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himbos-hotline · 2 years

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I wish you would write the conversation between Kenny and Hangman on Kenny's return.

If I said you could never touch me

Word count: 2287 words Ship: OTP: He could make me golden ["Hangman" Adam Page/Kenny Omega] Characters: Kenny Omega, "Hangman" Adam Page Triggers: Alcohol, Anxiety, Broken Glass, Unrequited love, Implied/Refrenced smut Authors note: Based on [I wish you would write a fic where…] Ask game. The idea wouldnt leave my head so here it is.

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Failure. Adam knows the word well enough that he’s started to respond to it. In his own mind of course, late at night when it refuses to let him sleep. He tosses and turns in his empty hotel bed, letting the blankets wrap around his ankles like a spider web. He stares at the ceiling and lets the voice yell at him. “You’re nothing but a failure Adam.” The voice in his head whispers, the devil on his shoulder whispering so sweetly into his ear it feels like a lullaby. The devil kisses at the lobe of his ear, the nape of his neck and somewhere in the euphoria, Adam lets his eyes close.

“I know.” He whispers back, letting darkness swirl behind his eyelids and like a drowning man. He takes a last death rattle of a breath as sleep wraps its hand around his throat. He awakens in a daze and for the first few moments, where he doesn't have to think, Adam almost remembers his name. He remembers how it sounded on Kenny’s early morning whispers and late night moans. And then the sun kisses his bare thighs and he’s shocked back into his own body. It's morning and Kenny isn't there to be the Devil on his shoulder, the angel in his memories. He’s somewhere off in Japan connected to a brightly coloured IV bag or connected to a brightly coloured man who held his heart like it was a precious gemstone.

Adam rolls over in the blankets, buries his nose deep into the itchy hotel pillow cases and wonders just how long he can lay in bed until the Dark Order starts to worry. He loves them all, it's clear that he does. They’re softer. Kinder. They sit Adam down and Uno presses his hand gently into the curve of his shoulder and tells him about his problems. John pulls at his jacket, wrapping it tighter around Adam's frame, keeping him warm. And Adam appreciates it. But sometimes. Sometimes he wants to pretend that failure isn’t a part of him, not the part that his friends see. Not the part that people see when they look at him for just a fragment too long.

He wishes he could bury his failure so deep inside his own soul that he almost forgets it exists. It festers and poisons his bloodstream until Adam’s entire being is a badly hidden collection of failed relationships that people look at and coo over like there's something glorious in his figure.

He wishes that he didn’t reply to the word failure like it was his name. He’s sitting alone in the Dark Orders locker room, alone with a half-empty bottle of whiskey as company. There’s a singular glow of the ceiling above him and Adam follows the pattern of the shadows as he raises the glass to his lips and tips the burning liquor down his throat. It’s an ache that Adam has grown familiar with too, like a hug from a loved one. It scalds his tongue like a scorned lover's kiss and there’s something so familiar about him licking sin off his bottom lip. The door is half open and Adam listens to the distant sounds of the ring crew packing away.

They’re stripping the mat off the ring canvas and with that, they strip away Adam’s failure. A misplaced Buckshot Lariat and he had cost the dark order everything. Everything that the dark order had worked up too, lost in three seconds and the cold spray smoke. The neck of the bottle knocks against the glass and Adam sighs, exhales invisible smoke and soon there's someone's hand resting on his shoulder. Heavy and calloused and fearfully familiar.

The fallen angel on his shoulder, pressing down on the nerve that makes hair pull up on his neck and a blush build against the skin of his chest. He settles his eyes on the floor, watching the way his shadow looks on the floor. His darkened frame feels almost easier to look at. Because Kenny's shadow doesn’t have his blue eyes that are digging their way into the back of Adam’s neck or the desperate half smile that Adam can practically feel. It’s just dark shapes that the doggy euphoria of drunkenness can mutate into whatever Adam’s mind wants. He raises the glass to his lips.

