Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kyle Fletcher was not the Kyle Fletcher of five years ago or even a year ago. Because of how persistent he'd become in proving that he was absolutely nothing like his successful best friend, his muscles had grown double the size, clavicles deepened like small caves and legs becoming thick like steel. Now that he was a singles wrestler not held back by the burdens of tag team wrestling, he changed quite a few things up. The punches and kicks he threw left welts, and everything he did in the ring was rough with intent. 

Adam Cole was.. well, the same Adam Cole from ten years ago. Nothing about him got bigger or smaller, he hadn't changed anything in the ring and he was often referred to as what could've been the greatest professional wrestler alive. Everyone knew the reason he hopped ship was to be with his friends, as corny as it sounded. Kyle and Roddy were his rocks, and wherever they went, he followed. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

The problem was that Adam had been unfortunately riddled with injuries the past two years of his career, and he was being put to the test against Kyle Fletcher, the new and improved Kyle Fletcher that looked like he'd eaten at least three Adam Cole's with a side of Takeshita. A few years ago they were almost on the same level, but that wasn't the case anymore. And Adam would be lying if the thought of stepping in the ring with this guy didn't terrify him a little bit. 

As he wrapped his aggravated wrist with kinesio tape, Kyle, his Kyle bounced behind him like a puppy, rocking on his heels. Roddy was behind him with his arms folded, staring down Fletcher as he made his entrance over the monitor. They both saw things quite differently—Kyle was excited for Adam to get out there because he had faith in the Adam he knew while Roddy was ready to jump at the slightest movement, knowing it would be too much of a risk to allow Adam out there by himself even after he had begged him to stay put. 

Selfishly, Roddy was protective of Adam. Growing up, he'd struggled to make any friends and connect to anybody meaningful, and he spent most of his teenage years in isolation. The minute Adam showed up, brown wavy hair dangling over his bright blue eyes in the light, Roddy had been sold. Adam taught him what it was like to be loved and appreciated for his faults, even when he didn't necessarily understand them. He was patient, loving, kind, all of it. When things went south, Roddy would panic, say all the wrong things and then blow up afterwards.

Kyle was protective too but not in the same ways. He stretched with Adam before shows and gave him pointers, putting his kickboxing skills to use. He would yank Adam the minute he walked through the curtain to check over each finger, squeezing parts of his arm and wrist to make sure he hadn't re-injured it. What separated him and Roddy was the fact Kyle was—for the most part—level-headed, handling emergencies with care rather than screaming and causing a scene. 

Their dynamic was special, but it came with its difficulties. Roddy had been pacing since they arrived to the arena and Kyle had been massaging Adam's shoulders for a good half hour now, trying to alleviate his own stress and worries by focusing on what he could do to ease Adam's. There was a lingering fear in the back of all their minds, unspoken. 

At some point, their worries melted into concern when Adam walked out as confident as ever, smiling like he hadn't just been doing breathing exercises before walking past the curtains. Every so often, he'd glance down at the TNT title in worry because he knew Fletcher had the advantage. In this case, he was much less worried about the title than having his head taken clean off. 

The arena hummed with a pressure that almost felt solid, anticipation clinging to the lungs of the crowd. Heat shimmered under the lights as the fans surged in news, a wall of faces blurring into one. They were chanting for both of them because they'd never stepped foot in the ring one one, but deep down they wanted something Adam couldn't give them, and that was a match reminiscent of the old days of Black and Gold where he'd outsmart Fletcher and find his footing during the match. That version of him was a far-cry to the person he was standing before Fletcher. 

The bell had barely rung before Fletcher, towering, cruel, smiling like a wolf, charged at Adam like a bullet. Adam wasn't weak by any means but he was smaller, leaner, not a brute in the traditional sense because he barely averaged six feet, and from the start, it was clear that this would not be a fair fight. Fletcher was dominance incarnate, moving with the brutal precision of a man who enjoyed breaking others down piece by piece because he had nothing else to define him by. 

Within minutes Adam was reeling from a lariat that turned his spine into a question mark, his chest lit up with chop after chop that cracked like gunfire in the humid air. It was less a match and more a dismantling, a slow but deliberate dissection, and Fletcher did it with a grin stitched to his face, similar to an artist admiring his work. Adam's head snapped back with every blow, the mat absorbing him and bouncing him right back into the pain, and still, he staggered back to his feet, too stubborn to quit. 

Backstage, Max stood behind a monitor, arms crossed, nails digging crescents into his palms. He hadn't been near Adam since the bullshit in December and they hadn't spoken since nearly two years ago, not since the fallout. But none of that mattered now. He moved on. What mattered was the way Adam stumbled, eyes glassy against the turnbuckle no matter what he tried, the telltale twitch of his fingers on one hand from nerve damage.

The damage to his body, the history of injuries, the things that didn't heal no matter how many months off, how many doctors cleared him with reluctant nods. Adam shouldn't really be in the ring, let alone against someone like Fletcher. But he was, he always was because his pride was what came first.

In the ring, Adam managed to weasel his way out of a waist-lock by countering with an enziguri, but Fletcher was up faster, relentless, grabbing him by the jaw and muttering something low enough to be missed by the cameras, drawing fire into Adam's eyes. The fire burned for all of three seconds before Fletcher tossed him into the turnbuckle like a bag of bones. The thud was sickening, vibrating through the arena. Adam slumped, half-sitting against the bottom pad, his breath ragged, pupils unfocused longer than they should be. The referee didn't even get to properly check before Fletcher went back to kicking him.

Max cursed under his breath, fist clenched by his sides. He knew that posture—the lights were on but nobody was home. He knew because he'd seen it once before while they were hanging out at the gym, the same year when everything went dark for Adam, where migraines were frequent and the strength in his arms would randomly disappear, and he'd play it off by claiming he was tired. He often hid the pain he was going through from Max because he had a huge mouth and knew he'd get caught otherwise. Adam since then had clawed his way back to health, hungry to prove something to himself. 

And now here he was again, getting thrown around like a ragdoll, and Max couldn't do anything even though every instinct in his body was screaming at him to sprint through the curtains and make it stop. But he wouldn't. He could, but it wasn't his place anymore and he'd given that up a long time ago when Adam decided to stab him in the back. Even if Max still thought about him and what could've been, he knew their time together was over. Still, it twisted something inside him until breathing hurt. 

Then came the moment. Nobody knew it would maybe be the end of whatever thin thread of career Adam had been holding onto the past few years. 

Fletcher dragged Adam to the ring apron, a slow, deliberate haul like a lion carrying prey to the edge of a cliff. The air had shifted because something about the look of it felt wrong. With the way Adam was, he was in no condition to be taking an apron bump. The apron was the hardest part of the ring, and Fletcher was setting up something ugly with a sinister look on his face. He hooked Adam's arms, lifting him in a powerbomb position while Adam's body went limp for a split-second too long. 

"You see? I told you! Fletcher is trying to kill that boy!" Montel laughed from behind Max, patting Lashley's back. Max's heart sank into his gut. 

And then Fletcher hoisted him with a grunt of effort, turned toward the edge and slammed Adam down. But something went horribly wrong. Maybe it was the sweat-slick grip, maybe it was Adam's body giving out mid-air, maybe it was the divine intervention or some cruel joke of physics. But instead of hitting the apron with his upper back and shoulders, Adam horrifyingly came straight down and missed the apron entirely, the back of his head narrowly missing the edge and causing whiplash as he crumpled down to the floor and grabbed at the back of his neck. 

A sound erupted, an audible gasp from the thousands in their seats. The referee was out of the ring in seconds. Fletcher raised his arms and flexed like nothing had happened, playing to the crowd but even he hesitated for a mere second, glancing down at Adam with a look in his eyes. Not exactly remorse, but the cold recognition of lines pushed too far. 

Cameras were trying to zoom in on anything but the accident. It hovered uncertainly between the referee who'd been talking rapidly in his earpiece and Adam on the floor. Trainers rushed from the back. One of them looked directly at Max with horror in his eyes before crashing through the curtains and kneeling by him, waving in front of his face to check for any signs of another concussion. 

Adam stirred. Just a twitch, a flick on the finger against the mats on the floor, whispering to the trainer. Then more—an arm shifting, an elbow grinding into the mat as he tried to push himself up to his feet, jaw clenched hard enough to shatter teeth. The referee put a hand on his back and Adam slapped it away, barely coherent but moving. The crowd had no idea what to do or who to cheer for at this point, dying quickly in the wake of genuine discomfort. The match should've been over.

But Adam was pushing himself back into the ring, a broken down man chasing his own pride, and Max stood lifelessly in front of the monitor, breathless, his arms pressed tightly against his chest. In the distance, he could hear Roddy screaming and begging for someone to be smart enough to call the match off before Adam killed himself. Max thought about walking out there to end it but Adam would just hate him more for interrupting. 

Inside the ropes, Adam stood against the turnbuckle. Barely. Legs wobbling, hair clinging to his face, head down as he struggled to regain his balance. His posture was full of fear and vulnerability, and Fletcher sniffed it out almost immediately. Fletcher charged at him with a clothesline and Adam—with the last bit of energy he had left—countered with a desperate superkick to the face. 

Fletcher stumbled, dazed and confused while Adam climbed the turnbuckle, barely able to push himself up because of the ankle injury getting re-aggravated. For a split second, he brought his hand to his forehead and tried to regain his balance since being up high made him dizzy and Max noticed, heart hammering in time with the crowd. There was a silent scream behind his eyes when he hopped down for the Panama Sunrise—he was running on fumes and adrenaline and spite, the same fuel that always made him burn too bright before he fell.

Josh Alexander came running and slid into the ring, breaking the pin even though Fletcher looked ready to kick out. Somebody had to end it. That match was nearly a murder and what made it worse was the fact everyone wanted it to end sooner, knowing that Adam's best days were far behind him. 

Josh did some stuff, kicking Adam back into the corner as the referee attempted to diffuse the situation. It took them a little longer than it should've—Max would've been out there sooner, and had been much quicker on his feet to save Adam than they ever have—but Kyle and Roddy came for the save, tossing both Fletcher and Josh out. The referee tried to help him up and Roddy saw the way Adam flinched, refusing the hand. He stood on his own, using one hand on the ropes to support himself. His eyes flickered towards Kyle and he mouthed something, telling him to come closer. Kyle looked worried. 

"He's real lucky those guys have got his back," Montel said, tapping his cane against the floor. Lashley whispered about the way Adam had been looking recently and Shelton asked if he was sick. "Boys, do me a favor. When the Three Stooges make their way back here, why don't you take care of them while I get youse a tag title match, just for fun?"

Max swallowed hard, a thousand words caught behind his teeth. He hated Adam Cole more than anybody else on this entire planet. He felt nothing when he looked him in the eyes and even less when he watched him wrestle nowadays, even though Adam was an inspiration for him at some point many moons ago. While Kyle hooked their arms for balance, Adam was being walked out and had one hand pressed against his neck like he was still checking periodically to make sure it hadn't broken. It was difficult to watch. 

The minute they walked through, Lashley and Shelton began wailing on them. Roddy hadn't even gotten the chance to take off his wrist tape. Kyle was at his side, reaching out, confused, slow to register the danger and Bobby shoved him against the wall full force without any hesitation. Max backed up so that he was near the exit, wanting no part of it. He knew what Roddy's knees felt like in his back. He hadn't shared the ring with Kyle yet, but that guy just looked insane. 

Their assault was brutal. They struck fast and heavy. Lashley's forearm slammed into the back of Kyle's surgically repaired neck, forcing him forward into a stack of crates with a sickening thud. His shoulder clipped the metal edge as he collapsed, a throb of pain spreading up his arm as his body tried to catch up to the trauma. The crates rattled and toppled behind him as he scrambled to get air back into his lungs. 

Roddy got some offense in, kneeing at Shelton and fighting him off to no avail. Shelton caught him across the jaw with a heavy elbow, a grotesque crack ringing out as Roddy's body twisted from the impact. He stumbled into the wall, knees buckling, and Shelton didn't give him a chance to breathe—he grabbed a fistful of Roddy's shirt, yanked him forward and kneed him hard in the stomach, once, twice, before tossing him by Kyle and spitting near him. Roddy dropped to the floor, coughing and curling protectively around his ribs. Kyle took a fistful of his shirt and pulled him close. 

Kyle and Roddy had already taken a beating, so this was moreso for their own entertainment. Roddy was slumped against the floor with his back slightly arched, grabbing at the side Lashley had been kicking in and continued to assault. And Shelton, oh boy, Shelton. Fifty years old and as athletic as a bull. He snatched Kyle off the floor and fought him into the Hurt Lock, laughing as he did so because he knew that Kyle would be helpless. He snatched him by the throat and yanked him backward like a dog on a leash.  

When Kyle finally stopped fighting the submission and hit the floor from exhaustion, both Lashley and Shelton looked over at Adam's discarded body like it was their next victim, dead or alive. He had tears in his eyes and was trying desperately to at least hide behind the display in hopes that they would leave him alone, considering they'd already destroyed his best friends and did enough emotional damage to the three of them for at least another year. It took them forever to get back together and be healthy, but now.. 

Shelton walked over slowly, menacingly. He smiled all big and wide at the way Adam was left, knowing this would be an easy job. Hell, Lashley wouldn't even have to touch him. With his body being as fragile as it was, his ankle being surgically repaired and that flimsy bobble-head of his, it wouldn't take much to hurt him. At the end of the day, that was their job. To hurt people. 

So why the fuck did Max feel sick to his stomach? 

He could sit and think about all the great moments they shared together; all the times he stuck his neck out for Adam when it didn't matter, all the times he sat and took a beating when Adam physically couldn't, all the times they shared a hotel room and held each other in an unidentified relationship that they chose not to label because Max specifically hated labels. Those meant something to him. What they meant, he had no idea. 

The shaking, tiny figure on the floor wasn't even that person anymore. That wasn't the person he held hands with and sung karaoke with, and it certainly wasn't the guy he teamed up with and became friends with. Or whatever they were at that point.

The person on the floor had been through enough pain the past few years to last a lifetime, and if there was anybody who understood what that kind of torture felt like, it was Max. Back to back concussions that nearly ended not only his life career nearly his life, a torn labrum that he had no choice but to work on in order to not feel like he was being left behind, and then, the ankle that shattered into pieces while he was trying to completely ruin Max's life. All within two years.

Adam was vibrant, loud, annoyingly cute and a total pain in the ass. There were times he would purposely grab Max's shirt and run down the hallways with it just for the chase. He'd make sure to pack extra room spray and packets of fabric softener just in case they wanted to do laundry on the road. Sometimes he would try and sneak a kiss before they went through the curtains just to get a reaction out of him. 

