Work Text:
The spider seemed to float, suspended in mid-air until the overhead lights flickered and illuminated his web. The outline glowed like a flash of lightning, visible for a single heartbeat, and then it melted back into nothingness.
Gearing up for his match with Carmelo, Ilja stood at the back of the grey locker room. As he laced up his boots, a slow, methodical criss-cross, his eyes wandered. He found the spider in the corner of the shelf beside him, his web empty, his spinning ceaseless. Spewing invisible filament after filament, he tirelessly worked for the promise of eventual capture. The repetitive dance lulled Ilja into a pensive hypnosis; he watched, focused, longer than he intended.
In a matter of minutes, he would reunite with Carmelo in the ring, and after a wild, passionate fight, he would reclaim the United States Championship. No more waiting, no more sitting back and watching the weekly open challenge, and certainly no more distractions or interferences from The Miz or otherwise. At last, Ilja was ready to cash in on his rematch. He was ready to win.
The stadium’s wild buzz intensified, bleeding through the concrete walls in abrupt pulses like chops to the chest. A particularly loud chop sounded and the spider scuttled away. Despite the rising hubbub, Ilja’s attention was grabbed by a light clamour at the other end of the locker room. As he finished the final loop of his laces and turned away from the web, he already knew that the man who had just arrived was not just any man, but him.
Indeed, Carmelo had appeared at the threshold, nonchalantly sorting through his gym bag. He was practically glowing, with the hefty golden championship slung on his shoulder like the morning sun, his glittery tights vivid against the locker room’s tired grey. His smooth, bronzy chest rose and fell to a slow rhythm Ilja could scarcely comprehend while on the precipice of such an action-packed night. On the contrary, he felt that he was about to explode.
“Melo!” he shouted, “Are you ready?”
From across the room, Carmelo decidedly nodded and grinned. Upon further inspection, his casual posture and chunky shades did little to conceal his inner excitement. The friendly dimple on his cheek betrayed him more than anything else, but of course, he had already expressed eagerness over their rematch: repeatedly, ever since the US Championship was first wrapped around his waist. What a spunky guy he was.
Ilja couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear.
Even if they hadn’t always agreed on everything, there stood an unspoken understanding between Carmelo and Ilja: when they collided in the ring, sparks flew and their pain was a fantastic spectacle. And, for the time being, their bond had solidified into something akin to friendship. Ilja knew better than to take that for granted.
“Lace your boots on tight. I’ll see you out there,” Carmelo said smilingly. After swinging his bag into a locker, he melted back into the mess of the hallway. His music struck minutes later, the synthesizer and applause swelling so ecstatically Ilja nearly forgot that the song belonged to his opponent.
At last, their magic moment was nigh. There was a certain charge to the quivering air, a current that riled Ilja up and confirmed his hopes: after months of latency, the spark within him was about to be reignited.
As he soared towards the stage curtain, past the men and women in their red, sparkly gear, twinkling like disco balls, his steps were weightless, soon abandoning gravity entirely as he began floating through a blood-soaked fantasy. His promised pain was so imminent, so crystal clear it was already manifesting in the brutal pounding of his heart, reverberating through his veins and down to his fingertips. The bloodrush heightened to a fervent pitch, the excitement enveloping him inside-out as an insuppressible smile tugged at his lips.
The magnificent swells of preemptive pain rose and fell: the dizzying slam of Carmelo's leg drop from the top rope, Ilja tumbling headfirst with a fierce forearm. After every H-Bomb, there was always a moment of recoil and recollection, the whiplash of Carmelo's pain ricocheting back, but Ilja would stay put, absorbing the impact as he anchored himself to the mat and waited for a three count. He would scramble with all his might to stay in place, soaking in Carmelo's body heat like the scorching summer sun, his face buried deep in his warm, fragrant chest, keen to every winded breath, every wild heartbeat. Would Carmelo kick out in time?
