Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PRE REVOLUTION

The irony, if irony is the right word, is that success is supposed to fix what's broken; it's the reward for all the shit gone through to reach the destination. The agony and unfairness of it all, though, is that one must scrape, claw, literally fight and bleed their way to the top, give up everything to get there, only to find that the broken thing that nests inside remains unmended.

It's a hard road full of sacrifice and compromise, favors and small misdeeds that escalate into absolute travesties.

Some of it's good; rather, a lot is or can be good at times. And the rest is just... bumps, blading, bravado, and all the things that hurt.

That's life; that's wrestling. A promo, a match, time slots. Settle for mediocrity or put everything out there. Bare your soul, let it be vulnerable to the world, or tuck it away beneath a mask, beneath a flash of teeth and dominant pose.

Kyle tells himself it's all irrelevant as long as he gets where he aims to be, so certain that there's a cozy space carved out for him at the top, room enough to plant his feet and shine like the star he was always meant to be.

He's so close, practically there. He's already shining bright, just needs to outshine the sun itself. Some new twisted tale of Icarus: The ProtoVariety.

The path is clear.

It's just a matter of time, dedication, and the correct state of mind, and he has all of that in his favor.

Nevermind the cold seeping into his bones from where his bare knees press against the hardwood floor.

Nevermind the ache and stiffness beginning to form along his spine because he's been there a while.

Nevermind the bit of discomfort and unease at being grossly underdressed in just a Wolves shirt and shorts while a fully suited man stands in front of him, looming like something equal parts godlike and unholy. A threat of the highest caliber.

Nevermind that Kyle had been explicitly instructed to close his eyes and present his hand- an order that he'd carried out without thought or question.

Because it's not the first time. He's been here before. And he will be again, probably. Nature of the beast is that sometimes the business isn't squeaky clean; sometimes you take what you want by giving- and sometimes that thing you give is head or a handjob or some favor of the like.

He flicks his tongue out, licks his lips, summons up whatever saliva he can in his mouth, parts his lips, and-

Anticipation.

He's been here before.

It's nothing new.

On his knees, hand presented and mouth open round with suggestion, tongue giving an invitational little wag like the happiest of puppy tails.

All part of the game.

Some men finish faster if you're into it. Others... prefer that you aren't. He doesn't think too hard on it, doesn't want to think about what it means, doesn't put too much stock on whether or not he's legitimately alright with it or why someone would want him to pretend it's assault.

He swallows back excess spit, wets his lips with another swipe of the tongue, makes an active effort to remain relaxed and ready.

But the wait is irritating at best.

He's been sitting inactive for entirely too long in this position, and that anticipation is warping into impatience. He's half tempted to reach out, fumble through those overpriced slacks and grab that dick for himself just to get it done and over with. But he doesn't. Because maybe there's some kind of rule in place here and he hasn't quite figured it out. If it's a game, he'll play. He just needs to find out which game it is and act accordingly. 

He's usually good at vetting the situation out...

-

The first time he went down on someone had been experimental and daring, all nervous laughter and teasing remarks, red faces and endearing inexperience... and he'd been too proud and self-assured to say no.

How hard could it be?

The first time, he thought about porn, swooped in too fast and attempted to swallow a dick like he knew what he was doing. But he hadn't known shit, and it was a rough first go. The smell, the texture, the taste, the weight on his tongue and the feeling of his mouth stretching around another man's meat...

Not awful. Not the worst thing ever. Just new and strange, and in hindsight he shouldn't have figured it to have gone any other way.

At least he'd been quick to acknowledge that he was out of his element, out of his depth, and that hadn't stopped him from choking and gagging on the damn thing, eventually working it over til it splooged. He'd pulled away coughing and sputtering mid-burst, some come in his mouth and the rest painting over his face like grafitti.

After that first time, though, there birthed intent. Because Kyle Fletcher doesn't halfass anything, and like hell was he going to have locker rooms talking shit about his lackluster mouth skills. 

And maybe that's a minor part of his sentiment and attachment with Davis. All that time they spent together... loaded up, drunk or stoned, surrounded by takeout containers, brains buzzing pleasantly; Kyle had pawed at him relentlessly, and Mark had been so damn patient with him, let him go at his own pace and figure shit out, let him snuggle up, hold and squeeze and lick or bite him all over. Mark gave him helpful pointers, lectured him on the importance of hydration, indirect stimulation, and folding lips over teeth for safety purposes.

