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The spot couldn't have gone more wrong. He and Sabin were wrestling The Addiction for a Ring of Honor taping - pretty decent guys they are, when they weren't their stuck-up, rebellious selves.
It was a simple two-step plan, very difficult for professionals such as themselves to miscue; it's a sequence as old as time. Shelley and Daniels were the legal men, Alex gets whipped to one side of the ring, ducks under Christopher's attempted clothesline as he comes back and bounds across to the other side where he slides out under the bottom rope to avoid further onslaught. Daniels sees this, decides to distract the referee while Kazarian jumps off the apron and comes up behind Shelley, pushing him into the ring post.
Under normal circumstances, Alex is supposed to be unaware of Kaz coming and it be "too late" to counter the move as he get's shoved into the post, while getting his hands up to mitigate the impact (and prevent his head from clanging off the solid metal). He doesn't know how it happens, but he mistimes Kazarian getting to him and doesn't get the chance to block.
Kazarian and Daniels are two people they've wrestled hundreds of times, in different decades, in different continents, in different companies. They know each other's styles and tricks more than most tag teams.
Why….. How. Did. This. Time. Go. Wrong?
-
Everything comes to a sudden stop, it takes a moment for Alex to realize he can't hear much of anything. All that he really feels is the white hot searing pain on the left side of his head, and even that is fuzzy. Any noise the crowd may have been making faded out almost instantly, or maybe they actually are just silent. He knows where he's at, but he doesn't.
He imagines if he looked up right now there would be no one behind the barricade. Or maybe they're not even doing a show, or that he's not in the middle of a match. Maybe he didn't give his dog tags to a little girl in the front row before climbing up on the ring apron. He can't remember if he straightened his hair before leaving the hotel today.
Shelley's hands instinctively reach up to grab at his head, eyes screwed shut as he grits his teeth. It feels like he's been split in half. It's the kind of bump that makes you want to throw up or die, maybe a bit of both. He feels himself slide down the post to the ground where his back is to the ring. It takes a moment to even register that anything went wrong. He faintly hears a voice before feeling the presence of someone jumping down beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He can't make out what he's saying, he assumes it's the referee probably asking how he is. Alex attempts to mutter "head" as indication, but he's not even sure he actually says it aloud.
The phantom feeling of a hand lightly grabbing his ankle tracks his mind back. For a moment he thinks the ref is a teleporter who went from being at his side to his feet within like, half a second? Or maybe he just has a really long arm. Alex considers opening his eyes to see who it is before someone is not-so gently removing his hands from his head while something soft, plush-like replaces them. It's not wet, nor is it remotely cold - Alex rules out it being an ice pack and settles for a towel. Maybe they're trying to keep the sweat out of his face, how considerate.
"Hold... there."
"Just... it pressed."
"Maybe… move."
Only now does Alex choose to open his eyes, his vision fuzzy from his eyes being scrunched shut so tightly. He looks around and is careful to move only his eyes not his head, albeit slowly. There's at least three people crouched around him, he knows one is the referee. He can't make out faces but there's someone else wearing a blue shirt in front of him, carrying one of those red sling backpacks medics carry. He figures the ref called medical over to check him as a precaution.
Shelley lowers his gaze as the person holding the towel to his head shifts their grip. He looks down to his lap and notices there's also red on his hands. Even in the dimly-lit show room he can make it out. He's also suddenly aware of the stickiness he feels on them, and the people around him poking and proding, and the apparent standstill the evening has come to. The same hands he held his head with-
It clicks. He knows now why he's disoriented, he knows why someone's pressing a towel to his head. This is much more than him just being rammed into the post. Again someone is laying their hand back on his ankle, the feeling barely there. For a brief moment, Alex hopes he hasn't lost feeling in his legs, having sat there for what seemed to him like hours it wouldn't be that surprising. He assumes it's the same hand from earlier; he didn't notice it had left. Alex peers up towards the person crouched at his feet, mentally frustrated that his eyes won't focus. He notices the figure is not wearing a shirt either, but the familiar dirty blonde hair and matching black and white pants to his own are enough to fill in the pieces.