Only when the sweet, airy scent of fresh flowers tickled his nose did Ilja remember he was still in the hallway. Some of the female superstars he passed were holding aromatic bouquets, he noticed, but not only that: their ring gear was almost unanimously adorned with hearts. Right — tomorrow was Valentine's Day. These commercial celebrations were so easy to lose track of. Ilja forgot the holiday as quickly as he remembered it when the first beat of his theme song summoned him to the stage.
He roared as he charged onto the ramp, blissfully carried by his waltz, the swirling, fiery lights of his entrance, and the crimson silhouette of Carmelo waiting patiently in the ring. He had ditched the sunglasses; for a fleeting second their eyes met from across the ramp, and Ilja almost tumbled headfirst into the abyss of Carmelo’s brown eyes. He was grounded by the sheer volume of the moment, a moment teetering on the edge of unparalleled entertainment, and he couldn’t conceive of a way for things could go wrong — not immediately wrong, at least — but then his song was interrupted. His blood went cold.
In an untimely twist, Solo Sikoa and the MFTs interrupted Ilja’s entrance, intent on preventing his rematch from happening. The insults fired back and forth like canons.
“Haven’t you already lost to him twice? Get your ass to the back of the line,” Solo said, but Ilja held his ground. Briefly, it seemed that they had a tag team match on their hands, which would not have been a total disaster per se, but then Solo and his gang stormed the ring and launched a ruthless attack. Thankfully, some guys from the locker room came to aid — Shinsuke Nakamura, Apollo Crews, and Matt Cardona — and evened out the numbers.
In the blink of an eye, a United States Championship opportunity transformed into a five-man tag match, and so the championship match would be delayed another week, at minimum. Fine. Ilja was no stranger to waiting, and there were other opponents begging to be dealt with. But as he skulked to his saturated corner of the apron, waiting for the bell to sound, he realised the blood in his veins was no longer singing, but boiling. The cumulative testosterone in the ring was off the charts, and he was still guaranteed some imminent action, but he was barely able to locate Carmelo amid the mess of bodies.
After a bout of brutal chaos, Ilja was lying dizzily against a barricade when Carmelo was pinned for three counts, and that was the end of their televised time on Smackdown.
Backstage, Carmelo stomped around the blue shadows of the main curtain, a grouchy line etched deep between his brows, a pouty crinkle on his chin. Ilja knew very well what that crinkle meant: unadulterated, impenetrable frustration. Nevertheless, he approached his friend with a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Carmelo snapped above the noise of the stadium, an uncommon hitch in his voice. His shades had found their way back onto his nose, but now they concealed a nasty look that Ilja was less eager to see.
“Look, I only wanted to say —” Ilja calmly started, but Carmelo swatted him away, interrupting him with that same strained voice.
“Please. Just leave me alone.”
Ilja paused, unsure, but the crinkle of Carmelo's chin didn't falter. Empathetic to his discontent, Ilja hesitantly respected his wishes. After all, they were still defining the terms and conditions to this new friendship, and Ilja didn’t know how to navigate uneasy situations with him.
“Okay. I'll let you cool off,” he said before slowly stepping away, providing ample time for Carmelo to change his mind. His legs strained against an intangible, doubtful force that urged him back. At the end of the hall, he stalled and turned around, finding Carmelo still swallowed by the shadows of the tall curtain, his head in his hands.
After an invigorating rinse, Smackdown was still underway, the crowd chanting and chattering at a baseline hum, excited every now and again with an explosive pop. The grey locker room had devolved into a noisy, temporary mess of bags, coats, and boots haphazardly scattered about, distinguished by a long red ribbon adorned with paper hearts that had been tied around the hinges of several lockers, forming a zigzag overhead. Amid the clutter, Ilja found Carmelo’s locker left open wide, empty.
No bag. No jacket. Just a vacant hole in the wall. The champ had already left for the night, Ilja realized with a frown. He had hoped they would chat, about the night’s outcome, to table their rematch (hopefully for next week's Smackdown episode), but Carmelo had seemingly taken it upon himself to vanish before anyone could corner him with conversation.
As Ilja gathered his belongings and tied up the laces of his sneakers, he once again found himself facing the dusty shelf at the back of the room. The familiar spider rested on the edge of his now-expansive web, apparently done with his daily work, waiting patiently for his reward.