Kyle went down, red faced and grinning ear to ear; he pulled his lips over his teeth before making contact but couldn't stop the shudder of his shoulders as he failed to suppress laughter.

Mark tangled a hand in Kyle's hair, encouraging but not pressuring... something Kyle would later complain about.

"Pressure is fine. It's a good thing. Maybe just pull my hair a little? Shove me? Or..." and once again, Kyle was pawing at Mark like a horny teenager who'd just discovered a stash of dirty skin mags.

In time, Mark caved, answered the plea with a hard shove that sent the young Aussie back into a wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. 

Back to the wall, breath returning, Kyle's eyes crinkled and his lips spread into a wide, easy smile. "Okay, now maybe-" and he reached for Mark's hand, guided it to his throat. "Maybe try...-"

And, hesitantly, Mark obliged.

Time and again, a cycle formed and repeated and escalated until nothing was enough for Kyle's growing appetite for rough treatment.

Eventually, he pulled back from using Mark Davis and invested his time and frustrations in training.

He had all that pent up energy and desire and no proper outlet.

No satisfaction.

Just insatiable drive.

And it festered into something dark and ugly despite him growing and learning to mask it over time. 

A well crafted smile is funny like that: a perfect disguise: armor that is easily modified.

-

Kyle makes an effort not to equate his current self to a fair deal of the qualities and actions in which his past self had reveled. He's hardly the same person anymore. And yet, at present, he kneels, knees aching, mouth moist and open, tongue beckoning like he's been waiting for this moment to be bestowed upon him like a gift. But he hasn't. The happenstance of this moment was new, as was the clear instruction of: "Dress comfortable. Casual. Wear something light."

After Kyle had been specifically told to dress down, this man that towers over his knelt form had the audacity to show up in a full suit, properly tailored, and the contrast was instantly humbling. A direct visual display of power dynamics. 

For the first time in a long while, Kyle Fletcher was embarrassed. And it had nothing to do with him impatiently waiting to swallow another man's length. No. Tonight, the discomfort and embarrassment lies purely in his own presentation.

His faded old shirt and loose-fitting shorts. Comfortable as the garments may have been, he feels like a bum in the worst way. He wished he'd at least worn a nice button-up, something with a little class, a nice starched collar. 

But that was not the assignment, and there was little he could do from his position.

Kyle shifted, spread his legs just a bit, added space between his knees and attempted to alleviate stress on where his body contacted the floor. Success for that was nonexistent, but at least he'd tried.

Effort is supposed to matter, right?

Time seemed to stand still, the moment lasting an eternity.

Restlessness growing out of proportion, Kyle chanced opening his eyes and chucked out the question: "Are we doing this, or not?" Because, if not, then why the hell is he here, dressed so stupidly, feeling even more dense, punishing his knees like this? Fucking hell...

The answer came with more action than words as a set of familiar hands moved in to cradle the face of the Protostar, "Have you been instructed to open your eyes and look at me?"

Nonplussed, Kyle rolled his eyes in response but closed them once more. Fair point, really; he'd acted without prompt, and he was not in a position of wills.

One hand remained gentle on his cheek, thumb running along his bottom lip; Kyle's lips instinctively parted to take the digit in. The man's other hand slid back and rested at the base of his skull.

It didn't feel threatening like it could have if it had been anyone else. It didn't feel like anything... except maybe a chore? Something to just get done and move past. Like loading up the dishwasher or folding laundry, mating socks, packing or unpacking. Just something that he needed to do. 

Not much different than breathing... if breathing itself was burdensome.

Except he's expecting a raging fleshworm on his tongue and poking towards his throat... and the lack of it is starting to become annoying.

Then, finally, along with Don's hands withdrawing, there's at least something. And that something is words. "Now, onto business..."

Kyle opens his eyes once more but his gaze is lowered to the floor like he's some kind of obedient; he employs a controlled breathing exercise and attempts to keep his ears open to what's being said.

"You're going to beat William in this upcoming cage match at Revolution..."

There's a pause.

A long one.

So long that Kyle's nerves start to knot up and his fingers curl, turning his hands into anxious fists.

Then-

"You're going to win, beat the ever-loving hell out of Ospreay. Put an end to his career... or else."