Whatever they had was special. Regardless of how it ended, it was something that Max couldn't seem to forget no matter how much it ached and scratched at his soul. 

Whoever this guy was, he was a far cry from the person he was the day they met. That earth-shattering confidence and cocky attitude, the way he'd throw insults carelessly in order to get the upper hand, the absolute fire in his eyes when he got pissed off enough; it was all gone. He was a shell of his former self clinging onto the past for dear life. Physically, he didn't even look the same and his frame was much smaller and petite, perhaps careful was a better way to put it because he was scared of being hurt again. 

Funnily enough, regardless of the fact he was currently part of the Hurt Syndicate and their phrase was "we hurt people", Max was terrified of being hurt again. After the shit he pulled, somebody like Adam Cole deserved to watch his world burn and then some, really. A few punches and kicks wouldn't hurt him normally, but they'd probably shatter whatever bones hadn't been broken or fractured already. 

Shelton grabbed Adam by the arm and tugged harshly, forcing him to his tippy toes with the height difference. Obviously, he was trying to fight out of it, attempting to swing at whatever bit of Shelton that was exposed enough. The only problem was, it looked and probably felt just as pathetic. The size difference was sickening, almost. 

Lashley chuckled, looking over Shelton's shoulder. "You think we should still powerbomb him through the table?" He asked, keeping an eyebrow raised as if they'd spoken about this beforehand without Max having any knowledge of it. Or maybe they just saw the current state of Adam and were deciding against it, because he looked so similar to a child that CPS would've had to investigate. God forbid somebody were to walk past right now and they'd think he was committing a crime.

With a sigh, Shelton stared down at Adam and shook his head mockingly. "We could. Just gotta be careful with his head, remember?" He mocked, tapping at his own skull with his free hand. And that wasn't a funny joke to be making when he could've just legit died in the ring less than ten minutes ago. That could've been them out there. 

For some reason, Adam was just.. staring up at Shelton and Lashley with worried eyes, hardly fighting back anymore. It was like he had accepted his fate and was ready to get it over with, knowing that deep down part of him deserved this. After all, he was the one who turned on Max, even if it was only out of sheer desperation and panic knowing that Max could stab him in the back at any given moment. With his ankle the way it was, it was only a matter of time until Max didn't want to carry his weight any longer. 

Shelton decided to press his own weight against Adam's foot, stepping on it to toy with him. That.. made Max's heart react in a strange way. "Such a shame where your career has ended up," Lashley commented, eyeing him up and down, analyzing every last bit of his skin. Adam hissed and pulled away to no avail, squirming half in the air and against Shelton's grip. Lashley looked up at Max. "Where do you want him?" 

Oh. 

It was his choice this time. And he was gonna go all out, pick the worst spot to drag the table to and ask for Shelton to slam him through a couple of chairs to put him out for good. That way, there would be no looming threat of Adam possibly trying to re-enter his life and make it wonderful again. 

Max walked over to the nearest table and positioned it so that he would hit part of the concrete, grabbed a steel chair and placed it on top. That should do it. Adam could barely handle a mere suplex let alone a table bump, and better yet, one with chairs involved. He seemed to have terrible luck with weapons in general, given that his injury was caused by there being no steps by the entrance ramp. Max still wondered what would've happened had he not hopped off the ramp that day. 

"Right here," he patted the chair, forcing a smile. Lashley proceeded to whiz one half of Adam up over his head while Shelton grabbed the other, holding onto his hips for the most impact. Adam didn't fight back at all. He looked so exhausted and not exactly from the beatdown he'd just taken, but something more, something underlying that Max couldn't pinpoint and that pissed him off. 

They made their way over to the table, lifting him as high in the air as they possibly could.

But.. it hurt, and not in the fun way. Their phrase was meant to be a metaphor, anyway. Every wrestler hurts somebody. 

Milliseconds from being slammed into a steel chair and bare concrete, Max jumped out of his skin and ran over to Shelton. "Hold on," he barked, placing a hand against Adam's back in case he fell over. His skin felt embarrassingly hot to the touch, and whether it was adrenaline or humiliation, something wasn't right. He could feel it against his fingertips and see it from halfway across the room.

Lashley side-eyed him, not releasing his grip whatsoever. "We don't take orders from you," he reminded Max, swatting his hand away from Adam's back. With little to no energy, Adam slumped over both their shoulders and lazily covered the back of his head, bracing for impact even though it was sure to take him out regardless. That kind of bump wasn't safe for somebody one hundred percent healthy, so it definitely wasn't safe for somebody like Adam who could hardly climb into the ring without vertigo. 

Max's eyes darted over to Roddy who'd begun crying at some point, resting his head against Kyle's ribcage. He was watching everything unfold and couldn't do a fucking thing. Strangely enough, the man being held above Shelton's head was Roddy's best friend before it was Max's best friend, even if it pissed him off to admit it. That asshole deserved nothing. 

Roddy was somebody he didn't quite understand. He was supposedly Adam's best friend but also a total scumbag and loser for the stunts he pulled during their relationship. Being attached to someone was one thing, but the lengths he went to in order to prove his loyalty were sickening. All Max had to do was hug Adam and they were cool, while Roddy had to go out of his way to pretend to be hurt to gain sympathy because he didn't know how else to have a friend. 

When Adam busted his ankle, he didn't even think to ask Max to come with him to the hospital. He got in the ring, got nearly manhandled by Joe in order to protect him and continued to hobble around just to make sure Max got backstage safely afterwards. Then, he excused himself and got a cab so he wouldn't take the rental they had been sharing that day. Totally selfless. 

As Shelton and Lashley positioned Adam back up to drop him, Max stared at that ankle. It made his eyes water. Not many things made him upset, but the mere thought of Adam jumping down that ramp and falling to his knees always sent a chill up his spine. Things could've been different. They should still be best friends right now, driving to work and singing along to a stupid ass 90's Disco CD while they grab lunch and annoy the people at the drive-thru. 

That wasn't the same person hunched over in their arms. That version of him was not the person Max wanted to hurt, even if they were similar in many ways. Adam would choose his TNT title over Kyle and Roddy any day of the week, and he knew that. Two sides of the same coin. 

And another thing; Max didn't like being told what to do.

Just as they were about to release him, Max grabbed a hold on that foot and yanked as hard as he fucking could. Adam fell and stumbled to the floor as Shelton and Lashley completely lost their grip, looking at Max in disbelief. He did want them to hurt Paragon, or Undisputed Era, or Undisputed Kingdom, or whatever the fuck they were called nowadays. It didn't matter. The two dip-shits that ruined his life and the one that was kinda innocent but was guilty by association. 

Lashley stared intensely, rolling up a sleeve. Shelton placed a hand against his bicep, pulling him back in case he was thinking of throwing any punches. They promised Montel they would be back within a certain time and it was already almost past that. If they began fighting with Max over authority, they'd be here for an extremely long time because if there was one thing Max liked to be, it was stubborn. 

In order to save his own ass, Max gave a quick stomp to Adam's side so his excuse would look believable, causing him to admit a groan. "He's already beat up. It wouldn't be fun if we did all that now. I mean, c'mon," Max explained, giving an anxious laugh that could be mistaken for the sound of crying. "Let's just go— Montel wanted us back soon, didn't he?"

Lashley didn't even bother. He knew who Max was and what he was up to. Eventually, he knew this would cause a rift and get him ejected from the Hurt Syndicate at some point down the line. It would either be Lashley for being too overzealous or Max for being nitpicky, most likely the latter. 

Shelton and Lashley eventually left the crime scene with their titles swung over their shoulders, chins up, chests out, tall and proud like they always did. They did what they were supposed to; they hurt people, we hurt people, and that included Max. If this was going to continue being a business relationship then Max would have to suck it up. 

Before leaving, Max took a glance over at Roddy and Kyle with a scowl on his face. Roddy seemed like he was in terrible condition, looking like he'd been run over by Lance Archer at least twice over. Kyle honestly always looked tired because of the diabetes but this time around, he was worn out for sure. The entire time Adam and Max were friends, he was left out of the loop and recovering from neck surgery, and a small part of him didn't feel good about them hurting Kyle even if he was in association with Adam and his douchebag tendencies. 

Then there was Adam.

He hadn't moved from the floor. It was like he was scared or perhaps too weak to get back on his own feet without help. Max couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with him, something underlying that he'd been hiding since his return. With his hair covering his face, it was hard to tell if anything was wrong with him or if Fletcher had fucked him up just enough. 

Max kneeled down next to his corpse and grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging upwards so that their faces would meet. Not that it should matter but Adam was crying, and Max hated it so bad that he almost wiped away his tears with his free hand. But that wouldn't be right. He doesn't have permission and Adam doesn't deserve that sort of kindness.

While his grip was tight, his eyes were soft. Max whispered, "You owe me." 

The person he was half an hour ago would've blindly smashed his face into the floor and left him for dead. The person he was in the moment decided to leave them all where they were, later asking for Doc Sampson to attend to them and check for any injuries. Because while his goal was to hurt people, his real goal in all of this was to become AEW Men's World Champion, and he couldn't possibly focus on doing that with Adam on his mind. 

———

"How about Cole on a Pole? We'll hang him above the ring and smack the crap out of him," Shelton laughed. "We'll set up a match where we beat up his friends while he watches and whoever wins gets him for the day."

Lashley takes a sip of his wine. "Lollipop Guild could work too." 

"Scrawn Michaels?" 

"It doesn't matter what you call him," Montel chuckled, tapping his cane against the floor. "That guy is so tiny that he makes Marko Stunt look like The Great Khali. I don't know what he does for a living but somebody should reach out to him, man, check on that poor guy." He clinked his glass against Shelton's before they tipped back, gulping down their second glass for the night.

Max didn't drink. Like always, he was left out of the conversation and sitting beside himself, staring off into space until his name was mentioned. Being selfish was a hard task when you were around guys as cool as Montel. He could hardly keep his brain settled on one subject before Montel moved to the next, explaining Shelton and Lashley's tasks for the week. 

When he made fun of Adam a few months back, he meant it out of anger. It was a boiling rage that had simmered over long ago, and he needed that kind of release in order to heal; it didn't work clearly, but it took away some of the guilt weighing him down knowing that Adam had been suffering as much as he had. Why he decided to come back a neon yellow was something Max couldn't comprehend, and man, was it hilarious seeing his spray tan rub off on the ropes. He hadn't seen anything like it. 

Shelton and Lashley making fun of Adam just didn't feel right. He hadn't done anything wrong to them. He hadn't even mentioned them or formally introduced himself. For the most part, he narrowly avoided interacting with them for whatever reason even though they both were in a faction. Whether or not it was on purpose, they hadn't interacted in ages.  

Montel sighed and looked over at Shelton, nudging his arm. "So what next? You wanna find them after their match?"

For some reason, Max's stomach twisted uncomfortably. They had already wreaked havoc on them and possibly ruined their lives, so what reason would they have to do it again? For Max? Because he didn't care all that much. When he asked about them hurting Paragon, he meant a one-off to keep them at a distance. And to be truthful, he wished he could've taken that back when Fletcher did what he did.

He was beginning to grow queasy, so he had to make a move. He'd been noticeably quiet for too long. It was now or never. "I gotta use the—" he cut himself off, stumbling up to his feet and awkwardly laughing as he stuffed his phone into his pocket. "Bathroom. Down the hallway. Try not to hurt anybody without me, I'll be right back," he lied through his teeth as he rushed towards the hallway, sending a thumbs up Montel's way.

This wasn't meant to happen. He joined the Hurt Syndicate for protection, to get closer to his own personal goals and achieve higher heights in his career that he hadn't been able to touch since he was with FTR. With extra people around him, he could use them as shields and manipulate his way to the top. He'd leave them in the dust before they realized, cut ties and move on without any troubles. That was the goal here as well, to use Shelton and Lashley to get closer to the trios titles for his record and snatch the world title before he dipped. 

Now, he was stupidly hung up on old feelings. Max knew at some point that him and Paragon would interact but he prayed every single night that it wouldn't be for a very long time, at least until he was world champion and those guys were close to retiring. 

Max blindly pushed open the bathroom doors and sighed, running his hands through his hair. Finally, a moment of peace and mind where he could gather his thoughts properly and figure out what was next, because with the Hurt Syndicate looming around, it was hard to focus. Unlike Adam, he hadn't told them he had ADHD and trying to form a thought around them was similar to lighting a match in a wet cave. Not happening.  

All was fine until he looked up and met Adam's eyes by the sink. He was fully in gear with the TNT title swung over his shoulder, pressing against the side of the sink like he'd fall over at any given moment. Even now, there was something off about him, something that looked worn thin, rubbed raw. Unlike the neon yellow he had begun sprouting every week, he was pale and hollow as if he hadn't slept in forever and eaten in days. He had this look, not exactly tired but.. used up. Older, somehow, even though it had been only half a year since they last interacted. 

His hair was longer but in an unkempt way like he'd stopped caring somewhere along the way, and that sent a chill up Max's spine because of all people, he would know more than anybody how much he cared about his hair. The title barely held him together as a person, and he was so.. empty looking.

Max had hoped this interaction would've happened many years from now, with Adam looking much less sick. Now, he just felt like a total jerk and asshole. He is a jerk and an asshole, but not enough to comment on someone's appearance when they're clearly struggling, at least not to their face. There was something happening here that he didn't like, and it was disturbing his soul to no avail. 

It wasn't supposed to hit like this. Half a year should've been more than plenty of time to move on, to forget the warmth of Adam's hugs or the way he used to throw his head back when he laughed. Max knew that he needed to protect himself, and turning on him was the right thing to do had Adam not turned on him first. He'd skimmed through many articles, listened to his therapist enough to know that sometimes, you have to let go. Sometimes you have to stop burning yourself to keep someone else warm. 

The guilt wasn't logical. That was the maddening thing. He knew it wasn't his fault. Adam made his choice and that was that. Regardless if Max was going to turn on him or not, Adam knew what he wanted from the beginning. But grief didn't listen to reason, and it had been living in the corners of his chest and waited for the worst possible moment to clump up in his throat.

Because no matter how many times he told himself over and over that it wasn't his fault, something about the way Adam looked right now made Max feel sick to his stomach. Had he somehow protected Adam the night he broke his ankle, there's a chance he may not have ended up in this position, sick, frail, desperately clinging onto the past while the world passed him by. Now, it just felt totally unfair to sit and pick on him when karma had already done the job for him.