Ilja leaned his forehead against the cool metal of his locker and sighed. Something was… wrong.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on the feeling nor its cause — whether it was the night's frustrating shift of plans, the lost tag match, or perhaps the icy water had somehow rattled him — but an undeniable tension lingered in his heart, pulling at him from every angle. But why?
He traced a finger over the web and considered the possibilities.
First, there was the five-man tag and the delayed championship match against Carmelo. Delayed again. Ilja might have been eager, passionate, and perhaps a tad overzealous, but he understood that he was still owed his rematch against Carmelo. Waiting was bothersome, but impatience never wrenched his heart like this. The tension strangled him breathless, gasping deeply for air.
Of course, he was still owed his rematch, but he couldn't help but wonder: when the match finally arrived, would it be as fun as he hoped? Would he rediscover the spark he had been missing for the last couple of months? How much would it hurt? Would Carmelo kick out after an H-Bomb? Dozens of questions, hypotheticals, and what-ifs flooded his mind, none of them unfamiliar, all of their answers terribly uncertain. The only guarantee was another week of creeping self-doubt, and Ilja wasn't sure he could bear it any longer.
At some point since Carmelo's victory in December, Ilja's choice to delay his rematch had transformed from a sort of generosity — offering Carmelo the chance to be a successful champion while he focused on other things — into complete avoidance. A thing of insecurity. And tonight, he hadn’t even been strong enough to prevent his team from losing the tag match, failing not only his teammates but also himself, and as a result Carmelo's spirit had been dampened. That unhappy hitch in his voice backstage was quite uncommon, even looking back to their days in NXT. Ilja's stomach twisted at the remembrance of Carmelo standing by the stage curtain with his head in his hands.
Where had he gone to? Would he be alright? Upon reflection, Carmelo hadn't lost a single match since winning the US championship two months prior.
Ilja wanted to scream. Of course Carmelo would be alright. He had simply lost a match and asked for some space. Still, Ilja repeatedly thumped his forehead with his palm, desperate to knock the doubt from his mind or at least throttle away the tension in his chest. He wanted to believe in himself, in his ability to bounce back as the Mad Dragon that Carmelo was so eager to wrestle, and tonight was supposed to be a step in the right direction, but somehow absolutely everything had gone kaput. The night was in shambles, but worst of all, the cherry on top of this terrible, burnt-up cake of a SmackDown: Carmelo wasn't even around to remind Ilja of that dreamy excitement for a better tomorrow, a tomorrow in which Ilja was a better person and a better fighter. Stronger. Confident. His head held high.
Strange…
Ilja only knew two ways to live, with impenetrable confidence or ultimate self doubt, and during the pendulous lows he always spent more time in his own head than with anyone else. Yet, he deeply regretted that Carmelo had left so soon, not because he ached to discuss match plans, and not because he craved attention or a shoulder to lean on, but for some inexplicable reason, just seeing Carmelo might have been enough to save him from himself for the night.
“Hey! Ilja!”
A hand on the shoulder pulled Ilja from the abyss of negative self talk, choking him with shock. For an instant, he believed that Carmelo had manifested in response to his quiet prayers, but then he turned around and found Matt Cardona standing calmly behind him. Of course. Carmelo had already left for the night.
Ilja couldn't bring himself to speak, simply blinking with wide eyes. Matt smiled easily, seemingly unbothered by the outcome of their match.
“You win some, you lose some,” he shrugged. His tone was not indifferent but optimistic, though comparing Ilja and Matt’s evenings hardly seemed fair. Ilja had entered the stadium hoping for a lot more than a tag team win against some bullies.
“We’ll get those guys next time,” Matt added reassuringly.
“Yes. Right,” Ilja gulped.
“I’m gonna go to the lounge. Want to watch what's on?” Matt suggested, his brow wrinkling sympathetically. He didn't know the half of it, what was stirring in Ilja's melancholic heart, what pulled him apart and tore him to pieces from the inside out. Distractions were only a bandaid solution, but Ilja couldn’t think of a reason to refuse.