Oh, it's Chris... Sabin. That's right, they were wrestling a tag match. And now they're not, because he is sitting on the floor outside the ring practically unresponsive with a bloodied, aching head and who knows what wrong with him.
Alex Shelley decides in this very moment that he, in fact, hates ring posts and their entire existence. If they didn't serve the purpose they do he'd probably consider getting them banned, big metal obstacle fuckers.
He has the presence of mind to be thankful this happened on the side of the ring closest to the entrance path. There's no way he's letting himself get stretchered out, so the decently short walk will have to do. He's pulled out of his lull when his right arm is grasped, hands wrapped around his forearm, then the same with his left arm shortly after.
Alex briefly wonders if he should be moving right now, he doesn't feel like it's a great idea but assumes the medic gave them the clear because he feels his arms being places over the shoulders of two people, one to each of his sides. There's an arm hooked around his waist and another hand on his upper back, almost cupping the back of his neck. Shelley's acutely aware the men holding him upright are Sabin and the referee. He hears them talking to him, probably giving directions or maybe reassurance, but his mind only registers every other word. He would love nothing more right now than to curl up and sleep for a few days straight. Temptation is a bitch.
-
Shelley doesn't remember the walk to the back. He swore just two seconds ago he was at ringside being puppeteered around, now he's just been walked (dragged) into the trainer's room where Sabin and the referee are easing him down into one of the chairs inside.
He catches the ref saying something to Chris before leaving. It's only now with the better lighting that Chris sees the glossy look in his partner's eyes, and he immediately connects the dots. This will be a long night. He moves to stand behind Alex between the back wall and the chair he's sat in. Shelley briefly wonders why he couldn't just sit in the chair diagonal himself, until the company's neuro physician walks in with a number of trainers and aides. Alex thinks he recognizes the doctor, they'd met him before when they first returned to ROH last year, albeit during a more favorable situation; a sweet, older Southern guy from Kentucky that likes to call every guy at least 20 years younger than him "son" and will joke with you during exams to keep things lighthearted. Alex silently curses his stupid, rattled brain for not remembering his name.
"You look a mess, son." There it is, Alex mused. If he had the energy to smile or even repeat it aloud, he would. He also can't imagine he looks presentable at the moment.
The doctor grabs one of those backless spinning office chairs you see in normal medical offices from the far corner of the room and pulls it over to Alex's left side before seating himself. The next few minutes followed with silence occasionally broken by small talk between the doctor and the trainers as he examined the gash along Shelley's scalp. The doctor must notice him struggling to keep his eyes open, with a slight squint to them.
"Are the lights bothering you?" A lone hum from Alex is telling enough of what he thinks. One of the aides walked over to the entry doorway where there's a small panel on the wall, a press of a button silences the bright lights into a fainter glow. Thank God they're in a room that a dimmer switch. Chris thinks it reminds him of the lighting in high school gyms they've wrestled in over the years. He ponders that maybe situations like this with Alex are one of the reasons they exist in medical departments.
"Okay, I need you talking to me… you remember what happened?" The doctor asked as he slides his pen back in the lapel pocket of his shirt.
"Yeah."
"Tell me about it." Somewhere in his clouded mind Alex knows what the doctor is asking and refrains from giving his usual sarcastic, over-the-top response, not that he has the wherewithal right now to conjure something up anyway. Something that, under different circumstances, would make Chris laugh at his antics, because Alex Shelley is the funniest person in the world to Sabin. He knows the doctor doesn't necessarily want to know how it happened, he wants to see if Alex actually remembers. He bids his intrusive thoughts adeu and answers seriously.
The doctor is very insistent on double-testing Alex for any head trauma, Chris deems this a good thing. His pupils are reactive, physical reflexes throughout the body are good, his tracking movement with his eyes were a bit delayed but not enough for a CT scan to be necessary. They come to the conclusion that there's good and bad in everything. In this case, it's that Alex Shelley, in fact, has a concussion diagnosis, but it doesn’t warrant a trip to the ER.
"How bad?" Sabin questions, and Alex had almost forgotten he was there. Chris doesn't know if he asks to keep the silence broken, or if he really wants to know. Regardless, the doctor huffs a huff that doesn't particularly spell anything good, or ease anyone's mind.