Max swallowed the guilt down. Not his burden to carry anymore. 

He stared at Adam, really stared at him, hating how completely different he looked. At the same time, Max had changed too for the better and for the worse, put on some muscle and decided to put more work into his appearance. In comparison, it was almost sickening how much they'd strayed away from the people they once were. Even his ankles and forearms were just so.. tiny. By no means was Adam ever a large guy, but this was too small for him. 

That guilt was grinding at his ribs like broken glass. He simply couldn't get rid of the feeling of that fire burning beneath his skin, the awful feeling when Adam ripped his heart out of his chest with his bare hands and stomped on it over and over, throwing away any and all of the sweet moments they shared. All that nonsense just to replace him with Roddy and a group that didn't even last more than a few months. To this day, Max had no idea what the point of that group was. 

The silence eventually broke when Adam shifted, fixing the belt on his shoulder so it would sit upright. He was so different looking that the title was almost too big for him. "Are you gonna say anything?" He asked finally, voice barely above a whisper as if saying the words too loud would shatter him. "Or are you just going to keep staring?" 

Max clenched his jaw. He hadn't earned the right to speak to him like that, not yet, not ever. "Don't do that," he says. He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, biting back the insults he wanted to hurl at Adam. Max thought it was always much easier to be a dick than to try and reason with people, and he didn't know why he was giving Adam the chance to try and be kind when he knew he'd just get his heart broken all over again. 

"Do what?" Adam bent down to lift up his kneepad since it had fallen down his leg. Strangely enough, he didn't sound like he was drowning in grief. He hardly sounded angry or shocked that Max was confronting him, like this was just another walk through the park. God, this guy sucks.

Max tried really, really hard to show him mercy even when he hadn't deserved it. Following what he was taught in therapy, he took a deep breath, unclenched his jaw and stuffed him hands into his pockets so he could rub the fabric between his fingers. A grounding technique was what his therapist had called it, whatever that meant. He said whenever Max felt like he was going to snap and hurt himself or someone else that he should look for a smell and touch, or just something to keep his mind distracted in the moment.

It came out like a confession but the rage behind it was undeniable. "You fucking ruined my life," Max chuckled, nodding to himself. Suddenly, eye contact was difficult because looking into Adam's eyes made him think of how it felt to look up at him in that chair. Those blue eyes were painfully evil.

Adam's shoulders tensed. He didn't answer because there was no rebuttal or conversation to be had. There wasn't any way around it; he knew he fucked up Max's life and that he'd never be the same again and that reigned true to this day, because now he'd been teaming up with the Hurt Syndicate in a pathetic attempt to cover up how hurt he truly was. 

Max decided to keep going. "You pretended you liked me for months, dragging me around to all these places I didn't wanna go. You let me carry your stupid lifeless career around because you hadn't been relevant since joining the company," he added, knowing it would sting. Adam looked like he was breathing through pain as if the words physically hurt. "You took the biggest match of my career and shit on it. You took my life and crushed any last bit of hope I had in humanity all for a stupid title."

Maybe he just couldn't help it. Adam clutched at the title, pressing it against his side. "The same title you're trying for now, you mean?" 

And there it was. Adam hadn't changed at all, and if he did, it wasn't a noticeable change that made Max want to consider trying to fix whatever they had. It wasn't his problem to fix anyway. 

Now, Max was going to go below the belt and hit him where it hurt. He didn't have to. Hell, he didn't want to when he first walked in here and saw the state of him, and he definitely didn't want to after he saw how sad and pathetic Adam looked in the ring. But more than anybody, Adam should know that Max always chooses to deflect in order to mask his own pain. 

"Yeah, the one you're never gonna touch because your body is gonna give out before your birthday, you degenerate fuck," Max spat, remembering that his birthday was coming up within the next month. For a minute, he considered walking over and grabbing him by the hair similar to how Shelton did and letting him have it. Nobody would catch him. It would give him release and closure to finally seal the deal, put a bow on this chapter of his life now that he knew Adam hadn't changed. 

But still, he kept his cool. Instead, he walked over to Adam and got in his face nice and close, pushing up against him. This used to feel normal back in the day but now Max was so much bigger than Adam that it almost felt inappropriate. "I spent over a full year of my career trying to get over you. A fucking year," he repeated, sticking his finger into Adam's chest where it immediately turned pink and white. "You don't get to ask the questions, and you sure as fuck don't get to make me feel sorry for you now."

Adam tilted his head slightly to avoid their faces touching, but didn't speak. His eyes caught the light, and Max hated how tired they looked. 

A part of him had fantasized about this moment in particular, the monologue and everything. Max often practiced what he would say and do in the mirror in case it ever happened. He thought it would feel powerful to finally get it all out. But now, standing here and towering over Adam who was hunched like a shadow of the friend he used to be, Max couldn't get that relief. 

This wasn't justice. It was a funeral that never got held, a betrayal that never got buried, and Max was just letting it all out. 

His fists clenched and he looked away, chest heaving. There was no closure in this. No healing. He felt his chest heave again, a tremor rising in his throat and he swallowed it down as hard as he possibly could. Max would not waste another tear on this asshole. Not like this. "I hate that a part of me still gives a shit, y'know?" Max said, his voice almost breaking. "Because you didn't care what happened to me. You just wanted to use me for your own gain and elevate your own career like the piece of shit you are." 

Adam finally turned his head, slow and quiet. "I know," he said under his breath. "I know."

There was no point in playing dumb. Adam knew what he meant to Max and he knew of all the mistakes he made during their run together. He knew and he used everything to his advantage, stringing him along until the moment was right to strike. He used Max's loyalty like a rope, pulling until there was nothing left. Max took a deep breath, trying to steady himself but it didn't help. The weight in his chest was immovable. 

A long silence passed them by, the air sharp with tension. Their shoulders didn't touch but they were close enough now to feel the weight of each other's breathing. Max tightened his jaw until it hurt, squeezing at the fabric of his jeans. "I don't care if you know or not. It doesn't fix a fucking thing. You won't allow me to heal."

"I know," Adam's voice was tight yet unbothered. The calm in his voice made Max want to scream and lash out in anger. It wasn't defensive or desperate like it should've been, because Adam wasn't fighting back. It was just.. flat. Hollow, like he didn't expect forgiveness and had already decided he wasn't worth it, like was just another consequence to chalk up on a growing list. And he would be correct to think so, because Max wasn't going to waste another minute on this. 

There had been nights, far too many, where Max had stared at the ceiling in his hotel room with every fiber of his body bristling with fury he couldn't figure out what to do with. Nights where memories twisted, sharp and bitter and stabbed him in the chest whenever he tried to remember the good parts. He'd wasted far too long trying to fix Adam's mistakes.

Maybe Max wanted the screaming match back and forth, wanted to be told he was wrong just so he could double down and finally have an outlet for the frustration and sadness inside him. But Adam wouldn't give him that, not this version of him with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and a frame so small that it made a child look like a bodybuilder. As much as it ached, this fight wasn't his fight anymore.

The anger hadn't gone away and neither had the grief, or the sick twisted part of him that still remembered how things used to be; late nights on the phone, stupid inside jokes, dying with laughter. The feeling that with Adam around, nothing would ever hurt him again. 

That had all been a lie. But God, he missed it anyway.

Adam excused himself, carefully and quietly stepping past Max, lifting the title back up as it had fallen back down again. He reached for the door and it all happened so fast that Max wasn't even sure where he found the strength to speak again. He snatched Adam's wrist and yanked him back before the door opened, feeling even more guilty when Adam could hardly regain his balance. 

"Shelton and Lashley— they're waiting for you guys outside," Max blurted and then let go of Adam's wrist, turning his back so Adam wouldn't see the remorse on his face. Then he heard shaky footsteps and the sound of the door shutting behind him. 

Why did he still care? 

———

Max hadn't meant to linger. He was on his way to drop something off to Montel's office; paperwork for their next title match, a sticky note in a notebook with their victims names on it and a bunch of other things he'd been asked to carry around like a maid. Lashley commented that since he hardly wrestled or contributed to the group, he had to make himself useful somehow and that they could use an extra pair of arms. 

It was demeaning. It didn't feel good when Montel laughed at the comment nor did Max agree to it. However, it seemed that Lashley was the favorite while he was just simply existing within the parameters of the group, barely a member but contractually obligated to do whatever he was told. Although he tried laughing it off, the comment that he was useful lingered and stung in ways he couldn't imagine, ways he forgot about until they resurfaced and ached.

When he dropped off the stupid paperwork, he came across a broom closet with the lights on. His first instinct was to keep walking but he heard a voice, a particular voice that immediately made his feet sink into the floor. Because his emotions were already heightened from the discussion he had with Montel, he was already a shove or so away from completely snapping. 

The last thing he expected to hear was voices through the slightly ajar door. 

Max heard Adam. Not his full voice in complete sentences, just fragments shaped by exhaustion. The kind of weariness that didn't come from lack of sleep but fear. The only reason he knew what that sounded like was because he once spent the night holding Adam during a time where he felt less than confident after a minor injury and needed reassurance. He knew exactly what that sounded like. The only difference was, this time he wouldn't be doing the comforting. 

Even though he shouldn't have, he sat outside the door. Not out of guilt, but worry. Concern. Because for some fucking reason, part of his heart still beats. 

There were multiple noises at once, one being a quick shuffle around the room and the other being a whisper from a voice that wasn't Adam's, low and tight, barely above a whisper. Max pressed his ear against the door.

"..so I'm sorry. I wish I knew. I'm trying to train with you but it isn't helping. I don't know what's wrong with me," Adam mumbled, sniffling. It sounds like he'd been crying for a good minute now. There was something about the way Adam spoke. That same threadbare patience. Not quite self-pity, just this numb endurance, like a man describing a slow collapse he'd already come to terms with.

Max dug his fingernails into the seam of his jeans in order to stop himself from entering the closet. More than anything, he hated the sound of Adam crying. It reminded him too much of the phone call he got from the hospital.

A pause of silence, the only sound being the floor creaking under shifting weight. Max knew he shouldn't be here. It wasn't right for him to worry this much over someone who stabbed in the back so easily with no remorse. Deep down, he knew Adam wouldn't be doing this for him. Even if he was healthy at the time and his ankle hadn't blown to bits, his goal was still the world title and he wouldn't have even visited Max after the match with Joe. 

Another voice made itself present; maybe Roddy or one of the guys from the Dark Order, calm but sharp. Max wasn't very good at matching voices to faces. "I get it, but you're.. you're not the same person, y'know? I don't want to sound mean because you're my best friend, but it's hard tagging with you because you don't move the way you used to. I'm worried for your health, man." 

Adam didn't answer right away. The silence was deafening. How the hell could Roddy say something like that? All that arguing, fighting and complaining over Max wanting to be Adam's best friend just for him to turn around, get close to Adam again and treat him like garbage? 

"I know," Adam said. Just that, quiet and unapologetic like he'd already had the argument a hundred times. 

Max let out a breath through his nose. He stared at the wall across from him like it might crack open and swallow him whole.

He remembered Adam being strong. Not big, but sturdy in a wiry, restless way, always energetic and moving, brimming with nervous energy. He was well put together, confident and beaming the moment they stepped through the curtain. And now, when he tried to picture it.. the thinness. The ribs like cage bars. The arms, muscular but drained of strength. That hollowed-out version of the person he used to know. The ugly spray tan he used to hide how pale he'd gotten. 

Roddy's voice came through again. "Right, but what are we going to do about it? Me and Kyle can't keep doing this. It just isn't fair. We love you, but— I don't know. It's complicated because I really love you but I want to do something else."  

That comment stopped Max cold, mid-breath. His chest felt like it could combust on the spot. 

Regardless of what Adam said and did to him, he was always somebody Max looked up to. When he went to wrestling school for the first time, the very first person that came to mind in terms of inspiration was Adam. There was something so fluid and confident about him. He oozed what it meant to be a douchebag, and it was just perfect. Max needed someone who was similar to him because he hadn't quite found his place in society yet, and Adam seemed so grouchy and bitchy that it was almost destiny for them to eventually meet.

Inside the room, something scraped against metal. Maybe a ring against wood or something. 

"I don't know, Roddy," Adam's voice was worn. Max could hear Adam's breath through the crack in the door. Slow and ragged as if the act of existing took too much effort now. 

"Okay," Roddy sighed. "So me and Kyle are going to start tagging by ourselves. I mean this with all my heart," Max heard some shuffling around, assuming that Roddy had gotten closer or further away from Adam, "I love you, okay? I do. So, so much, and I'm sorry that this didn't work out the way you wanted. But you're too much of a risk, and I don't want to be responsible for you getting hurt in the ring." 

There it was. 

Adam sniffled. "Alright. I'm sorry." 

"It's just.. you've been so out of focus during our matches. When I tag you in, you sometimes run at the wrong person or trip because you don't remember where you're going or what you're doing." 

"Not recently," Adam laughed dryly. 

"That's not the point, man. You're scaring me," Roddy said. 

Max pressed his palm flat to the wall beside him, steadying himself. His pulse had slowed like something inside of him was going quiet to survive. If he got up and interrupted the conversation, he would risk looking like a total fool and possibly crush any hopes he had left of rekindling their relationship. If he continued to sit by, he was going to watch someone who he called his best friend slowly fall apart and give up before the good part. It wasn't fair. 

Adam sighed. "I get it. I'm trying to work out but my body just.. it won't work," he voice cracked. "Some people don't come back from things. My body isn't bouncing back the way it used to. I'm working out and eating and everything is fine, but when I get in the ring, I keep blanking out." 

"It's probably another concussion," Roddy said, voice soft and laced with concern. 

Again, there it was. Roddy was great at a lot of things, super talented in the ring and athletic as hell, but one thing he struggled with was being dishonest. He often blurted things out that he didn't mean and usually said the wrong things at the wrong time, unable to verbalize how he was feeling in the moment. He'd been trying to word around his concern for Adam, but Max knew it would come out with time. He wasn't slick. 

"No, it's not another concussion, Roddy. What do you think, I'm proud of this?" Adam's voice had grit now, buried under everything else. The person Max knew all too well. "You think I like being the guy in the corner you feel sorry for?"

"No, Adam, hey—" there was some shuffling around. "Hey, look at me. I didn't mean it like that. I love you. I just— I want you healthy, and you're pushing yourself too far. I mean, Fletcher almost killed you out there the other night." 

"What? And— and that was my fault? How is him screwing up a powerbomb my fault?" 