The lounge, a surprisingly vibrant nexus of social interaction, rippled with red and pink as the superstars passed through and mingled, an impossibly massive box of assorted chocolates floating across several hands. The stark shift from Smackdown’s regular atmosphere made Ilja realise: this was his first Valentine’s Day working with the main WWE roster. Though he sensed that the extra decor in and around the stadium was just a standard ploy to increase ticket sales, everyone in the lounge seemed genuinely merry, so he adopted a smile and followed suit.
He and Matt sank into a long, weathered couch and got up to speed with the show. A large monitor on the wall depicted a women's match in progress, a qualifier for the women’s Elimination Chamber. At ringside, Charlotte Flair applauded her partner Alexa Bliss, happily waving a rather unique bouquet like a cheerleader. The flowers, with their pretty pink petals stained black on the edges, were unmistakably Alexa.
The action-packed match and its commentary served as a better escape than predicted.
Alexa darted across the ring, running the ropes, landing a killer hurricanrana, and then she perched on the ring post, twisting through the air and landing a very clean Twisted Bliss. Ilja's shoulders dropped and the tension slowly lessened as he and Matt commented on the show.
Later on, during another qualifier for the Elimination Chamber, a celebratory Alexa and Charlotte briefly passed through the lounge, all giggles and smiles, leaving a trail of black-pink petals in their wake. Chelsea Green appeared soon after, surprising Matt from behind with a peekaboo.
“Stay cool, bud,” Matt said to Ilja, already grinning before he accepted Chelsea’s hand and scurried away with her.
With the couch now otherwise empty, and all of his tag partners out of sight or out of the stadium entirely, Ilja sighed and leaned farther back in his seat. The show was starting to feel repetitive: yet another Elimination Chamber qualifying match had been scheduled. A handful of men entered the ring, accepting an opportunity that Ilja had never been offered. Just a few months ago he had been proudly raising the United States Championship, and now he was completely oblivious to these conversations. Sidelined by himself.
Smackdown ended and Ilja remained restless. Fortunately, he had a subtle cure for nights like this.
The simple answer was to take a walk. Put on a hat, tie your scarf tight, and journey around the block. Maybe find a park bench and sit. Inhale fresh air, watch the passersby. This endeavor wouldn't heal his aching heart, but at the very least these unfamiliar sights might soothe and tire him out, and maybe then he would have a chance of falling asleep before sunrise. At this point, Ilja's only other option was to stare at the popcorn ceiling of his hotel room, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, ripping his hair from the root in compounding frustration. So, he walked.
The midnight air in midtown Dallas was mild and still, a welcome break from the frigid climates of recent Smackdown locations, and Ilja made no hurry as he strolled down the city streets, his hands snugly tucked in the pockets of his trousers. He absorbed the peaceful peculiarities of the street: a bare, crooked tree, an empty gas station, a stray cat crossing the car-lined curb. The light traffic noise and city chatter muddled to white noise. The sky, cloudless and inky black, kindly invited introspection with its splash of ancient, attentive stars, but instead Ilja focused on appreciating the city, on people, places, and things that were in no way connected to him.
At the end of the block, a neon “open” sign flourished into sight. The windowfront poured a warm rainbow over the sidewalk, a puddle of romantic colours. A few steps forward and the display blossomed: an array of brilliant bouquets arranged in silvery bins — pink, purple, violet, yellow; roses, carnations, tulips, camellias, and more. Above the bouquets hung two glittery signs decorated with cursive text: “FOR HER” and “FOR HIM” — taglines for Valentine's Day, but Ilja's mind immediately circled back to Carmelo.
Him.
Ilja drifted along the cascade of dreamy colours until a pop of red stopped him in his tracks: a single bouquet of blood red roses. The bulbs were prosperous, their colour so rich and potent it was practically dripping from the silky smooth petals.