“What?” He asks the shadow on the floor, letting the word tumble into the amber liquid.

There’s a sigh behind him, heavy and worn down. “I missed you.”

Adam presses his lips together into a thin line, knocking the glass against his cupid's bow. Kenny’s hands marriage against his shoulders, thumbs working the pain deep from the marrow of Adam’s bones. Strong hands try to fix this broken man back together, it feels like water is falling from Adam’s shoulders, tracing the links of his spine and fogging up his brain. Kenny is molding him, manipulating him until Adam is something small and placid in his hands. Something burns deep in Adam’s stomach and his eyes flutter open. His spine straightens, clicking as each vertebrae slots together. The glass feels heavy in his hand all of a sudden, his white knuckled grip on it making his fingers feel numb.

Adam downs the rest of the bitter amber liquid, lets it scald its way down his throat and places the glass onto the arm of the couch. There’s a crash distant and foggy just outside the perimeter of Adam’s brain. The ring crew are finishing up; tossing weapons and empty water bottles into large bins for collection or sorting. They have an hour.

An hour to collect and find all the words that the two of them want to say. An hour that could end with Adam following Kenny back to his room, half-drunk and submissive under his strong hands. An hour that could end with Adam alone, watching his tears mix with the last of the whiskey that stays at the bottom of his glass.

An hour. Sixty painfully long minutes for Adam to finally tap into the pain. To finally allow failure to stop being his name, to have failure be his anger. The familiar taste of pennies is on his tongue, copper and state blood and rusted gold. Kenny always comes down to gold; gold-tipped fingers, golden rings around his pupils, a perfect golden band around his heart, branding him to another lover. Adam always comes down to silver; the second best option for a last place man. He licks at his bottom lip and pushes himself off the couch, Kenny’s hands limp as they fall to grip at the back of the couch.

“Don’t touch me.” Adam’s voice doesn't wobble like his stomach does. There's a flame of anger biting at the corner of his mind, making his skin feel tight and his stomach feel knotted. Kenny’s eyebrow quirks upwards and his lips flash into a small smile. He’s still wearing his shoulder sling under his shirt, the hem sagging slightly around the base of his throat. He looks tired, but happy. He smiles when Adam finally settles his eyes back on him and Kenny reaches out, taking Adam’s face in his hand.

“Yeah?” He hums, voice barely above a mocking whisper and Adam balls a hand at his side into a fist. Some small part of his mind, lost and mournful, tells him to lean into Kneny’s calloused palm but he doesn’t, Adam squares his jaw, presses his teeth together so hard that he’s sure tomorrow his jaw will hurt. “Haven’t you missed me cowboy?”

“No.” Adam lies through his teeth, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth but the fury of the last three years is rearing its ugly head like a sleepy dragon made of brown spilt blood and former love. “No.” He repeats. “I told you to stop touching me.” His voice is colder now, growing with the increasing pressure.

There’s not enough air in the room and Adam gasps when Kenny finally pulls his hand away, tucking them into the pockets of his shorts. “Jealous we beat you and your little spooky cult friends hmm”? Kenny’s voice is bordering on patronizing and Adam wants to hit him. His fists tighten, ring-worn nails pressing deeper into the fleshy parts of his palms. “Get it together Hanger, I’m not here for the sad, lonely cowboy act.”

“Why are you here then?” Adam stupidly asks.

Kenny scoops the glass up in his hand, rolling it between his fingers. “For you.”

The words hit Adam like a swift kick to the gut. His heart stutters and for a few seconds he blinks at Kenny as he sways on his feet, wandering around Adam;’s eyeline like a bee buzzing around a wilting flower. The fire dampers quickly and when Kenny lifts the bottle up towards the light, Adam spots that it’s half empty. The brown liquid coming up to kiss at Kenny’s fingertips like sea foam kissing a suicidal mans ankles as he walks into the sea. Kenny clicks his tongue against his teeth and lets the bottle scrape across the wooden coffee table. “That took the wind outta your sails huh?” and he giggles, soft and high-pitched as if he’s told a joke.