"I didn't say it was your fault," Roddy explained. There was a pause, a shift in the air that was so obvious that it came through the crack in the door. Max froze on the spot and stiffened up against the wall. "Adam, you're not.. you're gonna hate what I have to say. I don't know how to word it without it coming off as condescending." 

The room went quiet. Max looked down at his feet. His laces were loose, frayed at the end but he stared at them as if they would somehow anchor him tot the ground. Adam sighed again. 

Roddy took a deep breath. "I think it might be time to be looking at different options." 

It felt like a gunshot. That word felt so taboo and wrong, especially at his age. Max felt something vital rupture inside of him. His inspiration, his hero, his ex-best friend or whatever they were; Adam had meant so much to him in such little time. It wouldn't be just the end of his career but a loss of identity, the cocky arrogant son of a bitch a version of himself that carried Max through every ache in his body, scraped knee, bruise and tear. 

Max's throat tightened so violently he couldn't even breathe right. The grief wasn't even his, but he felt like crying over it. And he might. 

He'd seen it all. He watched Adam silently fight tooth and nail just to hold onto scraps of himself; his body, his strength, his pride. And now, after all that pain and regaining trust in himself, all those hospital trips and sessions in the gym that left him weary, it still wouldn't be enough to allow him to continue. Wrestling was the only thing Adam had left, and that was slowly falling through his fingers like sand. 

Max had always imagined that grief was a quiet thing. When he was bullied, he would cry by himself and get over it, and eventually, his skin thickened and he became a product of the way he was treated. Nobody had ever bothered to uncover the blanket of trauma he went through but Adam did, and he saw right through the facade. Adam ripped real, raw emotion out of him somehow, even after the nonsense he pulled, simply because he said the word "friend", which was used very loosely at the time.  

Adam almost sounded like he was in disbelief. Either that or denial. "Dude. C'mon," his voice was watery because he knew it was the truth. There was no putting it off any longer. Adam wasn't the same person he was eight years ago, shocking the system in the other company and shaking the industry by the horns. "That's not it. I'm fine, I just need time." 

"Time to do what, Adam?" Roddy asked. "Every time you go out there, it's the same thing. You look like you're just going through the motions at this point. Don't you think it might be time to accept that your in-ring career is coming to an end?"

Silence. Max swallowed hard but the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge. His eyes burned. Truthfully, he didn't know if he was mourning for Adam or with him. All he could do was sit behind the door and cry, fists clenched in his lap, chest aching with secondhand grief that wasn't meant for him. It was rare for him to shed a tear let alone get emotional, yet the thought of Adam giving up made him feel like the earth would stop spinning. 

Adam was supposed to go back, regain the muscle, rebuild his strength and prove everyone wrong. Return to the ring not just healed, but hungrier, more motivated and ready to elevate his name even further. Hell, maybe they'd even have a match for the world title. That was the story in Max's head, anyway. Even if Adam lost to Max because he would never be greater than him obviously, he would become motivated to work harder. 

That wasn't the case, unfortunately. It was hard to tell if it was just him giving up or if it was a case of his body giving up before he could, and either way, it was a terrible thing to witness. 

Adam barely spoke above a whisper. "I'm scared of getting hurt." 

So was Max. Oh, the irony.

"I know, which is why you should consider slowly moving away from the ring before it ends up screwing your life up more," Roddy patted Adam's shoulder, or some part of him. It wasn't easy to tell through a door. "That last concussion was life-threatening, dude. I want you to be healthy and able to do stuff when we're older." 

"Aren't we already old?" Adam laughed wetly. "I've got grey in my beard and you don't exactly look like you're in your twenties, either." 

"Yeah, well, that's debatable," Roddy chuckled, that obnoxious bouncy laugh that made Max want to stick toothpicks in his ears and blow out his eardrums. The sound of his voice was already annoying enough, but he sounded even worse somehow when he was trying to be kind. When him and Adam were friends, all he heard from Adam was Roddy this, Roddy that, Roddy left 14 voicemails, Roddy broke his neck for the fourth time this week. He looked and sounded so unauthentic that it made Max look like a saint.  

There was another pause. "I know it sounds pathetic, but I just.." Adam trailed off for a moment, sniffling, probably fighting to keep himself together. "I'm just not ready. I'm not done. I didn't get my moment. I came here for change but my health— this run was supposed to be different, Roddy." 

The silence buzzed in Max's ears, louder than the betrayal, anger and sick confusion that had swallowed their friendship whole. He felt something sharp press against the inside of his throat, as if grief could become physical and wedge itself there. He wanted so badly to open the door, say something, let Adam know that he could still that guy, but he couldn't. This private moment wasn't meant for him. 

Adam's voice dipped even quieter. "I don't think I remember how to live a life that doesn't revolve around being in the ring. I've always pushed to come back and train through these setbacks, and my entire life has been revolving around wrestling since I was nine years old. I don't know how to quit."

Max barely breathed. The words made his skin prickle. 

"I still have things left to do," Adam's voice shook. "I'm not ready to.. retire." 

Something cracked in Max at the word. It wasn't necessarily empathy but something closer to regret because he knew if he'd been a better champion and didn't always need help, maybe Adam wouldn't have needed to jump off the ramp and save him. If he'd let Adam win the title instead of trying to stick it to him, maybe Adam wouldn't have turned on him and they could've been friends somehow. In some way shape or form, this was his fault, and he felt the guilt bubbling up in his chest and consuming every breath he took.

And then, as the quiet became as loud as the grief, he realized something awful; he hated Adam for what he'd done at the end of it all, the lies, the betrayal, the playing hot and cold. But he'd never once asked how Adam was feeling through it all because he was so focused on just being together, spending time with him and trying to climb to new heights together. There was a good chance Adam was feeling physically like garbage the entire time after those two concussions, and he never asked once. 

Max wiped the tears now pouring down his face and slapped the floor out of anger, hoping neither of them would hear. The grief was becoming overbearing and the last thing he wanted was for someone to catch him like this, so it was better to leave now then never. Because if he had it his way, he'd open the door and offer the world to make things right, even for the things he wouldn't be able to fix. 

He stepped away from the door before the conversation ended, not wanting to hear Roddy's rambling anymore. As he slipped down the hallway and rubbed his face with his scarf for comfort, the echo of Adam's voice followed him and bounced around his skull.  

Retire.

It was stupid really. 

They were less than a decade apart in age. It would be ridiculous for Adam to retire so early when he had at least another decade in him. Usually people in their thirties get a second wind of some sort, or they "hit their prime", as one would say. Max had only just found his true stride within the last two years, so to think about Adam dipping this early into his rise to fame.. 

Whatever. He'd done it to himself. Why would a guy his size jump off a ramp like that, anyway? It was his fault. 

So naturally, Max blamed himself for being out there in the first place.

———

Thirty minutes into the match, the crowd was on their feet, roaring with every near fall, every broken pin. Sweat glistened on the backs of all four men; Shelton and Lashley with their signature tenacity, Kyle and Roddy with their brutal resilience. Neither side was giving in, not even after they had performed their finishers and signatures, gasping for air between roll-ups and whatnot. 

Max hadn't meant to follow them out here, really. Shelton asked for the match and he wasn't going to tell him no, not after suspiciously ditching them and awkwardly walking beside them the entire way out here. The longer he watched at ringside, the louder the war inside him became. Kyle was gasping for breath and grabbing onto the ropes for dear life, near passing out from exhaustion while Adam quickly and quietly checked him, every so often making sure he was conscious. 

Lashley's knee was wrecked. Shelton's back was bleeding. And still, they fought like dogs. 

Kyle wasn't supposed to be the one Max was rooting for.

But Adam was out there watching, hurting, limping slightly as he circled the ring, occasionally banging the mat with a flat palm to rally them on. They tried their very hardest to not cross paths while they were out there, but it became increasingly difficult the longer the match went on. Max could see it, how much it mattered to him. Not the match itself maybe, but Roddy and Kyle winning meant something. Adam needed this for reasons Max couldn't fully understand just by glancing over at him. 

His eyebrows were tight knit as he watched Roddy scream in pain at every forearm, every kick against the turnbuckle. Kyle was dripping with sweat and tears and perhaps blood too, because a few of his knuckles were busted open from landing harshly against the mat after a spear he took. 

The final stretch made Max feel queasy. Lashley had Kyle in position for a finisher. The crowd was screaming in anticipation and Shelton shouted from the apron to finish him off before it was too late. They all knew Kyle was one resilient son of a bitch, and if they didn't at least try to take him down first, the match would never end and they'd be stuck in the ring for the next hour eating back-breakers and armbars.

Max couldn't bear to watch anymore. He couldn't stomach it. So he left his ring where he was standing and decided to make one of the most dangerous decisions he could make for his career. And maybe his life, as well. 

He jogged past Montel, jumping up onto the apron near the spot where Adam was standing, screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman. "Hey ref, ref!" He yelled and waved Aubrey down, tapping her shoulder and pulling her towards him. Past her shoulder, he could see Lashley with an eyebrow raised, clearly confused at what he was attempting. His hand shot up, pointing at his ring laying across the ring. "I know you saw Kyle trying to grab my ring, you bitch! Do your job!"

Lashley's head snapped to the side for a split second, and that was all Kyle needed. Roddy grabbed Shelton's foot for dear life and threw his weight on top of him, hoping he wouldn't slide off with the amount of sweat between them. 

A tight roll-up, legs hooked deep, desperation turned into leverage. Aubrey went to check for the ring and saw the pin almost immediately, slapping her hand and yelling the count as loud as humanly possible, the way she always did. The second the bell rang, Max gasped and jumped down from the apron, holding his hands up in shock. Not that he was truly shocked.

Lashley sat up, completely stunned. Shelton launched into the ring and got into Aubrey's face, demanding that they restart the match. She hesitantly raised Kyle's hand as she explained the rules, repeating several times over and over that her decision was final. 

Climbing into the ring, Roddy collapsed to his knees, chest heaving as he crawled over to Kyle and patted his side. The crowd was more than delighted; this would be a healthy reset in the tag division, and Kyle and Roddy knew how to make this division theirs in a heartbeat. They'd done it before, they would do it again. Plus, the title would give him the excuse to do that stupid air guitar that made Adam laugh to no end. 

Montel ran up to him and began screaming, poking his finger into his chest, followed by Lashley and then Shelton. "You cost them the titles, you fool!" Montel tapped his cane against the floor. "What the hell was that?! Lashley was going to finish them off!" 

Maybe fucking around with two of the strongest guys on the roster wasn't his best idea, but when has Max been known for having particularly good ideas? Lashley, he could probably wrestle his way out of considering one spear was all it took for him to be out of breath. But Shelton? That guy was a machine. Max was pretty confident in his abilities, but Shelton could more than likely snap him in half and kick his teeth out in one move. Screw that hair transplant he wanted to get, because Shelton would rip it out with one tug. 

"I didn't mean to, I swear!" Max shouted back, voice cracking. "I wasn't— I was trying to—" 

"We're not gonna hurt you. See you in the back, Max," Lashley cut him off, clenching a fist. They all left without Montel and Shelton saying another word, but Shelton made sure to smile sinisterly and bump his shoulder; that was the scariest part of everything. Was Shelton going to actually kill him?

In a distance, Adam was halfway around the ring, eyes fixed only on Max. He still hadn't moved, face unreadable and almost calm. But Max saw it. The slight tilt of his head, the flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knew. Of course he knew. Because Adam had helped Max win matches similar to that, once upon a time. The fake-out, split second doubt that led to a distraction, followed by a clear punch across the jaw with his ring. Sometimes, it was the simple distraction of jumping up on the apron. It was routine for them. 

Adam had used that trick with him, and now Adam was watching Max use it for his friends. 

Their eyes met for one long, stretched heartbeat. Adam didn't smile. He was visibly complacent, uneasy because he knew how easy of a target he was. God forbid, if the Hurt Syndicate found out, they knew where to go and how hard they'd have to hit him. But something in his chest eased just enough for Max to see it, just enough for him to know that he understood. He knew it was on purpose. 

Max turned, walked up the ramp to the chorus of cheers still bouncing off the walls of the arena. Without a pause of hesitation, Max darted into a nearby closet, shutting the door until he knew it was safe and was able to make out a distinct voice. 

At some point, they gathered backstage. The locker room was all noise and adrenaline, full of sweat-slicked skin, open beer cans, and the sweet tang of victory. Roddy and Kyle were still pumped up and laughing from the irony of it all, the newly won tag titles thrown over their shoulders like war medals. Adam sat on the bench with a bag of ice pressed loosely into his ankle with sweat still beading on his brow, but he was smiling, and there was a softness around his mouth that hadn't been there in weeks. 

Roddy complained of his neck being sore from the amount of suplexes while Kyle laughed about the blood dripping from his knuckles, pouting and politely asking Adam to kiss it all better. The three of them were very strange, very different from each other, and sometimes, Max wondered how they ever got along in the first place. More specifically, why it was so hard for him to find a friend like them. 

Max made his way down the hallway, narrowly avoiding the wrath of Shelton and Lashley. When he opened the doors to the locker room, somewhere he for some gosh darn reason wasn't liked or ever invited inside, the laughter died real fast. 

Roddy stood up first, his body going rigid. Always something with this one. "The hell do you want?"

Max didn't flinch. He hadn't bothered to close the doors behind him because he knew his tiny ass was going to have to run if any of the Hurt Syndicate came after him. Closing the doors would be similar to putting himself in a cage with rabid tigers. He allowed the silence to stretch for a bit too long before giving Kyle a point and shrugging. "Just came to say congratulations or whatever." 

Kyle squeezed the title, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It would be impossible to deny that he didn't take advantage of what Max did when he looked straight at him before rolling Lashley up. Roddy scoffed. "You've got balls showing your face after what you pulled out there. What the hell are you trying to do? He doesn't like you, Kyle doesn't like you, and I sure as hell don't." 

To nobody's surprise, Adam said nothing. He just stared at Max with a blank expression and continued to ice his ankle, neither happy, angry or sad. Like usual, he was the odd man out, always sticking out like a sore thumb.

"You think we don't know what that was?" Roddy asked, patting Kyle's shoulder as if to encourage him to join the conversation. "That wasn't an accident. Shelton and Lashley are your guys. We're not going to be fighting your battles." 

Max's grin was all teeth, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "See, there's this funny thing about accidents Roddy. Those only happen when people like you stop paying attention," he chuckled. Roddy started to move towards him and Kyle had to hold him back, reminding him that they had titles to defend now and getting into an altercation would risk their reign. The room grew tight with aggression, everyone waiting for a reason to jump up. 