Kyle swallows spit along with what can only be described as phantom semen and what would have been a question regarding consequences.

A box is procured and offered to Kyle, and with only a moment of hesitation, the young Aussie takes the box into his hands, is surprised by the odd heft of it, and after a brief unsuccessful guess of what it could be, he opens it up.

only to find

a shapely mass of black steel resting among protective foam

with a box of shells nestled alongside it.

"Take Ospreay out in that cage... by any means necessary... or take him out permanently. However this ends, it's in your hands."

Kyle swallows thickly, his gaze flicking between the newly acquired weapon and Don Callis: the man who'd given it to him. As much as he's trained and as strong as he is, this feels so damn heavy. Or maybe he's just that weak. 

Weakness is something he can't afford. Not now. Not when he's going to be locked in a cage with Ospreay. He pulls the gun from its foam encasement, sets the box down and feels the full weight of the weapon in his hand.

Nothing about this feels right.

But he swallows that feeling down.

He just has to win the match. Then, this thing won't matter.

Chapter Text

POST REVOLUTION

All that hard work: his diet and training regime, his dedication and fostered anger primed, amplified and aimed at someone he once called brother... and he couldn't get the job done. At Revolution, the match that was the intended climax of their rivalry was nothing short of war. Their skin had been ripped, pricked, scraped and stabbed, blood was spilled, spread and tasted, souls laid bare for the world to judge and cheer while they paraded themselves between steel barriers like modern gladiators.

Sacrificial warriors.

After all that anger and pain, Kyle Fl- SAY MY FULL NAME! - After all that anger and pain, the Protostar Kyle Fletcher lost. And, covered in both their blood, aching all over and being helped upright after the match, everything was just too much. From the hands guiding him, people checking him over, words being spoken at him but not processed enough for him to respond, his overall physical state of being, and... the cold dread that nestled where his heart had been.

Losing had consequences. Don Callis had made that perfectly clear.

He tried his damnedest and couldn't get the job done.

Kyle gave his all; Davis had been there to help, and he still fucking lost.

-

He still hurts all over, but he's clean and bandaged up, time and distance away from Revolution, but there's pieces of himself he'd left back there. A silly, impossible part of his brain hopes those lost pieces are somehow safeguarded. Because maybe they were important. Maybe his face being scraped against the chainlink or the run of barbed wire over his head had peeled away some of his happier memories or even just his favorite color. Something good. Anything nice that could just exist among the horror that he and Will had created amongst themselves.

A bandaid over a bullet wound.

Because, if it's like that, maybe then it wasn't all bad.

Maybe some part of it all had been worth something more than the hate.

A glimmer of good among the blood and steel and echoes of agony.

Regardless, good or bad or worse, time erodes all. In the grand scheme of things, nothing matters more than the name you make for yourself, and even that is just data waiting to be corrupted, buried- unable to be recovered.

Settings/
System/
Recovery/
Factory Reset/

Now, there remains only one thing for him to do.

He slides a bullet into the chamber. Such a smooth and easy glide; the little click noise is distantly satisfying.

He's so tired; everything is either keyed up or down depending on the stimulant. The world itself seems sluggish- or maybe that's just his current processing rate. The gun feels like an anchor trying to root him to the spot. To ground him, or to stop him from progressing. Or both. 

He pulls up the hood of his hoodie, hoping the slight shadow cast over his face is enough to make him the slightest bit less recognizable and afford him the nerves to go on and do what needs to be done.

He slips the firearm into the front pocket, holds it loosely so that the shape might not appear as obvious as it feels, hopes the baggy fabric hides it well enough.

No time to worry.

No time to think.

Time for action.

Time for consequence.

If only he'd won the fucking match...

-

Kyle doesn't remember how he got here or when. He barely knows where here is. He just has the vague notion that his arm is outstretched, wrist locked, palm sweating; his aim is true not unlike in archery.

Despite the weight of the offending object, his hand is steady.

And all he needs to do-

-it's too damn easy when it shouldn't be-

It just takes a firm, too confident squeeze of the trigger.

Pressure.

Just a little bit...

pullpullpull

Bang.

Recoil.

Of course there's the earth shattering sound -expected- but the force of the kickback is jarring and discomforting. Kyle's hand feels funny from the vibration, tingly even, the sensation crackling up his arm and rattling the waves between his ears and brain.