Ilja paused, recalling the events of Smackdown. If that black and pink bouquet had suited Alexa so well, then this red bouquet was the one meant for Carmelo. Indeed, if Carmelo were a flower, he would be the one that everybody stopped to look at, healthy and rich, a vital blood red. He would be a flower that pricked, unafraid of his own wild ambitions, persevering, scratching and clawing his way to the top with sheer willpower, talent, and a healthy dose of selfishness. Ilja liked to think he was a man to draw his own conclusions, that the quaint little advert on the door had not swayed him, but this beautiful bouquet was unmistakably for him.
Still, Ilja couldn't help but frown. The remembrance of Carmelo standing by the stage curtain with his head in his hands had his stomach doing somersaults. How was he doing a few hours removed from that loss? Was he still upset? He had closed the door for discussion before it could even open, and now Ilja could only wonder if Carmelo ever spiralled in self-doubt. Even if he did, it shouldn't have been common — it couldn't have been common — but tonight wasn't a common night, with its slashed expectations and pitiful outcomes. After his first loss since winning the United States championship, Carmelo still knew he deserved a bouquet as lovely as these red roses, right? Suddenly, Ilja wasn't so certain. The doubt wrenched his heart, tightened the anxious squeeze around throat that he had been hopelessly trying to ignore.
The door opened with a soft jingle, sweeping forth a wave of sweet fragrance. Upon entering, Ilja found that most of the floral inventory had been pushed to the windowfront to create the prosperous impression that had enchanted him. Most of the other bins were empty, already cleared out for Valentine's Day, apparently. He could have heard a pin drop as he toured the small maze of bins, beneath the dull whir of the ceiling fans.
With little hesitation, he reached for the red roses, a blot of blood in a sea of romantic normalcy. From one of its blossoms there emerged a small fly, crawling from between the petals and onto Ilja's finger. The little bug walked around aimlessly, curiously, across Ilja’s finger. He smiled sadly, sincerely. He watched the creature fondly and waited for it to fly away before heading to the checkout.
When Ilja appeared at the door of Carmelo's hotel room just after midnight, a bouquet of roses in hand, he knew that he might have seemed ridiculous. Crazy, even. Nevertheless, Carmelo was awake and Ilja knew it with a psychic intuition, and in a similar vein Ilja already knew that his presence was not only justified but it would be appreciated. Maybe he was crazy for showing up after midnight, but if he was, he was quite sure that Carmelo was the same kind of crazy.
Still, Ilja shivered with an unexpected wave of hesitation before knocking. He had never done anything like this before, but then again, he had never been good at keeping friends — close friends, that is. In general, acquaintances were always kept at an arms length, but Carmelo was about to become an exception. Even if their past wasn't perfect, recent history suggested he was… safe. In the last few months, amid their handful of electric matches and increasing reliability on one another, something had changed, and now it was only natural for Ilja to be a safe person for Carmelo in return.
As he waited in the dry silence of the bright hallway, Ilja stood straight and solid as a tree, the bouquet a prominent branch, until eventually, a muffled voice sounded from beyond the door.
“Who is it?”
“It's me,” Ilja answered, leaning close. Silence ensued, so he clarified: “Ilja.”
“What?” the voice exclaimed. The next question was much crisper; Ilja sensed Carmelo's gravity just beyond the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn't stop thinking about you,” Ilja said. “I simply had to stop by.”
“Yo, what are you on about — ?” Carmelo asked as the lock unclicked, but once the door swung open the words stopped dead in their tracks.
“There you are. I had a feeling you were up,” Ilja smiled. The mere sight of Carmelo was a massage to his nerves. Yes, this had been the right move.
With one hand still curled around the doorknob, Carmelo wore only a pair of grey joggers and a towel around his neck, glistening with water droplets. His brown eyes were wider than ever, blown up into perfect globes.
“Um. What's going on?” he asked skeptically.
“I just… I couldn't allow tonight to end on such an awful note. I know things didn't go your way — and hey, they didn't go my way either — but you still deserve your flowers,” Ilja explained. He extended the bouquet, but Carmelo didn't budge. His hand remained postured over the doorknob, forming a barrier to his room.
“May I come in?” Ilja asked.