Maybe Kenny had just made a joke. “I am here for you though Hanger.” He’s looking at him from under his eyelashes, the blue of Kenny's eyes burning brighter in the dimness of the locker room. “I thought we could celebrate me winning.” Kenny’s fingers tap against the belt, the sound bouncing off the walls. It’s the first time Adam’s registers that Keny’s wearing the trio's title and now, like someone pointing out a pimple, it’s all Adam can keep staring at. His face reflects back off the golden plates and he watches his face grow larger, bigger as Kenny steps closer and wraps a hand into his hair. “Remember just like when we won the tag titles.” Kenny’s fingers yank at his hair, pulling Adam forward into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. It's not pretty and Adam definitely doesn’t want to taste the secondhand victory off Kenny’s mouth.

“Ya mean like when I won the tag titles” Adam bites back, pressing his fists into the middle of Kenny’s chest. He pushes with the strength of a man possessed and Kenny tumbles backwards, his feet tumble out from under him and he lands a pile on the floor, curls escaping around his face. “You did nothing that match!” Adam snaps, his lips raw and heart exposed. There’s pressure building behind his nose, pressing at the space under his eyes and Adam presses the curve of his knuckle against his skin, feeling it tacky and warm with alcohol and sweat. His scalp is tingling like a burn.

Kenny always burns him. Never bad enough to leave visible scars, but enough that Adam has to develop a thicker skin. “I did everything to carry our tag team!” Kenny retorts. He’s not yelling but the words speak so loud that they make Adam’s ears hurt. He nods down to the half-empty bottle of whiskey and places the glass back into Adam’s hand. His fingers close around the crystalised texture, the pad of his thumb pressing into the sharp little points and Adam feels lost in his anger.

“You always loved that more than us.” Kenny tells him. He twists open the lid and presses the mouth of the bottle against the glass. Adam watches him pour a glass, watches Kenny empty the bottle until whiskey is spilling over Adam’s fingers. Yet, Adam doesn’t let go. A part of his mind tells him to cling to the glass, listen to the dripping of whiskey onto his shoes. “Does it make you happy?”

“I- '' Adam starts, alcohol is starting to poison his bloodstream, making it harder for him to think. The pressure just behind his eyes is burning now, overflowing. He feels a shaking building in his stomach and when his brain focuses back on the world around him, Adam can hear his heart pounding in his chest, ricocheting off his ribs like a stray bullet. “Sometimes.” He admits. Kenny nods, hand gesturing for Adam to drink up. But he doesn’t. His fingers release the sticky glass.

It shatters between the two men. Broken glass splays everywhere and whiskey soaks into the Dark Order’s carpet. Kenny looks down at the floor and then back up at Adam. “my turn.” Adam quips, as if the two of them were playing twenty questions.

“What Page?” Kenny snaps, fingers tapping against the golden plates of the title. It’s clear that he’s growing agitated, frustrated that Adam isn’t giving him what he wants. Kenny barely represses the urge to roll his eyes when Adam fixes his hair into a ponytail and takes a step back. He’s just out of arm's reach and by the line of water building in his green eyes, Adam wants to keep it that way. “Well. spit it out.”

Adam represses the urge to laugh. Kenny has never once asked him to spit it out. He would always rub the hollow of Adam’s cheeks, coo-ing at him ever so sweetly to swallow every last drop of him. “Did you ever love me?” Adam asks, holding onto the arm of the couch. Kenny blinks at him. Once. Twice before he looks at the clock on the wall.

Five minutes. Kenny takes another step back, hand resting on the door handle. He lets it click open. He stands on the threshold, looks at Adam in all his sullen, alcoholic Cowboy energy and for once, he tells him the truth.

“Once.”

The door clicks closed.

Adam is alone again.

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