He lowers the firearm and watches from a distance as a familiar body arches upon impact, stumbles, and falls into a pathetic heap.

He should feel something here and now.

Remorse, maybe.

But that hardly matters.

The deed is done.

It's over.

Finally.

Kyle closes his eyes, pretends the moisture away.

He's not crying over this. No fuckin' way is he going to break down now.

The hurt he feels is just a lingering soreness from his war inside the cage.

The crushing feeling that hits gut-deep, lumps his throat and wets his eyes, it's not a thing he chooses to acknowledge. 

He's not going to dwell.

Not going to do anything with the body either.

The body. The corpse. The thing that isn't a person anymore... Kyle did that.

He wants to go home, sort through his Pokemon cards and dream of a better tomorrow.

And he does just that.

Goes back to the room he was staying, dresses comfortably in just an old t-shirt and shorts, a pair of monogrammed slippers- a gift from Don upon joining the Family. Such a corny thing, but fuck if they weren't a nice little token of comfort.

He gets nice and comfortable, grabs his cards and rifles through them until his hands start to shake and his eyes start to sting.

The cards slip from his grasp and scatter like fallen leaves.

Like debris.

Like drops of blood that puddle on the canvas.

Like nothing at all.

Kyle drops his face into his hands.

His palms get wet.

Tears. Not Blood. Tears. Tears. Fuckin' tears.

He wipes angrily at his eyes, but the waterworks keep coming and his chest feels tight.

Everything inside him cringes and crinkles and origamis itself into a neat little ball of internalized pain, and it gradually seeps out in a broken, stuttery sound that he tries and fails to suppress.

He blindly throws out a hand.

Sad. Angry, Frustrated. Hurt.

And he knocks over a nearby lamp without even trying.

The sound of the lamp falling and shattering against the floor is too much.

Whatever parts of him that had been held together, like the lamp, finally broke.

He cried in earnest, loud and ugly and alone until he was physically and emotionally spent and had nothing left to give.

With nothing left in him, he laid down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, internally begged for the ground beneath him to open up and swallow him whole.

When that didn't happen, he closed his eyes and prayed for tomorrow not to come.

With one last tear and an empty, meaningless smile, he let sleep claim him.

Possibly, hopefully forever.

-

Forever, apparently, isn't long at all. 

-

The headlines are everywhere, most of them inaccurate and exaggerated, click-baity, but the bulk of them asking: "What does this mean for the Don Callis Family?"

Kyle shows up earlier than usual for Dynamite. No gear bag, nothing on him but the clothes on his back and a distorted ghost of a memory split between his hand and his heart.

It hardly seems real, but he'll never forget how it felt, how his feet were so firmly planted, how loud it was before the world fell into silence around him like an instant funeral.

Hard swallow. The return of phantom semen.

A memory of a misdeed.

An atrocity that cannot be romanticized.

More presently, he's at a point of vacancy, blindly existing until he hears it.

"Fuuuck. Oh, bruv. Hey. C'mere."

And then there's a chest at his back and arms around his middle, pulling him in like-

"I got you, mate."

Kyle's breath hitches. For a moment, everything inside him tenses up and he can't draw in a full breath.

Ghosts. Ghosts. Ghosts. Phantom semen. Ghosts.

Because that's Will's voice, Will's hot breath and calming words in the ears of Kyle Fletcher, and it hits him like a foul tasting medicine: a cure for something terminal.

Feels like a resurrection.

"I am so... fuckin... sorry about Don. He was a right prick, but no one wanted him dead. Yet. I mean, he was old, yeah, fuck, and he was gonna kick the bucket eventually, but-!"

Kyle doesn't know what to think or feel, so he tucks whatever shred of emotion might be there deep inside to be processed later.

Because Don had given him a tall order and a weapon with which to carry it out.

And he'd chosen to do something different.

Carved out his own agenda and path.

Chose Will Ospreay, of all people, over his Family.

Kyle may have stood there second guessing himself and possibly having regrets, but with the way Will held onto him, said nice things, wiped away stray tears and promised that everything bad would go away... maybe he'd made the right decision.

Maybe.

And if he found himself hunched over, trying to make himself smaller so that he could fit better in Will's arms while his eyes spilled, no one needed to open their mouths to blab about it.