Carmelo blinked animatedly. “Uh, I guess so? I just got out of the shower.” He hesitantly stepped aside and allowed Ilja in.
“Wonderful,” Ilja smiled, clapping a friendly hand over Carmelo's shoulder. His skin was warm and plush from an evidently soothing shower, though it must have been scalding because Ilja noticed that his complexion was tomato red. Perhaps his timing could have been a little better.
Welcoming himself into the lounge, Ilja sighed into the bouquet, drinking in the saccharine perfume. Carmelo closed the door and followed close behind, rubbing and dragging the small towel over his shoulders to finish drying off.
The room was modestly chic and modern, generally monochrome and floored with sleek white tiling everywhere but the doorway to the bedroom, where the woodwork began. Glancing around, Ilja found that the floor plan was a mirrored version of his own room a few floors down. The United States Championship sat on the coffee table as casually as any ordinary table setting. A floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to it gave way to a cluster of city lights, twinkling like stars.
“Nice room,” Ilja clicked his tongue and looked down at the velvety bouquet. “Where should I leave these? Beside your championship, perhaps?”
“What? Those are seriously for me?” Carmelo blurted, chuckling breathlessly. “You realize tomorrow is Valentine's Day, right?”
“Roses are roses every day of the year. These flowers are not for Valentine's Day. They’re for you,” Ilja asserted smilingly. He extended the bouquet in Carmelo's direction, but he didn't reach for them.
“We don't do this, though,” Carmelo said with a skeptical shake of the head. While that familiar, troubled line etched itself between his brows, his eyes bounced between Ilja's face and the brilliant bouquet. “So what is this?”
Ilja twitched with frustration. Had he not just stated his intent? Carmelo's inability to comprehend a casual reason to be given flowers was precisely the problem, precisely the reason he deserved them on this particular night.
“What is this about, Ilja?” Carmelo asked again, firmly. He tossed his towel aside and crossed his arms. “What? Is it ‘cause I got pinned tonight?”
Ilja twitched again.
Carmelo stepped closer, his arms still crossed, the line between his brow deepening. Irritated. He continued through gritted teeth: “Don’t condescend me, man. Not tonight.”
At that, Ilja’s frustration reached its boiling point. Without thinking, he shoved the bouquet into Carmelo's chest, ushering him against the window with a thud. Their eyes locked, and for the first time that night, Ilja had nothing to keep himself from freefalling into that wide, swamping gaze. Carmelo's eyes remained sharp, but he made no effort to push Ilja away. Not yet, at least.
“Listen to me, and don't get my words twisted,” Ilja started with a low voice. “I was taking a walk tonight when I saw these flowers and thought of you. Do you not know why that is?”
He awaited an answer, but Carmelo just kept on staring, his eyes caught between perplexity and vexation, his lips tightly pressed in an irked sort of pout, so he eventually answered his own question.
“I thought of you because you are him, Melo. You are always him, and you deserve your flowers both figuratively and literally.” He pressed the bouquet harder against Carmelo's chest, flattening the stems in a tight bunch, a couple of uncut thorns sinking into his skin. Carmelo didn't move, though, his gaze unwaveringly firm as he neither accepted nor rejected the flowers.
Ilja continued, “Everyone has a bad day now and then. What speaks volumes about a man is not the bad day he had, but how he moves forward from it. And the Melo that I know moves forward with grace, and power, and confidence.”
“Hey,” Carmelo said with the force of interjection, though Ilja had already finished speaking.
Briefly, breathing shallowly, silence bloomed, with Ilja locked in on that familiar line etched between Carmelo's brows. He could only hope his message had resonated.
Perhaps he had chosen the wrong words. Perhaps he hadn't said enough. Perhaps too much. For a little while, he had been living on the same wavelength as Carmelo, ending every Smackdown with a smiling goodbye, but quite abruptly he felt completely shut out, lost and confused, and that frightened him more than any sort of expected cruelty ever could. None of this was expected. How had Ilja even ended up in Carmelo's hotel room after Smackdown with a bouquet of roses? This wasn't a common ending to a Friday night SmackDown nor was it a common thing that friends did. Were Ilja and Carmelo even friends?
