himself wondering if Jericho’s newly acquired ROH World Title – the very same title currently resting around Nick’s own waist – could be considered capable of warding off Moxley and the others, if holding it could be considered as just as prestigious an accomplishment as holding any of AEW’s titles, or if Moxley has simply dismissed ROH and its titles as beneath him and the AEW he’s trying to create, if Moxley sees Jericho’s current ROH World Championship reign as nothing more than punching down, as pathetic in its own right. In the case of the latter, Nick can’t help but regard such a conclusion as hypocritical, because The Elite – Okada and Jack included – have been effectively punching down for most of their respective title reigns, have taken pleasure in doing so, even. And isn’t Moxley himself punching down by – as AEW World Champion, no less – mercilessly exerting his will over the weakest and least capable members of the AEW roster?
“Well, I can’t say I’m happy about your decision, but I know I won’t be able to change your mind,” Jericho says, instantly drawing Nick’s attention back to him, and there’s a twinge deep in the center of Nick’s chest at the disappointed resignation he can clearly hear underlying Jericho’s statement. “Or, at least, I know I won’t be able to change your brother’s mind.” A mischievous glint sparks to life in Jericho’s gaze as he amends what he’s just said, his smirk much less forced now, and Nick can feel the blush that’d initially started at his chest before spreading to his neck finally reach his face at just the thought of what ideas Jericho might’ve had in mind for trying to stop Nick from taking his impending leave of absence from AEW. “Regardless, when you decide to come back to work, you know where to find me.”
At this, a different kind of warmth – something distinctly tender, nothing like the fiery, all-consuming lust that’s been fueling the flush that’s currently gradually turning Nick’s skin a particularly noticeable shade of pink – washes over Nick, not just the content of Jericho’s words, but the sincerity audible in them, almost catching him off guard with the unexpectedness of it all. “I’m gonna hold you to that offer.”
Jericho smiles, then, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he does, and it’s at that moment, looking at him, that warm feeling spreading through him, that Nick’s overwhelmed by an emotion that he can’t deny, but nonetheless tries to anyway. Because maybe if he ignores it, if he refuses to acknowledge it, if he doesn’t even identify it by its proper name, it’ll go away and maybe he can pretend that it never even existed at all. And yet, when Jericho speaks next, Nick already knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s far too late for anything like that.
“I hope you do.”