The whole world could fuck off while Kyle folded into Will's embrace and finally (for the first time in a long time) allowed himself not to feel alone.

And Will, for his part, just held onto his former friend... former bitter rival... or, whatever they were supposed to be now that their feud had culminated and found a certain end.

The two of them remained in vertical entanglement for an immeasurable stretch of time before Kyle sniffled loudly, scrubbed his tear-streaked and snotty face against Will's merch shirt and confessed: "The barbed wire and tacks hurt, Will."

Will threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah, well, you got me good, y'know. Stabbed me with a screwdriver- again, mate! And I was bumpin' round in that cage too, don't forget. And that spot from the top-"

And just like that, a spark. A flash of warmth and light among the darkness that had been this all encompassing thing.

A glow.

Something good.

A moment, like maybe Will had taken one of those lost 'happy' pieces that Kyle had left in the cage, restored it to its former glory and returned it proper.

Lost and found. 

"Match was crazy good, though. We did everythin' but shag in there." Will's tone was boisterous and happy, smile large and full of teeth, but his eyes were intensely focused on Kyle's, looking deep and... searching, trying to pour in some kind of hidden message that a heart would sooner interpret than a brain.

Kyle returned the stare, eyes wet and red-rimmed; he bit his lip in an attempt to stave off a smile that threatened to form. "It was a good match," he agreed. "It's fucked up; it hurt. But it felt like we needed that."

"Felt like we finished something," Will added with a nod. 

With that, silence fell.

And loomed.

And nothing bad happened.

Around them, distantly, unimportantly, there was bustle and noise.

The sound of life going on without them.

When the world ultimately faded away and it was seemingly just the two of them, Kyle Fletcher confessed: "I missed you, Will."

Will pulled Kyle flush, one arm around him tight like he was afraid to let go; he let the other hand rest on the nape of Kyle's neck where his fingers played among the velvety bits of hair that were once again trying to grow. "You missed me... but I kinda miss your hair. It's all gone. Y'got more hair on your arse than your head, I suspect, yeah? A right proper baldy. A regular Ricochet. Dax Harwood who?" Humor flooded Will's voice and his pitch raised with every hair-challenged roster member he named and compared to Kyle. 

Kyle shoved Will away before Will could make it to 'Claudio or Mox,' and by then, both men were grinning ear to ear.

"It's not that bad," Kyle defended.

"Oh, but it is! It's the absolute worst! Kyle Fletcher- Proto-BALD!"

Kyle ran a hand over his head- a motion that would have been more sensible if he still had hair.

Will's grin only grew. 

"Fuck off," Kyle flipped the middle finger at Will.

"Only if that's an invitation, mate." Will waggled his brows and leaned closer to Kyle, daring.

Kyle didn't answer verbally. He took the step needed to close the gap between them, placed his hands on Ospreay's hips and looked down at his-

friend
former friend
rival
whatever they were

-and when he leaned in, Will met him halfway.

Whatever had been between them, whatever was there now, it was and will always be electric.

"I'm tired of hurting, Will," Kyle confessed, their lips still touching, their breaths mingling.

Will hummed thoughtfully. "I think I got some Tylenol in my bag."

And Kyle wanted to laugh.

But that broken thing that exists inside him, maybe it was a little less broken now.

So, no, he didn't laugh.

Didn't accept the Tylenol even when Will offered it several more times later.

-

They lay in bed together, naked as infants, the full extent of their post-Revolution mid-healing journeys on display for one another.

Will takes on the role of the big spoon and lets Kyle feel small and dependent.

It's nice and peaceful, quiet.

Until...

"I'm gonna miss Don Callis," Kyle finds himself whispering, like he doesn't want anyone to overhear.

"I know," Will validates but doesn't comment further, figures Kyle will say whatever he's ready to say.

A long stretch of silence.

Then-

"I did it, y'know... I did it. I ki-" Kyle tries to confess.

Will tightens his hold on Kyle, protectively.

Kyle doesn't finish his confession. The words die between his throat and tongue.

The night concludes with Kyle falling asleep first and Will vowing not to leave him alone ever again.

If he hadn't the first time-

If he hadn't left Kyle with Callis, maybe none of this would have ever happened.

Will's got a tight hold on Kyle when he closes his eyes and lets slumber steal him away.

He's never letting go again.