The worry began to strangle Ilja's throat, straining him into teary speechlessness, but then, suddenly, Carmelo's eyes softened ever so slightly. Even as his fingers hesitantly curled around the paper wrapping, Ilja’s hand remained pressed against the bouquet, keeping it in place over Carmelo's bare chest.
“Hey. Look,” Carmelo said, his voice and posture so steady Ilja realised he was physically shaking. “I don't need to be told who I am. Okay?”
Ilja swallowed furtively. “Okay.”
Carmelo's eyes lowered as he continued, as if he were talking to the flowers and not Ilja.
“And don't start thinking I go around accepting charity.” He gingerly felt one of the petals between his fingers. “But… Thanks.”
When he finally cracked a smile, slight as it was, Ilja’s heart melted, a floodgate of new emotions unleashed. He exhaled a sigh of relief and giggled gleefully, grabbing Carmelo firmly by the shoulders.
“Great! Oh, I'm so glad!” he cheered.
“Um, right,” Carmelo laughed lightly. He shrugged slightly, and Ilja realized that perhaps his grip was too tight. He simply couldn't help himself when he was so righteously eased by Carmelo's smile. Maybe he had overreacted by appearing with flowers, but then again, Carmelo hadn't been smiling when he opened the door, and now he was. Remembering how squished up against the window they were, he took a healthy step back, reallotting Carmelo his personal space, watching his careful fingers relish the smoothness of the petals.
“And you know,” Carmelo cleared his throat and looked back at Ilja, “You're cool too. I mean, we've come too far to be doubting ourselves. You and me both.”
“Right.”
Carmelo hummed, “Why don't I set these up, then?”
He proceeded to the coffee table, where he placed the bouquet inside the perimeter of the United States championship, propping them up as if the belt were a shallow bowl. Carefully, he arranged the bulbs upright and nudged the belt to the centre of the table. When he was finished, he raised his hands like he was suddenly barred from touching the arrangement, showing off a work of art.
“How's that?” he grinned, his dimple sincerely pleased. “I think it looks alright.”
“Beautiful. Very clever,” Ilja nodded, “But do you know what? Roses aside, I can think of a place where that championship looks even better.”
Carmelo chuckled. “You'll have your chance at the title soon enough.”
Ilja paused. His brow furrowed. “Right. Of course.”
Indeed, just then he should have been talking about himself, but he had actually been referring to Carmelo, the current champion who defended his title every week, reliably, fairly, zealously. Watching him was such a pleasure Ilja could almost forget himself entirely when he was around. Maybe that was partly why he had delayed the rematch so long, though it was a shame how much he had faltered in the meantime. And while it was easy to focus on Carmelo, that steadfast dose of entertainment, Ilja also felt quite like himself when they were together. No one else on the roster welcomed him so sincerely, left him feeling so simultaneously safe and challenged.
Ilja reconsidered the singularity of this moment, how he had trusted his instincts to seek out Carmelo and the night's subsequent turn for the better. Only after being called up from NXT did it come to light, or perhaps only recent developments had made it so, but their friendship was extraordinarily natural. There were no games to be played, no second-guessing or jealousy, only raw enthusiasm, emotions that stirred Ilja’s stomach with a sort of excitement that was so new to him, made him shiver with easy delight, and all the while Carmelo remained quite casual in his baggy sweatpants and flipflopped feet, glowing with vibrant health in the otherwise monochromatic, overly-spacious hotel room.
He was undeniably cool, even without all the style and glitter of his public persona: the chunky glasses, the glittering chain around his neck, the silvery tights, even the United States championship. All of these things suited him, but he was no less himself when he shed them. His dark eyes were wide but sharp and perceptive, his cheek bronzy and vibrant, the colour smooth all the way down his bare, muscular neck. Eyes trailing downward, Ilja found that the caramel colour of his skin shifted with a slight, uneven redness across his chest. A vague imprint of the bouquet’s wrapping remained there, the scattered impression of thorns. The skin was irritated. Raw. A wild shiver shot through Ilja's stomach and his gaze quickly buoyed back to Carmelo's eyes. His jaw tightened.