Max decided to give them a reason. He smiled, tilting his head at Adam. "Look, let's cut all the bullshit. I heard through a small, juicy grapevine that you were about to hang those boots up. That this would be your very last run," he enunciated the last word with a hint of venom in his voice. "So consider this a little.. insurance policy. Now, you owe me one." 

Again. 

Adam blinked once. "So.. a favor?" 

Max's smile hardly reached his eyes. "Yup. That distraction? That wasn't really for you, or your stupid friends. That was blackmail, baby." 

Roddy scoffed, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all. "You think we actually believe that crap, Max? You've been crawling around like a kicked dog for weeks." 

That meant Adam must've been talking about him. Whether or not that was a good thing, Max's jaw twitched in anger at the mere sound of Roddy's voice. If it hadn't been for Roddy being in the equation while him and Adam were becoming friends, this wouldn't have happened to begin with. "Think what you want, Rodman," Max mocked. "I don't give a shit." 

But really, he did. It was obvious in the way his arms were pressed into his jeans tightly, how his voice held just a little too much edge, too much volume. This wasn't control; it was a cover for how he truly felt. 

He turned toward the doors, pausing only long enough to shoot a sideways glance at Adam. "Oh, and thank me later."

And with that, Max walked out, slamming the doors behind him. Some day, he would find the courage to finally sit down and speak to Adam one on one, but today was not that day clearly, because his eyes were burning with tears and he couldn't stomach another second of looking at him like that, and next to Roddy of all people, someone who didn't care about his wellbeing then and probably still didn't care about his wellbeing now. 

Maybe some day when the grief finally decides to subside and looking at the shell of Adam Cole becomes easier, he would find the words. 

———

Max had done it.

Though his body was tired, his arms felt like they were ready to give out and his legs were about to collapse, he had done it, and he was able to hold the world title above his head with a smile he felt was too tight for his own face. The roar of the crowd was thick in the air, full of genuine disappointment and anger because he wasn't pretending to be their hero anymore. 

He had played the scenario over and over in his head so often that he'd worn the memory out before it even happened. When the referee slapped the mat for the third and final time, he should've jumped up and snatched the fucking thing from ringside and left. That was what he would've done had this year not gone the way it did. But now that the bell had rung and he was standing with the title, it just.. didn't feel right. Something was wrong. What was supposed to be career defining for him had turned him hollow. 

As he stood in the ring, the sweat poured down his back, belt trembling in his hands. For a brief moment, he let himself pretend this was everything. The culmination of all the years clawing his way back up, every person he'd hurt and taken advantage of to get here, the friend he lost along the away, including himself. The gold shimmered in the lights as he held it high and proud, eyes sweeping the crowd for someone who wasn't there. 

Assuming Adam was backstage somewhere lurking in the shadows, Max hadn't expected him to be there. Not the way he used to be, anyway. It was stupid because when Max thought of Adam, his brain refused to remember the broken down version of him that was bleary eyed and lashing out in anger. No, he remembered the stupid asshole in bright green trunks and sunglasses that used to lift his shirt up with his teeth and rub his abs with baby oil. That was the person he looked up to, the person Max grew most attached to. 

During their time together as a team, Adam had let that side of him slip several times. Purposely chasing Max with the yellowest spray tan bottle he could find, mocking him whenever they went out for lunch and he just so happened to have had a spare pair of sunglasses. Except he wasn't a complete and total jerk all the time. The Adam he knew would also hug his side while they were sleeping and let him borrow a sweatshirt if he was cold, blurring the lines between whatever kind of relationship they'd developed. 

It wouldn't be ridiculous to say that Max had fallen in love. His heart would beat against his ribcage when they got too close in the ring and sometimes, he sat up all night and tried to imagine their future together. And if it wasn't love, it was still a weird feeling. Whatever it was made Max feel like he'd finally found safety and comfort. 

Now, he was beside himself once again. The Hurt Syndicate was never meant to be a longterm goal and he'd never been able to make friends, so this run was going to be as lonely as the last. Without Adam by his side, he was now truly alone, and it stung. 

He pushed through the curtain quickly after the showering of boos, every nerve still singing and throbbing in pain. With every step he took, he felt heavier. Staff patted him on the back and he saw Doc Sampson attempting to get his attention but he couldn't focus on anything else but the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Shelton and Lashley were noticeably absent, probably still licking their wounds somewhere after they got beaten fair and square by their respective opponents. 

It took nearly ten minutes of non-stop circling the building to find him. Adam had been sitting alone in a storage closet with the door wide open, probably trying to avoid Roddy after their near fall-out. His hoodie was pulled up, head bowed like he was hiding from the world, totally unlike himself. The sleeves were rolled up slightly and Max noticed his arms looked a little less frail than they used to be. He was sipping something out of a cup and didn't bother to look up when Max approached. 

Max stood there for a beat, heart hammering harder at the sight of Adam than it had in the ring. All the adrenaline, the glory and shame, all vanished like steam at once.

He cleared his throat and Adam didn't flinch or move a muscle. "Did you see?" Max asked childishly, pressing the title to his chest as if it would run away. A small part of him was hoping Adam would be excited for him; after all, he won fair and square and didn't cheat to win this time around. He thought that would be worth the excitement, at the very least, even if his win was insignificant. 

"Yep," Adam nodded, barely perceptible. His eyes were less sunken in today, yet the bags still seemed just as prominent. Whatever he was battling, it was eating away at his confidence. 

Max stared down at the belt against his chest and then back at Adam, chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously. He hated himself for how much he wanted to hear those stupid words, hated how much of his soul still tied itself to this guy; this near broken down, quietly suffering, stubborn guy who once meant everything and nothing to him at once and still did, though he'd rather drop dead on the spot than admit it out loud. 

"Do you—" Max swallowed, squeezing the title. His words got caught up in his throat. "Do you remember the deal? You owe me?" 

Adam's jaw flexed. His knuckles went white around the cup. 

Max waited. The silence stretched. His stomach twisted in knots around his ribs and his chest pounded mercilessly against the title at the mere thought of asking for a favor like that. But to be fair, he shouldn't have to ask, not after everything. Not after the two straight months of late nights together, rehab sessions that he attended without question and days they spent in secret trying to mend it all back together. He threw everything in the fire, including his own career to protect Adam.

One side of his heart was ready to get mean and selfish while the other was softened like butter, and it didn't help that Adam was so worn looking. Maybe Adam didn't realize how much Max needed this one favor. Just three simple words, that was all. 

Max turned away slightly, staring off into space and running his eyes over the shelf of cleaning supplies. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Say it," his voice trembled and his eyes filled with tears no matter how much he blinked them away. In order to keep himself from crying, he had to take another deep breath. "Please say it." 

Adam said nothing, arching an eyebrow. Their eyes finally met and suddenly, it was like looking into a mirror. 

When the silence between them became loud, Max clenched his teeth. "Please. You owe me, you scumbag. This—" he chokes, closing his eyes so the tears brimming his eyelashes wouldn't pour down his face. "The other favor is just, whatever, y'know? I can live without it. I never asked you for an apology or anything, I just want you to say the words. I won the right way and you know it." 

Still, nothing. The piece of leather between his arms no longer felt like a victory. It was a burden he was holding onto, a weapon of destruction and distrust. His shoulders sagged slightly and his knees reminded him that he was due to be checked over before they buckled. 

Then, softly, so soft that he almost didn't hear it, Adam said the words. "I'm proud of you, Max." 

Max's breath hitched. Not just I'm proud, but his name attached as well. He slowly reopened his eyes and found Adam staring up at him with one corner of his lip pulled upward. His eyes were wet yet he didn't look like he was going to cry. For the first time ever, Adam's face was drawn, unreadable. He looked like he was in pain and in love at the same time. 

"I'm proud of you," Adam repeated, this time louder and steadier, more confident. "I always was even when I hated you. You're a total pain in the ass but you've got something special." 

Max blinked rapidly, stepping closer and wincing when his knee and ankle tightened in pain. "You don't know what that means to me. Hearing that from you.. that means a lot, man." 

And then, the bombshell. "I do know what it means," Adam stood up slowly, breathing through the aches. They both were in pain, but the difference was Max just had a thirty minute bout of non-stop kicking Mox and Hangman's ass. "Because I know what it would've meant to me back then." 

Fuck. There it was again. That condescending tone. Back then, as if Adam had been looking at wrestling as something beneath him already. Max couldn't forget the rush of childlike adrenaline he used to get when him and Adam made their entrances together, when instead of watching him through old tapes, he got a glimpse of what it was like to be so loved and appreciated even if it was on behalf of someone else's work. For some reason, he just couldn't imagine Adam being done with it all.

Did Adam get that rush anymore? 

Max tried to speak but he fell apart. A breath escaped him like a dam shattering and he let out a half-laugh, half-sob. He didn't cry, not fully, but his voice cracked with every word. "Why do you keep talking like that? Why can't you just pretend you're okay for ten fucking minutes and just let me have my moment?!" His voice raised a pitch. He sounded pissed which was the opposite of how he was feeling, but he didn't know any other way. 

Adam gave him an understanding smile, shaking his head. "I'm trying to but you keep holding onto the past, Max. I'm not trying to reminisce about the good times with you. I'm telling you to your face," he leaned just enough to pat Max's arm, squeezing it. "I'm proud of you." 

Finally letting the belt hang off his shoulder, less a prize now than a symbol of what it took to get here, Max reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand in an attempt to laugh through the burn in his eyes. Hearing that from Adam would've meant so much to him had he said it and meant it while they were traveling the roads together; now, it just felt meaningless. The words touched his heart but they didn't heal the seeping wound left behind. 

They stood merely inches apart, closer than they had in months without throwing punches or hurling insults at each other. Silence lingered between them for the nth time until Max squeezed the title between his fingers, speaking hardly above a whisper. It was now or never. "I had something else I wanted to ask you." 

This time, Adam hesitated. 

Max noticed the brace underneath Adam's sweatpants, the way he was slightly hunched over and couldn't really straighten without wincing. His fingers would shake until he placed the other hand over them, and then both his hands would shake if he didn't focus on his breathing. There was a constant grimace on his face whenever he walked from room to room, a subtle limp in the way he walked, favoring one leg over the other. Whatever amount of time he had left, it wasn't going to be a lot.

The second favor.. he hadn't wanted to ask until it felt right, until Adam seemed more like himself again. It'd been weeks and Adam wasn't getting any better with physical therapy or dieting, not even any of the neurologist appointments were helping. When he would wrestle, it was in a tag match or for less than ten minutes before he got winded. In order to live a healthy life, wrestling was something he was going to have to give up if he wanted to live a healthy life. 

Max rubbed his wrist nervously, suddenly unable to make eye contact without the guilt trying to drown him. "I was thinking about it out there," he began, heart pounding of his chest. "I know I shouldn't be asking but I'd— I'd really appreciate it if you wrestled me. One last time, for the title."

Because of the natures of Adam's injury, they hadn't gotten around to their third match. The first one was a time limit draw that Max will stand by that he would've won had the referee not fucked him over. The second one was by a roll-up pin, which again, Max claimed he didn't need to use but just decided his legs were too tired to do a proper finish. Their third match simply didn't happen, and well.. there was no time like the present, right? 

Every time he tried to answer, it fell flat. Adam started and then stopped at least twice before he clenched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling, eyes glazed over with a fresh set of tears. He didn't owe Max a third match, especially after all the injuries and pain his body had endured over the past few years. Max knew he wasn't the same person he was during their first two matches together. 

The tension that followed was heavy, like the weight of everything between them had just dropped into the room all at once. "Max," he said wearily. "I get the sentiment behind it, but you know more than anybody that I'm not gonna be able to keep up with you. My body's not built for that anymore." 

"I know," Max said shakily. 

"I can barely even get through a training session without my legs giving out. I get migraines at the lights and every bump I take feels like death." 

"I know." 

Adam began to laugh bitterly. "Then why are you asking me to do this knowing I can't, no matter how badly I want to?" 

"Because, you fucking asshole," Max said, voice cracking. "You're the reason I started wrestling in the first place. I would beg my stupid mother to get me every tape and CD she could find so I could watch you. I studied how you moved and how you spoke. Even after you turned your back on me, I never stopped thinking of you as my guy. I don't care how cheesy I sound, you're my standard in professional wrestling and without one last match, I'm gonna hold onto the guilt forever." 

Great, now they both were crying. Adam quickly ran a hand across his face, rubbing his cheek. "It's not that simple though, Max. I've got nerve damage in my leg from the ankle injury. My shoulder still dislocates sometimes. If I look directly at the lights, I can barely see straight. If I get in that ring with you, I don't know what's going to happen," he sniffled. "What if you hurt me? How would that help your conscience?"

"No, I wouldn't, I just—" Max slapped his hand against his thigh, beginning to feel frustrated. "I want to be the one that gives you the ending you deserve. Those people love you to death out there. You gave everything to this business and then some." 

Adam exhaled sharply, eyes closing. He put his hands back around the mug and tapped his index finger against the side of it. "C'mon. It's not like that. I don't want pity." 

Max remembered reading the articles about Adam wanting to quit back in 2015 after several injuries. He remembered how unmotivated and sad he looked, how he stopped caring about his physical appearance and crowd reaction. Everything he did looked robotic for a while. People were making fun of his weight and shaming him for every little thing he did up until that point, and then AJ Styles changed his mind in what Max considered to be one of the greatest matches he'd seen up until that point. Until Adam had his next match, and then that was the greatest match he'd ever seen until the next.

It was a risk he was willing to take. Hell, he would take double the amount of bumps and oversell every move Adam did if it meant trying to motivate him one last time. 

So, with a shaky breath, Max extended his hand out. "It's not pity. It's honor," his heart trembled in his chest as Adam opened his eyes. "This is what you did back in the old days, right? The code of honor? Fuck, I sound so dumb but I respect you, and I just really, really want to be in the ring with you when it's all over." 

After what felt like forever, Adam hadn't said a word. His eyes darted back and forth between Max's hand and face, contemplating whether or not it was worth it. Then he stood slowly, biting back a groan when his ankle gave him grief and it was obvious in the way he was favoring a leg that it made Max nauseous. His eyes were still watery from earlier. Finally, he reciprocated and shook Max's hand, staring him in the eyes. 

"That's not how the code of honor works, Max," Adam corrected him, biting back a smile. He didn't release his hand. "But if I say yes to you right now, and I agree to have this match, you also have to promise me something."