"If we're talking on a scale of 1 to 10, ten being the worst… ehhh, I'd say about a five. I mean, he's obviously responsive and that's good. Eye moment and coherentness are a little shaky, though I doubt that's because of the blood loss." One of the aide's arrive with a metal tray cushioned by a thin blue sheet, littered across is various tools and supplies that Chris assumes will be used to patch the gaping hole in his partner's head.
"Well, before I can do anything we've gotta clean you up a bit here, son." Alex feels the presence of a hand reach down and gently squeeze his shoulder, knowing it's Chris, who slips out from behind him. He hears Sabin mention something about bags and sees the doctor give a quick thumbs up in response, Alex watches as his partner disappears through the door and out into the venue hallway. He takes a moment to shut his eyes and take a breath, slightly flinching when a damp hand towel is pressed to his temple but quickly relaxes into the feeling. The worst is yet to come.
-
When Chris returns, the doctor has already begun applying the staples. The left side of Alex's face and neck is no longer coated in a thick crimson. They've also got him sitting up at a 90° angle, legs extended out straight with a leg rest they must've folded out from under the chair. The trainers have disappeared to somewhere else in the building, the only two that remain in the room were Alex and the doctor. Sabin drops the bags against the wall near the entrance and seats himself in the chair diagonal his partner, who he's not sure acknowledges him returning.
Alex doesn't say much while they're sat there. He doesn't look particularly relaxed, but most of the tension in his body is diluted by the trauma - he's pretty mellowed out. Legs out straight, back pressed against the probably now warmed metal of the trainer's table, hands together and resting in his lap. If you didn't know he'd had his bell rung 30 minutes ago you might've thought he was just chilling out while letting the adrenaline wear down from their match.
As they sat in silence, Chris watching his partner being treated, he is reminded of how helpless a person can feel in situations like these. He recalls the night Alex returned to TNA in 2011 after three months away with his broken collarbone, the same night Sabin torn his ACL. He remembers Alex sitting in the trainer's room with him then as they evaluated his knee and discussed recovery plans, which ultimately led to him being out for the rest of the year. He remembers Alex telling him he was sorry, how he felt stuck knowing he couldn't do anything to help or make matters better. They were both understandably upset then that the same night they were set to reunite as a tag team, the inevitable happened. Somehow, some way… they have found themselves right back in that place again.
And now Chris is thinking about it again, what their future may be.
He's thinking about what the next few weeks look like.
He's thinking about what tonight will look like.
The trainers and doctor would take care of Alex. They’re getting him checked out and set now. Then Sabin would take him back to their hotel and they’d have to wait a week or so until Alex is clear to travel.
Flying is definitely out of the question, and doctors don't normally recommend long road trips for post-concussion protocol, even as a passenger. It sucked whenever they were stuck in some pisshole town after indy shows due to weather restrictions or transportation problems. Chris supposes waiting for Alex's brain to realign enough to get on a plane is the ideal solution, he would never dream of rushing it. He had decided years ago that he needed to take care of this guy, just as Shelley has taken care of him. They're a tag team in and out of the ring, or whatever it was Don West said.
Chris catches the way Alex's face gives a slight twitch in discomfort as the doctor continues applying the staples, either from the gun or the pressure, maybe a bit of both. Subtlety, he reaches out a hand and sets it on the younger's knee. Sabin doesn't know when his knee pads were taken off, he only notices their absence now. He take a moment to let Alex know he's there, add a bit of support with his presence. The doctor retracts the gun and checks his handywork, placing the device down on the sterile tray.
"Let's take a break, yeah? I've gotta run your paperwork over to the front office anyway so they can be faxed… just sit tight for a minute." Alex hums in response, thanking him quietly but enough that it's audible. The hush in the room returns as the doctor makes his way through the door, leaving the two of them alone.
"I guess I'm gonna be out for a few weeks, huh?" Chris meets his partner's gaze, he immediately knows what he means, what he's implying. Even in his translucent state of mind Alex understands what this situation suggests. They'll be missing the tag team titles tournament that starts in two weeks. After all of their efforts in getting back to Ring of Honor, back in the title scene, reintroducing themselves and once again cementing their name as one of the best to ever do it... because of one ring post and a not-so-greatly-timed spot. Sabin sighs and sits back in his own chair, arms crossed. He gets it.
