Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ASHER
KENNEWICK, WASHINGTON
Asher makes a bleating noise as Caleb climbs back into bed and drags a damp towel across his stomach.
His brain is still sloshing around different space, one where Caleb pins him down and strokes his jaw, sweaty fringe falling over an eye, coaxing another shudder out of his already oversensitive body.
Even in the haze, he can’t imagine looking at anyone other than Caleb.
The way his expression hardens because he knows Asher likes it, needs it even, but his eyes remain unbearably soft, ready to stop should Asher indicate so.
The hoarse “sweetheart” that slips out when he’s teetering on the edge, his face turned up to Asher’s, flushed and undone.
Caleb greedily swallowing every “Please” and “More” that Asher gasps out. He never wants to look away.
Slowly, he returns to his body—splayed out on the sheets, brace a little out of position, knees starting to protest with the raw heat of what is probably some rug burn, jaw sore but with a deeply comfortable ache, fingers tapping a mindless rhythm across Caleb’s chest, like he’s playing a piano.
Wincing slightly, he turns and nudges his nose against Caleb’s, poking his cheek with a finger when Caleb scrunches up his face and kisses him. It’s messy. Off the mark. Barely landing on the corner of his lips. Asher giggles softly at that.
“Look at that shiner,” Asher murmurs at last. Squinting, he runs a careful thumb over the splotches of reddish-purple circling Caleb’s right eye, replacing it with an apologetic kiss to the eyelid when Caleb hisses.
When he pulls back, he finds Caleb looking at him, expression unreadable. “What’s wrong?”
Caleb is quiet for a long moment before he asks, “Do you ever get tired of this?”
“Of us?”
Some kind of hurt must telegraph across Asher’s face as Caleb quickly scoops him into an embrace. “No,” Caleb says. “Never.” He exhales. “It was a stupid question. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, well, now I also have anxiety. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Caleb. Talk to me. Was I too much?”
Caleb cuts Asher off. “No.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m being ridiculous.”
Asher guides Caleb’s chin down, making Caleb look him in the eye. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but just know that you do not have to apologize for having needs and feelings.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Caleb takes a deep breath. “I’m scared we’ll have to spend forever pretending to hate each other. And that you’ll get sick of it.” His jaw twitches, the movement so minute that someone who doesn’t know him well might miss it, but Asher knows exactly what he’s left unsaid.
Of me.
This is it—the elephant in the room they have tried to build their world on, ignoring for as long as possible. Now more than ever, the pressure's bearing down.
“Where is this coming from? Last night?” Asher asks.
He drags his lower lip between his teeth and tries to play it back.
He remembers Caleb running down the ramp when he wasn’t scheduled to, the confusion of not knowing how to react, the feelings warring inside his belly.
It was the most useless he’d ever felt in the ring, worse than being out of commission.
Acting and reality began to merge. Asher could no longer separate the two, so he walked away.
It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But it was necessary.
Wasn’t it?
“All of it.” Caleb deflates, his brows pinched.
“I thought . . . I thought I could be different. That somewhere down the line I could join you. Change the formula, y’know?
I could be better. I could learn to become a face like you, and eventually we could team up or something.
Then we wouldn’t have to”—he gestures around them—“do all this. But—”
“But Prichard would never give you his blessing after he’s spent all these years building you up as the top heel of the company,” Asher finishes, the final pieces falling into place.
“It’s not fucking fair.” Caleb’s voice stutters before it breaks.
“Even if he did, we’d still have to hide.
You said it yourself: there’s no room for queerness in this business.
Eventually, once our rivalry runs its course, Creative will shove us into different programs, and we’ll never get to see each other, not even in the ring.
There is no end. You’ll keep waking up in your bed, and I’ll wake up in mine.
And I know I’ll do my damnedest to make it work and so will you, but this business will just keep pulling us apart.
It’ll take and take and take, and one day all that loss will curdle into resentment.
If you start hating me again—” Caleb’s breath catches painfully in his throat and Asher feels it in his own, like they are connected in some way.
He watches Caleb turn to glass. “Asher, I don’t think I’m strong enough to recover from that. ”
Those last words make Asher freeze. “Baby,” he says. He hears his own voice crack. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“But what if—”
Leaning back, Asher glances around. How does he show Caleb he’s in for the long haul? That he may have to walk away from him in the ring, but he’ll always come back?