Max nodded eagerly; he would set his parents house on fire for this match. He would spit on a newborn and spit-shine its head. He would rob an orphanage blind and replace their toilet paper with poison ivy. He would place a pile of thumbtacks in the middle of a highway just to see how many cars would collide. 

"I want this match to be real," Adam's eyes were solemn. A stray tear rolled down his cheek and Max had to stop himself from reaching out and wiping it away. More than anything, Max hated it when Adam would cry. It didn't happen very often, but when it did, it killed him inside. "I don't want you to pull any punches or anything. I don't want you to slow down because I can't keep up. I want you to give me everything you've got." 

"You didn't have to ask me for that because I was going to kick your ass anyway," Max laughed. 

Adam echoed a laugh similar to his, letting his hand fall to his side. "Then I'll see you in the ring, brochacho." 

——— 

The arena was sold out. They were in Long Island, New York for a special episode of Dynamite inside the UBS arena, the same arena Max visited years prior before Adam had made the right choice to jump ship. When he'd made his entrance, they cheered like crazy and hummed every chord of his theme just like old times, happy and proud that their hometown hero had become champion once again. 

The air buzzed with energy; not because it was another title match, but because the crowd knew they were chosen specifically to get the pay-off of this feud. Max had begged their boss for days and weeks for it to be on a PPV, or at the very least, near Adam's hometown so it would be more meaningful for him. Because of the plans they already had in place, it wasn't going to be possible, and they unfortunately had to settle for a normal episode of Dynamite that was to celebrate their 350th episode. 

Nobody knew Adam would be walking down the ramp for the final time. Every emotion had crawled up inside Max's throat and died, forcing him to take labored breaths until their entrances were done and over with. As the referee instructed him to stand in a specific spot for the camera while the announcer introduced him, Max stared blankly at the ramp, head empty and full of nothing but the people chanting his name. 

When Adam's music hit, there was a mixture of booing and cheering, a wave of sound that felt like an unspoken goodbye and thank you rolled into one. He walked down the ramp slowly, his gear slightly altered; it was still black and yellow, but with streaks of brown and silver running through it. Max understood right away that it was meant to be an homage to their old gear, but it felt more like every era mashed into one, signaling an end to his career. And man, did it make his chest ache. 

Max was in the ring pacing around like a caged animal, eyeing his belt laying on the turnbuckle. His eyes locked onto Adam the moment he stepped out, and he wasn't able to stop staring. The person he'd been nursing backstage for months was out here with the widest smile he'd ever seen, still able to maintain that same confidence. 

Adam still moved like himself, the jerk, the asshole, the Panama City Playboy he looked up to, but also the sweet, silly, kindhearted man he'd befriended. He was confident, focused and jeering at the crowd, laughing directly at a child that was giving him a thumbs down. But there was a slight hesitation in his steps, a tightness in his posture. Max noticed it right away. Every shift, every step, every inch of ramp was giving him grief and he was trying hard to hide it. 

It hurt to watch, and Max suddenly wondered if he would be able to keep his promise. 

At some point, the bell rang. Max jumped at the sound. They circled each other slowly like wolves, examining each other's body language as if one wrong movement would detonate a bomb. Normally, the crowd would be on Adam's side, but since they were in Max's hometown, they were cheering for him and yelling shit at Adam that distracted Max a lot more than he'd like to admit. A little less than a year ago, Max didn't even care or think about this guy, and now, he was getting caught up in every single emotion he'd ever felt for him. Funny how that worked.

The first few minutes were methodical. Feeling each other, exchanging holds, testing strengths. Max moved faster while Adam moved smarter. Whenever Max tried to overpower him, Adam would weasel his way out of it somehow. He countered a drop toe hold into a wrist lock just like old times, smiling into Max's back so hard that he could feel it.

Of course, the toll came rather quickly. It wasn't longer before the speed of the match began to falter and Max had to wait a moment for the referee to get done checking on him. About five minutes in, Max could see Adam starting to struggle. His footwork was sloppier, rushed. His shoulder didn't want to rotate the same way on a whip. Every bump against the floor and turnbuckle made him wince. Max heard him audibly whimper during a suplex and it killed him inside. 

As a student of the game, Max knew he wouldn't be giving up so easily. This was the same guy that took an open palm strike to the mouth that lead him to losing a tooth and bleeding out for the entirety of the match and won off pure adrenaline, the same guy who took a suplex onto a steel ladder with a guy double his size and still won the match, the same guy who took an Air Raid Crash off the top of a cage and still managed to wrestle and win the very next night. Adam wasn't a quitter by any means. 

Adam got the crowd behind him with a series of superkicks that nearly made him lose his balance, and then he performed a backstabber that probably hurt him more than Max. He clutched at his ankle as he went for the pin, hardly surprised at the two-count. Max kicked out gasping, then rolled away, watching as Adam pulled himself to his feet even slower than before. 

Fifteen minutes flew by. Adam was stumbling around the middle of the ring while waiting for Max's next move, hair sticky with sweat. The ropes had become his true best friend during this match. Max gave him a heavy forearm to the chest that caused him to stagger backwards, his knee buckling just slightly. Then Max rushed in to throw him over the top rope to try and give him a period to rest outside, but Adam, the stupid stubborn son of a bitch, countered with a desperate superkick that rocked Max and knocked him over. 

The crowd erupted and Adam wanted so badly to go for the cover but he just couldn't, no matter how much they screamed. His fingers were gripping the ropes so tight that his knuckles had become pale. If he let go, there was no chance he would be able to get back on his feet. He dropped to one knee, holding his ribs for dear life. 

Max sat up dazed and saw the pain etched into every line of Adam's face. For a moment, as the referee was checking him over and making sure he could continue, Max felt like throwing in the towel. At this point, he was used to seeing Adam in pain, but being the one to inflict it was an entirely different feeling he hadn't prepared for. He could be the one to ruin his life once and for all. He could target his ankle and twist the knife of betrayal repeatedly into Adam's back like he did to him. 

But when Adam stood back on his own two feet and looked up at Max, his heart did that stupid thing where it would mistaken empathy for pity. 

Adam somehow pressed on. They traded heavy shots in the middle of the ring, smiling ever so slightly at the crowd's reaction when Max would get cheered for punching him in the mouth and he would get booed out of the building for the simple fact they were wrestling in Max's hometown. Adam managed to barely get a suplex in. They performed sequences that they hadn't performed in years, including their double-clothesline they used to use that caused a double count and a near draw before they lifted each one shoulder off the mat. 

The only problem with that spot was that Adam was trying to get up and couldn't. He was fighting himself at this point, arms shaking beneath him when he tried lifting his weight. The crowd was screaming for him to stand and had no idea that he simply wasn't able to, and it broke Max's heart when he tried playing it off, flipping off the crowd to give him extra time and it didn't matter. He really didn't want this match to end like this. 

All good things must come to an end. Max knew that it was time. Not out of pity, but because Adam was running on fumes and a match any longer would embarrass him. Max mumbled a quick apology before bouncing off the ropes and attempting the set-up for Salt of the Earth. 

He should've known it was a set-up. This wasn't a rookie or some jobber they picked up from a fast food restaurant to take a few bumps. This was Adam fucking Cole, a man with nearly two decades of in-ring experience and a least a few thousand tricks up his sleeves. When Max went to grab at his neck, Adam grabbed his foot and ducked so that Max would trip. Then, he jogged off the ropes and pulled out a shining wizard. Of course, he performed it rather sloppily because his boot clipped Max's head, but he couldn't care less. 

Max collapsed. The referee counted. 

One. 

Two. 

With a gasp, Max threw an arm into the air, forcing a kick-out. Fuck, it would've been horrible if he hadn't. Adam crumpled next to him, chest heaving. Max looked over at him and noticed how glassy his eyes had become, how every part of him looked done and worn out. But with his face facing away from the hard-view camera, he smiled weak and small. He didn't have to say it again; he was visibly proud.

Now, the hard part. Max pushed up, hardly able to stand on his own feet. For a minute, his brain bounced back and forth between the Heat Seeker and Salt of the Earth. Any other finisher was far too dangerous to perform on someone like Adam, so he hesitated and stared down at Adam, unsure of what to do. He hadn't meant to freeze on the spot the way he did but he was so unbelievably scared. What if you hurt me? How would that help your conscience?

With a shaky sigh, Max bent down and grabbed Adam, twisting him into Salt of the Earth with the better shoulder instead of the one that popped and locked. In the back of his mind, there was a voice screaming at him that a submission would be a lame way to end the final match of someone's career. It wasn't exactly the vibe he was going for. And besides, Adam was refusing to tap. Typical. What an asshole. 

Since a submission was lame, he did what he thought was safe enough. He carefully hoisted Adam over the second rope and tossed him over, placing his head between his legs. There was no fighting or squirming back. Max grabbed the ropes, squeezed Adam's head between his thighs so tight that it would be impossible for his head to touch the mat and he came down with a sickening thud, a thud so loud that it almost echoed across the arena. Adam stiffened like a board for dramatic effect.

Max didn't feel like it was time to gloat or do some outlandish heel shit. He didn't want to celebrate or pose. Though he knew Adam would've appreciated the extra heat off him, it wasn't the right time. Slowly and carefully, he climbed on top of Adam and rested his face into the crook of his neck. 

One.

Two.

Three.

The bell rang and Max stayed right where he was, with an arm resting over Adam like he was trying to keep him tethered to the moment. Adam's breathing was shallow and heavy in between small whines. Max knew the Heat Seeker hadn't hurt him but it felt like it did, like he'd laid Adam to rest and forcefully closed the chapter on his book even though he begged for the match, even though Adam was already hurt going into this match and barely cleared by their medical team. 

It was the end of a chapter. Regardless of his music playing, there would never be another MJF vs Adam Cole match ever again. 

And then he broke. 

Tears slid down Max's face as the crowd exploded around them, happy and oblivious as to what just happened. He pressed his face further into Adam, sobbing into his bare skin, shaking from adrenaline and heartbreak. Teenage Maxwell wouldn't believe he was in the ring with Adam Cole, let alone quietly retiring him. 

Adam stirred weakly beneath him. One arm lifted shakily and wrapped around Max's back loosely, similar to what could be described as a goodbye or a passing of the torch, depending on how you looked at it. Halfway through the book of his career, Max had just slammed it shut for him and sealed it nicely with a sloppy bow because he sucked at tying knots. 

Adam patted his back before pushing Max off him, crawling to the turnbuckle in agony. When the referee pulled Max to his feet to raise his arm and handed him the title he won, it didn't feel like anything close to an achievement. Nobody that was cheering for him knew that that the tears pouring down his face weren't sweat, that they weren't happy tears because he'd finally overcome Adam. Showing vulnerability wasn't his forte but it was so hard not to completely fall apart with his favorite wrestler in the world across the ring from him.

Later, after the celebration and fanfare ended, Adam was helped to his feet and given a standing ovation as well. It wasn't necessarily a formal send-off; they were more than likely clapping because they'd put on a great match, not because they knew this was going to be Adam's last time between the ropes. As Max stood against the turnbuckle opposite of Adam, he looked over at Max and mouthed a small thank you. 

Max nodded back, unable to speak without getting choked up. It wasn't a victory, it wasn't a loss. It was an ending and a new beginning all at the same time. 

Around half an hour later, after Max had taken a quick shower and totally forgot to change out of his ring gear because his brain was far too occupied, he began pacing outside medical like a dog left out in the rain. He wasn't sure if he had permission to go in. No one had said anything but it felt way too quiet, and the longer he waited, the more cowardly he felt for hesitating. If Adam trusted him with his final match, surely he'd have no issue with Max coming in to check on him, right? 

Eventually, though it felt like an eternity, the nurse left the room, keeping the door open just a crack. Maybe she knew Max was out there or Adam had told her he would be waiting. 

Max stood by the doorway and slowly crept inside, preparing for the worst. Adam was sitting on the padded table with his shirt off, shoulders and neck covered in an ice wrap. He was hunched over slightly, staring at the floor while taking deep breaths to alleviate the pain. His hair was still kinda damp with sweat, chest rising and falling like he'd just finished running through a burning building. He still looked thinner, still looked sick and out of it, yet the post-match glow somehow looked great on him. 

He looked up when Max entered. Their eyes locked and it felt like the match never ended.

"Hey," Max quietly spoke, voice hoarse from the strain of the match. Mostly from crying.

Adam couldn't force a smile this time. He was hurting and it was impossible to deny it. With a shaky exhale, he sat up straight and pressed the ice wrap into the back of his neck. "You good?" He asked selflessly as if he hadn't just had the final match of his career beaten out of him. Max was hurt but there was no chance he was more banged up than Adam was, considering he was already hurt heading into the match. 

Max nodded, lying. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good," he spoke through his teeth, chewing his bottom lip like he always did when he was anxious. "Are you good?"

The answer was more than obvious. When he glanced over at Adam's legs, one knee was far smaller than the other and swollen, probably filled with liquid or something. 

Not out of selfishness or cruelty, Adam had just always been extremely good at hiding things; he wore pain like it was stitched into his gear, like tape over his wrists, covered and ignored. When he smiled at the audience and pointed his thumb at himself, the audience saw confidence. Hell, they felt it. When he would limp or gasp for breath after a disgusting fall, they'd call it selling. And when he wrestled, despite every microscopic fracture and aching joint in his body, they for some reason believed he was unbreakable. 

Max couldn't tell. At the time they had their first match, he could Adam was banged up from the concussions and previous injuries he'd suffered, but that didn't stop him from giving his all. Doc Sampson checked him so many times in that match that Max actually had to stall for time on several occasions, yet he never saw it as a red flag, a sign that he wasn't doing well. Getting hurt was simply in the nature of professional wrestling. 

Under the arena lights, Adam felt the flares constantly. Stabbing, sharp pulses that split his vision in half and made his head feel like it was under water. Bright LEDs cracked across the dark arena ceilings like lightning and Adam would have to blink rapidly to focus his vision. It was always worse when his adrenaline started to thin and his brain would have to fight to stay in the match, ignoring the thudding migraine that nestled into the back of his skull like a parasite. 

Those lights made him feel like he was going to throw up every single time he hit the mat, and he said nothing to Max about it. Not a word. The nausea would roll in waves as their day progressed, barely kept at bay by the force of will. Adam had to memorize which kinds of gum got rid of the bile taste quicker. Whenever he smiled at Max, there was a lingering, acidic tang of sickness that was threatening to spill all over the mat.