"Let's not worry about that right now."
"Get Kushida." This was it, this was their dynamic. Sabin's usually the one who is practical. Calm. Level. Intelligent. Put-together. Shelley's always had a reputation for his temper and short fuse. Cocky. Dickish. Smug. Wise-ass. And for some reason, in this moment, they fit together perfectly. Alex would have the audacity to suggest Sabin partner up with someone other than him.
"What?" Chris almost laughs at the idea.
"Time Splitters, but… not."
"You want me to team with your New Japan boyfriend? And you're telling me you won't be even a little jealous?"
"I didn't say all that… but he's good… real good." Chris isn't going to argue with him on that. He'd seen their work as a tag team in Japan. He knows Kushida is more than a worthy teammate and would never treat him as anything less, but now… wasn't the time to consider those options. Sabin has a perfectly good, albeit currently distressed, partner right here who he hopes to ween back to proper health. Once Alex is back on his feet, Chris hopes to tear the world down with him by his side. Just like they've always done since the beginning, they wouldn't have it any other way.
"Where's that damn doctor at?"
-
The trip to the hotel wasn't particularly a smooth experience. Chris silently thanked himself that they'd decided to get a rental car for this jog of the tour, an Uber right now would actually be a nightmare. The hotel room was also booked since they're here for the weekend for tapings. Both are two things Chris doesn't believe he has the patience to deal with right now if they weren't already set, and he imagines his ill partner wouldn't enjoy it too much either.
Alex has since slipped on one of his band hoodies in an attempt to combat the discomfort of this entire situation. He sat silently in the passenger seat as they drove the distance to the hotel, the hood pulled down over his eyes to block out the street lights and bright, neon signs of the city. The doctor informed them that sleep was completely okay for the younger and that Chris didn't have to pull a Flintstones on him with toothpicks to the eyelids to keep him awake. Alex had slowly gotten in a better, slightly more socialable mood towards the end of their visit with the doctor, too. Chris hoped it was a good sign for the rest of the coming night. Reaching over the center console, he rests a gentle hand over Alex's knee, hoping to not startle his partner. He gives it a couple comforting squeezes as they pull into the parking lot of the hotel.
They find space without much trouble. Alex eases himself out of the car and immediately curses at the sudden thought of having to carry all of their luggage inside; it dawns on him now that he doesn't know how it all got in the car in the first place. He discovers their bags strew across the backseat, gingerly moving his way through the pile to find his. He flinches as he attempts to sling his gear bag over one shoulder while he searches for his backpack. He doesn't realize Chris has made it around to his side of the car, who grabs the gear bag from him and mutters a light, reassuring, "I've got it" before slinging it over his own that's already on his back.
The lobby is thankfully quiet, and not very bright considering the time of night (well, morning). They cordially greet the receptionist before trekking over to the elevator. For a moment there's an unspoken hesitancy between both men; they hadn't considered if someone with a concussion could ride an elevator, or should, but neither mentions anything about it and they put that grievance aside as they step on. Realistically, it's nearly two o'clock in the morning and they're both exhausted, wanting nothing more than to just get to their destination and be done with it. Besides, they would probably agree taking the stairs in their current predicament would serve as quite the challenge.
Truding down the seemingly never-ending hall until the reach their door felt like an impossible task. Chris manages to fish his wallet out of his backpack for the keycard to unlock the door. Immediately he goes for the light switch before thinking twice about it. He tells Alex to wait outside while he sets the lights to where they won't bother him. Unlike the luxurious nature of the trainer's room, the hotel doesn't have dimmer switches wired throughout it. Instead, it's your standard American flip switch that activates a bright, fluorescent light in the middle of the room. Sabin remembers they booked a room with two beds with a single nightstand situated between, a lamp atop it. Perfect.
Chris collects his partner and their other bags from the hallway before shutting and locking the door. He's almost tempted to call the front desk and request that room service not stop by in the morning. Alex makes his way over to the bed he used the night before and sits without saying a word. Chris stops for a moment to assess the arrangement, eyeballing the current attire Alex is wearing. He's still in his tights and boots along with the hoodie he threw on before leaving the venue.