“Come,” he says, and without even waiting for Caleb to put up a fight, Asher is already rolling out of bed. He moves quickly, nudging two chairs together, and drapes a comforter across them. Then he chucks a handful of pillows onto the carpeted floor.
Caleb blinks at the makeshift pillow fort. “You’re kidding.”
“I take my forts very seriously.”
A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitches. “This is childish.”
Asher clambers in and extends a hand. He smiles up at Caleb. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Let’s just get away from the world for a bit.”
The fort, when they are both squashed inside it, feels safe. A soft glow emanates from Asher’s phone as he switches on its flashlight and puts it on the dimmest setting. They sit around the gentle glimmer, knees pressed together.
“Hi,” Asher says quietly.
A beat.
Caleb picks at the embellishment on a pillow, twisting a stray thread around his index finger.
Asher squeezes Caleb’s shoulder, working on the knots with his thumbs until Caleb’s eyes drift back open. “Look at me,” Asher says, smiling softly. He tips their foreheads together. “That’s not going to happen. It’s going to be difficult, but we’ll work it out.”
“How do you hold so strongly to that faith of yours?”
“Maybe it’s foolishness, but what I know is this: what we have”—Asher jabs a finger at the window—“out there”—Asher gestures toward the both of them—“or in here . . . it’s real. The way I feel about you is real. That’s my faith. You’re going to become so sick of me. I promise, okay?”
Caleb follows Asher’s finger. His smile wobbles. “All right.”
“Look, why don’t you come home with me for Christmas? My parents have a holiday home along Hermosa Beach that they drive up to every December. Once we’ve taped the Christmas special in Sacramento, we could go. I’m due some time off.”
Caleb shakes his head. “I couldn’t impose on you guys.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They adore you. Ma’s already doubled all her recipes to account for you.”
“Are you sure?”
Catching Caleb by the wrist, Asher presses individual kisses to his fingertips, and says, “Absolutely.”
Caleb’s looking back at him, gorgeous and fragile, miles and miles of barely-put-back-together pieces but still here after everything he’s been through, and Asher thinks, maybe he would burn it all down for this. For him.
“The world is a much gentler place with you in it,” Asher whispers.
It isn’t an earth-shattering confession, but he thinks Caleb needs to hear it as much as he needs to say it. Asher traces his fingertips over Caleb’s thighs, letting the moment settle. The silence dissolves when Caleb inches closer, brushing Asher’s fringe aside, and slides their lips together.
“You might be a little biased,” Caleb says through a small hiccuping laugh, but they kiss again and again. And for now, it is enough.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
The Christmas special passes without note.
Asher’s always enjoyed it, mostly since it’s a rare, silly little episode that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
There’s often a wrestler—usually Alexei in recent years—who’s a good sport and spends the show dressed as Santa, terrorizing the rest of the roster with gifts of steel chairs, kendo sticks, and the occasional sledgehammer if he’s feeling feisty.
All that to say, nothing significant happens.
After the taping wraps up, the roster files into Bailey’s hotel room like the world’s most ragtag clown car.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, the suite is decked out in colorful flashing Christmas lights, red and green metallic streamers taped to every possible surface. A stuffed snowman sits in a corner with a starry garland draped around its neck.
“You are a housekeeping nightmare,” Asher tells Bailey as the beats of “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out” underscore the sloshing of the mega margarita mix Thea is making in the bathtub.
He glances around the room. Dozens of little round-bellied crop-top-wearing Santas ominously occupy every single nook and cranny.
“This is my emotional support hoard,” Bailey argues defensively. “Get off my dick.”
Caleb nods. “So true. You should see the trunk of our car.”
“Besides, you’ll help me tidy up when the party’s over.”
“I’m sorry, since when is that my problem?”
“My problems are your problems. Your problems remain your problems. It’s basic math.” Bailey snaps her fingers. “What’s not clicking?”
The party goes on and festive themed drinks—eggnog puddings, pumpkin pie martinis, champagne Jell-O shots—get passed around on trays.
“Santa Panties?” Thea asks cheerfully, shoving a shot glass into Asher’s and Caleb’s hands.
Beside him, Caleb eyes the concoction warily.