The ankle had been a murky, grinding injury. Even before he jumped off the ramp, he had to tape it, wrap it and apply pressure with his socks because it was already ruined long before the diagnosis of it being shattered. But he was afraid of what would happen to Max if he didn't keep pushing through it. Nobody understood Max the way he did and they all thought he was an evil villain playing a good guy, when in reality, he was an okay person pretending that his pain didn't matter. In many ways, they were more similar than not. 

Nowadays, it locked up randomly, one minute solid, the next completely gone from under him as if the floor gave out. Sometimes it would grind against itself when he pivoted too hard. Sometimes it would seize in place and refuse to move unless he physically moved it with his hands. And sometimes, the scariest part of it all, it would simply go numb from the nerve damage and cause him to limp around. Unfortunately, he'd gotten better at hiding it with time.

Max didn't know that every time he watched Adam run the ropes, it was a coin toss between agony and disaster. 

His shoulder was hurt long before he shocked the system. It happened so fast even he didn't know the damage until he'd gotten backstage and was shaking on the floor of the locker room, fingers twitching like static. The rotator cuff had torn halfway through and in order to make the fans happy, he did the rest of the shows with it held together by hopes and prayers. It clicked hard whenever he raised it above his head and it would get caught in the joint. At times, it burned from simply holding the ropes to pose.

But none of that showed in his entrance. None of it touched the stage. His music hit, his lights hit, and Adam smiled like nothing had ever been wrong.

Adam had trouble sleeping after matches because of the pain. Lying still would make the pain worse. The dull throbbing of his spine, the pulsating pressure in his head, the sharp stabs in his ankle and arm; they all flared to life in the quiet. Adam would sit inside the bathtub of their shared hotel room fully clothed, allowing the hot water to soak him numb. He'd stare at the ceiling and count his breaths until the throbbing stopped, wondering how many more months he could keep doing this. 

There were times he would battle his own body, too. The tremors, the tiny shakes in his hands when he woke up. Times where he fumbled with his laces for what felt like forever because the nerves in his fingers weren't cooperating. Or the brain fog, the terrifying blank spaces where he would forget what city they were in or what day it was, having to ask Max in a joking manner because he genuinely couldn't remember and he didn't want Max to start considering him dead-weight while they traveled. 

Adam had opened the Notes app on his phone several times a day to quietly record the name of the exact hotel they were staying at or what time their match was at, just in case it slipped again. And it did, more often than not.

Max had no clue about the sound Adam's ankle made in private, the sick, wet pop when it snapped back into place after a rough day. He didn't know that most nights, it wasn't pain that hurt him most; it was knowing that this was forever now. That he'd never not feel like this, and that this pain would never subside and progressively get worse no matter what he tried. 

He didn't know of the frustration of waking up on a good day and realizing that a good day simply meant being able to walk without limping. He didn't know that Adam would cry in the parking lot after their matches. Gritted teeth, hunched over the steering wheel with his wrist in a brace he thought he would stop wearing many years ago, ankle wrapped with his shoulder pulsing like a heartbeat. 

There was no glory in weakness. No reward in honesty. You bled, you smiled, and you kept going. That was the rule. That had always been the rule. 

He smiled when Max teased him and trained when he wanted to. He took breaks in the gym bathroom when his shoulder gave out and came back saying he was only taking a call. He winced through the brightness and masked it with bravado. He limped in private and posed in public. He would wrestle and immediately seek comfort in the cold bathroom tiles. 

Max had no idea about anything because Adam wouldn't let him see a god damn thing, and the Adam that he studied would be questioning why the hell he was still going like this, in pain and sick every minute of the day.

Adam didn't want to end up some face on a poster they celebrated once or twice a year. He didn't want to be the guy everyone stood and clapped for in a tribute video while quietly replacing him. He didn't want to be an echo in the names of people who retired before and after him; he wanted to fight. But his body, his traitorous, ravaged, broken down body didn't want to fight back anymore. 

And Max, bright-eyed, strong, fast, not yet broken, didn't know a thing. Not the way Adam knew. Not yet. Some day, the grind would catch up to Max too. It'll be a random moment outside of a match during a simple routine like making coffee or heading for a drive that he would feel his own joints scream the same way Adam's did. Knowing him, the stubborn idiot, he would ignore it anyways. 

When that day comes, Adam just hoped Max remembered how often he smiled through the pain, because every smile had cost him something.

"I'm hurt but I'm not injured," Adam answered, holding that same smile on his face. He rubbed his leg awkwardly like he was trying to scratch the ache away, or kneed away the pins and needles from traveling any further. "That's a plus, right?"

The word landed like a weight in the air. That wasn't a positive thing but it wasn't necessarily a bad thing either, it just.. it wasn't right, the fact Adam had to second-guess whether or not he was simply hurt or severely injured because there was no longer a thin line blurring what was an injury and what was already ruined. 

Max swallowed and stepped closer, shutting the door behind him. He walked the rest of the way and sat in the chair across from the table, rubbing his hands together, nervous. Eye contact was borderline unbearable because while Adam still had that tired, sick look to him, he also had that post-match glow in his eyes that Max remembered so fondly. He used to love looking into Adam's eyes after they tagged. "I hope you know— I meant it. Every part of it. You deserved to go out like that."

Adam reached up, peeled the ice off his shoulder, wincing. 

Then, the retched words. "I'm sorry."

The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air like smoke. Max blinked once, twice, waiting for the rest. Like maybe Adam would laugh and take it back or add something sharp and dismissive. He hadn't asked for an apology of any kind because he knew that peeling off that band-aid would just allow the wound to seep again, and they'd been doing so well rebuilding their relationship without it. 

Max's heart thudded, slow and heavy in his chest. He told himself to feel angry, to hold the years like daggers and throw them back. He had every right to still hold a grudge and resent him. That was all he knew. But instead, unlike the other times he'd bottled up his anger and unleashed it at the wrong times, he was frozen.

Adam kept talking as if he wouldn’t be able to start again. "I'm sorry I did what I did. Instead of asking you how you felt, I assumed you thought I was weighing you down and I couldn't handle it anymore. I thought cutting you off would be easier than dealing with what I had going on." 

As much as it made sense, it really didn't. Rather than asking Max how he was feeling, he thought stabbing him in the back and publicly humiliating him was the way to go? Instead of trying to work things out, he turned back to Roddy and assumed the worst, using every bit of Max's vulnerability against him. If they'd tried working things out while Adam was hurt and he had to take time off, he would've understood. But Adam was the Devil. That was what made this entire apology feel so insincere. 

Max thought he'd feel relief hearing the words. He thought maybe they'd unlock something, make the years feel lighter, make the scars less jagged. But instead, he just felt.. exposed. Too vulnerable for his liking. That couldn't happen again. Practically crying at Adam's feet for a match was already a step too far. 

Max's stomach twisted. He looked away, breathing hard. "I don't want an apology, Adam. I just— I came in here to thank you for the match. That's all," he cleared his throat. Perhaps he'd taken it a step too far himself by thinking that this was a good idea. "I don't want anything from you, in fact. I'm not in here for that shit. Just, uh, thanks for that out there. You did good." 

There he was, bottling it all up again. Max felt the knot in his chest begin to unravel; not all at once, but enough to breathe. Enough to finally stop shaking at the mention of Adam's name. He'd be lying if he said he knew what to feel. He didn't know if he truly forgave Adam or if he just wanted to believe him.

But what he did know was that Adam looked sorry, and a part of him will always love him, no matter what. 

Max silently stood up from the chair and kept his chin tucked to his chest as he made a beeline for the exit, not wanting Adam to see him so emotional. The tears in his eyes were already a dead giveaway, and the fact he was willingly sitting in a room with him probably spoke louder than words. There wasn't an apology sincere enough or a compliment good enough that would get him to fall through the cracks again. Their endgame was meant to be this, distant with a sorrowful goodbye. 

He put his fingers to the doorknob and twisted, and Adam spoke loudly and clearly. "I'm sorry," he rushed out, and when he tried to stand, his legs gave out and forced him back on the table. "Max, I swear to you, I mean it. Roddy—" 

"Cut the shit, man," Max cut him off, running a hand down his face. If he wasn't crying on the way inside, he probably was now. An apology simply wouldn't be enough, even if Adam swore on his life. "Take your apology and find someone else to harass with it. I'm done here. I did my part. Thank you for the match and I wish you well, but I'm done here." 

Adam still tried. "Max, please—" 

Max barked a humorless laugh and threw his hands up, turning around to face him. "Oh, I forgot. Excuse my manners," he chuckled dryly, beginning to feel that red hot anger surge through his veins. A part of him wanted to turn around and knock Adam silly for thinking this was the right time to apologize, when he was vulnerable and already feeling like utter garbage after his only best friend just retired. "Please fuck off, take your shitty apology and find someone else's life to fuck up. That work for you, brochacho?" 

His voice cracked down the middle of the word, loud and echoing. His whole body shook like it wanted to run or punch something, or curl up in the corner until the world stopped spinning. That was the worst part, that even now, with fire burning through every vein and his lungs full of rage, part of him still loved Adam in a way he couldn't kill.

After taking a few deep breaths, Max settled down, lowering the volume of his voice while Adam waited patiently for him to continue. "I didn't want to yell at you but you made me," he said shakily, pointing a finger in Adam's face in case he thought the blame and guilt would go elsewhere. "You're the only friend I've ever had, and you chose to break my heart. I can't forgive you for that." 

As Max opened the door, he remembered who he was talking to. Adam was retired; he wasn't the man who'd left him behind, not anymore. He was older, weathered. His armor was cracked open, and Max could see the wounds underneath now. There was no hiding it anymore. And strangely, against all logic and self-preservation, Max didn't want to hurt him back. He didn't want revenge. He didn't want to say something cruel to balance the scales. 

"I'll see you around," Max mumbled against his own goodwill, closing the door behind him. 

———

Another title defense in the toilet. So what if he had to punch Hangman in the jaw with his ring in order to win? The first time they wrestled was a fluke; Max had his head up his ass during the entire match and wasn't focused because he was thinking about other things and other people, so he lost to a technicality. Otherwise, he would've won. This time was no different except for the fact the referee almost caught him and threw the match away. 

Backstage smelled of sweat and adrenaline from earlier in the night, the walls echoing with the low rumble of packing crates, distant laughter, and the slap of tape being ripped off old boots. Max lingered just outside the hallway that opened into catering, where a few folding chairs and a beat-up couch made for a makeshift locker room extension. In other words, this was where the losers gathered and ate their feelings away. 

In the distance, he heard voices that were recognizable, too easy to mistaken for anybody else. 

One of them was Adam. He was mid-conversation and sounded calm, maybe even.. happy? Max could hear the low timbre of Roddy's voice, then Kyle laughing quietly. Max's hand tightened around the wrist tape he hadn't peeled off yet. He didn't know why Adam was here or what any of them were doing here exactly considering they barely wrestled to begin with. 

Max took a break and rounded the corner. Adam was sitting on one of those folding metal chairs, one ankle folded over his opposite knee, resting lazily along the back. His posture was unusually relaxed as if he'd finally found peace of some sort. And across from him was Kyle with a half-empty water bottle in one hand, sweat coating his temple from training. Roddy was beside Kyle, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, that ever-present guarded edge still in his jawline. From across the room, Max could tell he was a ticking time bomb. 

The second their eyes locked, the temperature in the room shifted slightly. Ospreay ran past him in a hurry and bumped into his shoulder, maybe on purpose. 

Max nodded at Adam and slowly made his way to where they were sitting, trying to seem casual even though his heart was beating in his throat. This was all so complicated; if he left behind Adam and moved on, his heart would never stop aching for what could've been, and if he were to forgive him and try to make amends, he would always hold that grudge. There would never be a happy medium, regardless. 

Kyle gave a polite smile and waved, taking another sip of water. Roddy just.. stared. Max struggled to dissect emotions on other people's faces and Roddy was no different. He looked both angry and relaxed at the same time, on edge and ready to blow up at any given moment.  

Adam's expressions didn't harden the way Max had braced for. Considering he practically told him off last time they spoke, he expected a much different reaction. And maybe Adam should be angry at Max for brushing him off his shoulder and discarding him the way he did, especially after taking such an important match from him. 

Instead, Adam smiled. "Hey," he spoke softly, rolling one of his shoulders because it'd been bothering him. 

Roddy stuffed his hand into his pants and pulled out his phone, bouncing his leg off the hardwood floor. It seemed as if Max's presence alone was now giving him grief. Not that it mattered because Max certainty wasn't going to take an opinion from somebody who sat on his ass in a wheelchair for the majority of the year while he was out grinding. In fact, Roddy is the last person he'd take word from. 

As he analyzed the scene up close, Max's chest eased slightly. Adam's color was back. He wasn't a sickly pale anymore, but rather a warm, sunkissed tan that reminded him of the old days. Days where they would go on walks together side by side, bumping shoulders as they made fun of people's cars going by. He wasn't hunched over and wasn't sitting up straight, yet he looked comfortable and much less in pain, even though he was still rubbing his shoulder and rolling it awkwardly. 

"How are you feeling?" Max asked, gesturing vaguely at the shoulder he was touching. 

Adam sat back a little more, stretching. "Pretty good, actually," he said. Kyle gave him a cheeky smile and raised his eyebrows, a look that spoke for itself. If this was considered good, Max didn't want to think about what bad looked like. Never again.

"You didn't look like it ten minutes ago," Roddy scoffed, shaking his head. 

Adam tried to keep up the facade by smiling at the off comment, nudging Roddy with the better shoulder. "Well, yeah, but I've looked much worse," he said, trying to ignore the growing tension between him and Roddy. Just by looking, Max could tell there was something going on between them again, even if he couldn't quite pinpoint what. Surely, it wouldn't be long before they inevitably split from each other. These three were no better than the Elite when it came to melodrama. 

Similar to Hangman, Kyle was the quiet one. He had a good heart and was always the one to try and keep pushing while his friends fell apart, even if it was killing him. Nick was almost like Roddy, except for the favoritism, of course. He didn't prefer Kyle or Adam like Nick preferred Hangman over Kenny, he would try to keep them together as long as it benefited him. And like Matt, the root of all the problems was Adam, always putting himself first over his friends even if he loved them. 

"You've definitely looked worse," Max smiled faintly in an attempt to keep the conversation going without pissing anyone off. Around these guys, he would always be walking on eggshells. 

Kyle laughed nervously that comment, taking another swig of water. Trying to crack the ice with two people he wasn't familiar with and an ex-best friend he still kinda hated wasn't for the weak, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. He was too stubborn to stop trying. Max stepped closer, not daring to sit near them but leaning against the wall near the edge of the couch.