"Do you think you need help changing? Or are you gonna sleep in that?" Normally Alex would poke fun at him for asking that, maybe make a playful comment about Chris wanting to see him take his clothes off. The younger just looks down at his own clothes and shrugs lightly, barely enough to even call it a shrug.
"Think I'll get rid of the boots. Don't feel like movin' too much." Chris hummed in acknowledgement and watches as Alex makes no attempt to reach down and untie them, he just sits there looking aimlessly towards the floor. Sabin makes his way around the foot of his own bed and kneels down to begin unlacing his partner's shoes. Alex doesn't even try to fight off his actions, but is clearly annoyed (not at Chris) that he can't bring himself to do it. Once Sabin gets the boots loosened, Alex tries to help pull his feet out of them, but he winces and struggles to get leverage with the way the older is holding ankle.
“No, relax, I’ve got it.” Chris insists, not looking up to see what kind of reaction he got from Alex, if any. He slides them off with little struggle, wrestling gear is tight for a reason. He sits them together neatly beside the nightstand, leaving his partner's socks intact. Chris chooses now to peer up up at him from where he's knelt. He notices the distant, unfocused look in Alex's eyes that remind him of the one he saw when they first got him into the trainer's room; his eyebrows were slightly furrowed.
"Thank you, for, uh… everything." Chris watches Alex's own gaze attempt to fixate on his face where he's knelt down before him. He can tell the younger is struggling to keep up with everything, Sabin predicts this will be the case for at least the next day or two. He hopes whatever bit of sleep Alex gets tonight will improve his condition, or at the very least lessen the severity of his symptoms. The doctor gave them specific instructions on how to handle things, good or bad.
"You don't have to thank me, I'm glad I am here to help. We've got this, yeah?" Sabin rests a hand up on the bed beside Alex's thigh for balance. All he gets in response is a quiet hum, Chris decides to accept that as a 'yes'.
"Still got a headache?"
"Yeah." Not that unexpected, Sabin thinks.
"Wanna take some Tylenol? That shouldn't bother you."
"…sure." Chris nods his head, more to himself than anything. He gently pats Alex on the leg as he gets up, knees cracking and popping as he moves. He's quickly reminded of why he carries Tylenol in the first place. Fishing through his travel pack, he finds none of it and briefly wonders if TSA threw it out, which has happened before - multiple times, Chris might add. He discovers a bottle of over-the-counter acetaminophen aspirin that might've survived. This'll have to do.
-
The night winds down slowly as minds rest and bodies ease, the moon hangs high in the sky illuminating the nocturnal city outside. Chris turned the room's television on and lets the low volume drone out to create some level of noise in the air. Alex is laying on his side under the comforter draped over his bed, with his back to Sabin's side of the room. The older isn't sure if he's asleep yet but nonetheless hopes he's at least somewhat more relaxed, that the medication is running it's course.
Chris notices the curtains to the window on the far side of the room are slightly gaped and thinks it's probably better to close them now than wait until morning when the sun beams in and blinds everyone, more importantly Alex. Speaking of, Chris can't help but notice the pitiful appearance of his partner when he turns back around.
He only lingers a moment, watching Alex's breathing even out. He sees something he hasn't seen in the nearly 15 years he's known Alex, or the last 10 years as a tag team traveling the world together. Hair a wreck, curled around a pillow, eyes shut in contentment - he looks 20 again. Not like the cocky, punk rock-loving boy who would immediately catch your attention. Not the young, defiant kid from Southeast Michigan. He doesn't look like the 33-year-old Chris knows inhabits his body. This Alex Shelley looks almost peaceful, and content, and calm.
Making his way back to his own bed, Sabin settles deep into the soft layers, failing to stave off a yawn. He needed sleep eventually, and Chris considers if he should shut off the bedside light between them. Alex slipping into a coma and dying was unlikely, but Chris doubts he'll be getting much rest tonight and settles on keeping it on. For now, he links his fingers together across his chest and stares up at the ceiling, ready to bid this night adieu.
Tomorrow is another day.