As he placed his water bottle beside him, Kyle looked between them and then nudged Adam's leg gently with his knee. "You gonna tell him?" 

Adam glanced up at Max again. "Yeah, I know," he whispered and attempted to sit up against the back of the chair, flinching at the pain. "I was gonna wait but now is as good a time as any. Max, I know we spoke a little bit about me hanging up the boots, but I've decided I'm not. At least, not from wrestling entirely." 

That meant Max would be able to see him on the road. Thank god. He blinked slowly, registering the words being spoken to him. He found it both heartbreaking and a relief that Adam was tip-toeing around the word retirement. "You're not?" 

Adam shook his head, and there was a glint of pride in his eyes, confidence that hadn't been etched into his face for a very long time. Roddy's foot began tapping against the floor in an aggressive manner as he scrolled through his phone for whatever. It was obvious something was pissing him off, but it was hard to tell exactly what it was. "I'm done wrestling. My body has made that more than clear. But I've decided I'm not done with this business, not by a long shot." 

Kyle leaned forward, patting Adam's knee. "Go on," he said giddily. 

Adam chucked. "I've talked to management. So starting next month, I'm gonna be working as a manager. Maybe I'll mentor and train too if it's possible, but I'm trying to focus on one thing at a time. I'll be ringside, still part of everything." 

Max didn't expect the sudden tightness in his throat. It felt almost absurd how emotional that made him. He stared at him for a long second, then exhaled like he hadn't realized he was holding his breath, rubbing the back of his neck to distract himself from sobbing on the spot. "That's.. good," he bit his tongue, knowing that the joke about Adam being a manager was dancing on the tip of his lips. Wrong place, wrong time. 

Roddy, still skeptical, decided to chime in. "Yeah, it's real good. So that way when somebody jumps him ringside and he ends up back at home anyways, he'll have nobody to blame but himself." 

Oh God. Change the subject. Please, God, change the subject.

"I'm not made of glass, Roddy," Adam joked. His voice was frayed, thick with exhaustion and devastation he hadn't fully admitted to anyone yet. Of course he knew the risks of going out there, but sitting on the sidelines was going to drive him up a wall. Wrestling was all he knew. "I'm just saying, I could be out there. I could walk out with you and Kyle just like old times, and I can support you both—" 

Roddy cut him off. "But it's not old times, is it? It's not safe anymore," he snapped, voice sharp. "It's not safe for you to be anywhere near the ring. Don't you get that? I mean, what if something happens during the match? You think we're gonna have time to stop what we're doing to check on you?" 

Kyle blinked hard. His head dropped, fingers twitching on his knee like he was ready to get up and leave, say something, but didn't know how. He looked confused, hurt and worried all at the same time because Roddy was slowly reaching a boiling point while Adam was far from emotionally ready to lose him as a friend. After all they'd gone through to get back together, putting the past aside and leaving old friends behind, Kyle would feel hopeless. Max could see it happening; the way Kyle's body hunched inward, like he was preparing for an insult that wasn't directed at him.

"It's just ringside," Adam said while shrugging, completely aware of the dangers. "I'm not wrestling or taking any bumps. I just wanna be there for you guys." 

Roddy didn't answer right away. Max imagined him clenching his jaw like h always did when he was overwhelmed, too emotional to form a calm and legible argument, too protective to speak gently. When he did speak, his voice was low, nearly shaking. "I'm scared for you. What part of that are you not getting?" He asked. "It could be the smallest thing. You think I wanna be stuck between looking over at you while you're not feeling well and getting my ass kicked?"

Adam's laugh was brittle. "So what, you want me to sit at home and do nothing? You and Kyle get to go and live your lives while I remember the good old days?"

"I want you to be alive to remember the good old days," Roddy said, and this time the words came fast, loud, almost desperate. "But I can't sit here and pretend this is normal anymore. I can't even look at you without feeling terrible, let alone wrestle."

Max swallowed. Something crawled beneath his skin and buzzed like a thousand bees. The fight wasn't his and yet it felt familiar. He didn't move, not while Kyle was still trying to diffuse the situation quietly, arms pulled around himself tightly. He was silently mouthing something as Adam laughed sarcastically at Roddy's ridiculous remarks, probably trying to calm himself before it all came to a head. Because if the argument didn't finish here, it would finish elsewhere. 

"Why are you telling me what to do?" Adam said suddenly, and it came out cruel, sharp like a shard of glass and hit the center of Roddy's chest.

Roddy hesitated. That wasn't it at all. He just.. couldn't explain it in words the way he'd been feeling lately about Adam hanging up his boots, bottling every last word up and sheltering himself from reality. If he were to be totally honest, he felt like walking away months ago when things got really bad. "I'm not trying to," Roddy sighed. "But I'm begging you to just stay away from the ring. I'm trying to work with you, I just— it's really screwing with me mentally."

"Right," Adam muttered. "Just go then. If I'm such a burden, just leave." 

Near bell time, Adam stood next to Kyle as he wrapped his wrists in gauze and gritted his teeth through his mouthpiece. Inside of his boot, his ankle throbbed uncomfortably and his shoulder twinged when he put on his usual jacket, ignoring the sick pop when he shoved his arm through the sleeve. Even Kyle stopped in the middle of wrapping his wrists to check what the hell that sound was. 

By the time Roddy got down there, he found Adam by the curtains, standing at a monitor and tugging his sleeves down like a man preparing to go into war instead of simply accompanying his best friend. The halls buzzed around them with anticipation, cameramen preparing to head down the ramp alongside them. Kyle was touching up his gauze and stretching, headphones in, half-lost in his world as usual. Roddy wasn't even sure Kyle knew what he was getting himself into. 

Adam noticed Roddy's approach without looking directly at him. His posture stiffened but he didn't turn, choosing to ignore his presence after the fiasco earlier. A good friend wouldn't be trying to discourage him from enjoying what's left of his career.

"Hey," Roddy tried anyway, attempting to keep his voice calm despite the tightness in his chest. "You seriously gonna do this?" 

Adam turned the slightest bit to face him, his expression calm in an infuriating way that always drove Roddy crazy. It wasn't smug or defensive, just.. deattached, like he didn't have a care in the world. Either that or he'd totally stopped caring about his own wellbeing. "Kyle asked me to be out there, so I am. Simple as that." 

"You're not cleared," Roddy snapped, stepping closer and lowering his voice as others walked by. "You're not even stable on your own two feet. You've got two, maybe three concussions stopped on top of each other, and you get dizzy every time you stand up too fast. You shouldn't even be here, let alone out there. Why do you think that's okay?"

"I'm not wrestling," Adam replied softly, carefully tossing his hair up into a bun. Anything to keep normalcy. "I'm standing in a corner. It's really not that big of a deal, Roddy." 

Roddy ran a hand through his hair, breath catching. "You're walking out there like none of that matters. You're a wrestler at heart and you're going to end up getting yourself in a situation you can't get out of. If you go out there, you're gonna end up getting hurt and I don't wanna see it again. I care about you, man."

Adam's jaw twitched as he adjusted his hair-tie. "You don't have to watch." 

"I don't want to lose you," Roddy's voice broke. 

That hit harder than either of them expected. 

When Adam fractured his wrist in the other company and he wasn't cleared, he would gladly take a bullet for Roddy and Kyle during one of their matches. When Adam tore his shoulder, he continued the match he was in. When he got concussed in his match with Joe, he stubbornly pulled through to finish the match. When Adam blew his ankle to bits, he accompanied Roddy and the other guys for months because it was the only way he knew how. If he were to go out there and accompany Kyle, somehow, some way, he was going to end up hurt, and they both knew it.

Adam looked down, swallowing. There was a flicker of guilt in his expression, a crack in his normally calm demeanor. He pressed his hands into his jacket pocket and sighed quietly. "I know." 

"Then don't do this," Roddy said, stepping in front of him, desperate now. He'd been warned by his doctors already that one more concussion could permanently alter the rest of his life, that he'd been very lucky up until this point to not deal with as many lingering symptoms. "Please, just stay back here. I'll walk Kyle down. He'll understand." 

Adam shook his head. "I can't do that to him. He asked me, Roddy. I get you're scared, but I'm not gonna drop dead just from walking to the ring. I'm gonna take extra precaution for you and try to stay out of action."  

"You don't know that," Roddy's throat tightened. 

"I do," Adam corrected him. "I know myself, Roddy. I know my limits." 

"No, you don't," Roddy said, louder now. There were tears brimming his eyes, and the longer he sat here and argued with Adam, the worse it was going to become. He becomes quite the jerk when he's emotionally driven to be. "You're pretending you're fine again and you keep brushing me off. You're always fucking brushing me off like I'm overreacting. You forgot what year it was in the middle of a conversation last week and I let it go telling myself you'll get better because it's only temporary, but you're not treating it like it's temporary. You're walking out there like it's worth dying for."

Adam was quiet for a long time. He didn't blink, barely breathing. The hallway's dull light buzzed above them, humming faintly and echoing in Roddy's ears. 

Then Adam looked up at him with softer eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Deep down, he knew Roddy was right. "For me, it is worth dying for. What else do I have at this point? The last bits of my career were ripped away from me, Roddy." 

Roddy exhaled, chest caving in like something had broken internally. "My God," he clutched his heart at the words. In years from now, he'd like to go and grab a drink, remember the good old days when they took the world by storm and conquered every challenge that came their way. But he won't be able to do that if Adam keeps throwing himself into danger head first. Literally. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't stay away from this," Adam said gently, reaching for Roddy's shoulder. He flinched away. He didn't mean to, but he did. Adam's hand stopped mid-reach. "I promise I'll be okay, just.. let me do this, okay? I'm not asking you to understand. And if you can't be out there with me, I get it. Stay here. I'll check in with medical after, just to be safe. We can go straight to the hotel afterwards and you can yell at me there, alright?"

Roddy's eyes were glassy, but he blinked back the wetness quickly and crossed his arms over his chest. His jaw was locked and his throat burned from swallowing so many things he didn't know how to say. Adam didn't seem to realize how much he was hurting him; or maybe he did know. Maybe he just didn't care as much as he used to. If he was willing to throw himself to the wolves so easily, maybe he wasn't taking Roddy's feelings seriously enough. It wouldn't be the first time and it surely wouldn't be the last.

"You want me to stay here? Fine, I'll stay. Whatever," Roddy's voice broke. Adam's lips parted like he wanted to say something more, but Roddy had already turned, walking briskly down the hall and out of sight.

Next to him, Kyle had taken off his headphones and begun practicing his strikes into the air. A producer jogged over and explained to them the notes for their entrance, showing them what camera to look into and so on. Adam knew what to do already considering this was routine for them back in the day.

The lights dimmed, pulsing in rhythm with the crowd's buzz as the arena waited for the next match to begin. And for the first time in a long time, Adam stepped out—not as a wrestler, not under any pressure, not hiding from the spotlight like Roddy had suggested for some strange reason—but as Kyle's manager, and for the time being, it felt right. He felt more than comfortable sharing his spotlight with someone else. 

Adam felt great, and he probably looked it too. The jacket he wore was an old one he'd kept packed away from the Bullet Club days, leather, sharp, subtle enough not to outshine Kyle but tailored to fit again, like he'd grown back into himself. His eyes were clearer, the slump in his posture was gone, and even the small streaks of grey in his stubble seemed to add to the quiet confidence he carried now. As long as he wasn't exerting his energy in the ring, he genuinely believed his time as a manager would last a while.

Kyle's music hit and Adam was already hyping him up on the ramp, pointing towards him with a grin and clapping his hands, patting Kyle on the back once they reached the top of the ramp. The audience seemed happy just to see them together, and that alone felt like a win. Although, Adam wasn't listening to the noise of the crowd because he was too busy watching Kyle also take in the moment with watery eyes.

Everything felt right. Adam stepped up first and sat on the ropes, helping Kyle make it through the ropes. Adam then stood in the corner and allowed Kyle to do his own thing, even if it pained him to not share the spotlight alongside him. 

Then, the music shifted. 

The first few strums of guitar were familiar but didn't quite register, at first. He thought maybe Max had asked Tony Khan for a licensed theme just to rub it in their faces because this was Maxwell Jacob Friedman they were talking about, but the longer the song continued, the more it became familiar. And once Adam realized what was happening, it was too late. 

Break Anotha by Blake Lewis blasted through the speakers and Adam tilted his head, his expression amused before Max even emerged from the tunnel. There was no shot, right? Kyle looked over at him with an eyebrow raised, shrugging. 

Max strutted out with a smirk carved into his face, sunglasses halfway down his nose, shirt pulled between his teeth the exact same way Adam used to do in his early run from CZW; a cocky swagger in every step, hips exaggerated, jaw sharp, hair messed up just enough to look staged as he made his way down the ramp. He even had white boots and bright green trunks on. A true student of the game. 

Adam stared blankly for a moment, then burst out laughing. He doubled over slightly at the waist, gripping at Kyle's shoulder to stay upright, wheezing between laughs as Max mouthed off at the camera and pointed directly at him like an asshole. 

Max winked. That slimy, son of a bitch. 

Kyle turned his head slowly, looking at Adam with a raised brow, clearly amused by whatever the hell was happening but also confused by Adam's reaction, considering they were at each other's throats less than an hour ago. Adam was still laughing, shaking his head in total disbelief. 

Kyle leaned in close and murmured near Adam's ear. "He's never going to change, is he?" 

Adam didn't even hesitate. He just shook his head, grin softening into a satisfied smile, and answered with the most certain voice. 

"Nope. And that's just how I love him." 

It wasn't a confession, necessarily. Not one that needed any explanation, anyway. Kyle didn't push further because he already knew what'd gone on between them. Orange would keep an eye on them in the locker room and text Kyle all about how Adam was doing, the differences in the way he treated him and Max because surprisingly, Kyle wasn't stupid and knew Adam was capable of loving him better. Instead, he nodded with a crooked smile and bounced against the ropes, leaning to make sure they were steady. 

Adam hopped outside, hands in his pockets, still watching Max with all the old feelings still there, just much softer and wiser now. And though Max was mouthing shit at Kyle like always, throwing up a middle finger and smirking like he owned the place, he still glanced over at Adam and had the balls to speak to him. "Man, it's a shame Keith Lee isn't here to see this! He'd be so proud of you, man!" He smiled, screaming from across the ring.

And Adam smiled back at him. 

They were ridiculous. Infuriating, even, but they both knew it; they'd always been meant for each other, two halves of the same asshole.