“I don't even know how it's stretched out this long,” Carmelo sighed. “To be honest, I'm getting a little sick of this waiting game.”
He glanced in Ilja’s direction, who could only swallow thickly, his mouth dragging into a flat smile.
Quite suddenly, he couldn’t pull his mind away from the impressions on Carmelo's smooth, bronzy chest, how easily battered it had been by a simple shove. There had been no other choice, though; Carmelo would not have listened nor accepted the gift without force. In that sense, he almost encouraged it, the harsh touch that made Ilja's message clear as day. But was that really the case? Would he have outright rejected a gentler offer? A gentler touch? What would it have been like to instead touch him beyond friendly confrontation or assertion, beyond the usual confines of the wrestling ring? A touch long enough to linger over any given part of him, to absorb and appreciate every part of him.
No. No.
This was all wrong. Ilja had arrived at Carmelo’s doorstep with the duty and care of a friend, nothing else. Any other intentions were never indicated nor welcomed, and why would they be? At the end of the day, Carmelo and Ilja were just a couple of colleagues who happened to be friends. They shared ambitions and history, pride in each other’s accomplishments, but those positive feelings did nothing to suggest tender, maybe even intimate touch as the logical next step. Or did they?
On second consideration, the tangle of memories and emotions tied to recent months could have suggested a thousand routes forward. Every match, every handshake, every time they had come to aid when the other needed it — those moments meant the world to Ilja for a thousand precious reasons, but looking even farther back, a blooming friendship with Carmelo could have suggested nothing at all, nothing beyond eventual betrayal and heartache, at least.
No.
He had changed.
He had definitely changed. If Ilja didn't believe that men were capable of that, he would have hung his hat on his hopes and dreams a long time ago.
“Heck, you could already be champion right now,” Carmelo added.
Ilja’s lips parted, but still no words fell out. His mind had completely short-circuited, though Carmelo remained casual, half-leaning against the couch and patiently expecting Ilja to continue the conversation. Only as his brow began to crinkle, seemingly keen to the shift in mood, did Ilja finally muster his voice.
“I should get going.”
Carmelo blinked, his brow briefly contorting with apparent confusion before recalibrating. “Oh?”
“I should go,” Ilja repeated shortly, pulling at the too-tight collar of his turtleneck. “It’s getting late.”
For a second, Carmelo simply looked at him, swallowing him whole with his eyes and searching for an answer that would not be conveyed in spoken words.
“It is getting late. You're right,” he echoed furtively, the words clearly not his own. He said little more than another hasty thanks or two — “I appreciate it” — “I appreciate you” — and a quick good night before Ilja hurried out the door.
Released into the bright, silent halls of the hotel, he initially remained frozen in place. Shame crawled beneath his skin like lines of fire ants, tangled with an aching longing, strangling his throat with a dry squeeze not unlike the tortuous, asphyxiated feeling he had been fighting all night.
Standing alone in the quiet of the sterile hallway, the truth hit him all at once: the negativity and melancholy plaguing him lately was here to stay. He was caught in that all too familiar web of self-doubt, a trap he'd been caught in countless times before, but what hope could he have of every truly escaping when he was the common thread in seemingly everything that went wrong?
What was wrong with him?
How could he stand to ruin something so precious when he was already so hopeless? So weak?
He could have stayed still, spiralling in the middle of the liminal hall forever, but before long there was a shift. A gentle click, and the door before him reopened. Carmelo stood wide-eyed at the threshold.
“Oh. Hey,” he said in hush, his lips barely moving.
Silence settled again, tainted by the thundering of Ilja's heart. He was almost compelled to check his hands, that he was not holding the bouquet anymore, that the last several minutes had not been a daydream. His hands were empty, though, and Carmelo didn't seem too surprised, at least not as surprised as he had been the first time he opened the door.
“You're still here,” he said obviously.
“I am,” Ilja murmured. A flimsy sort of grin curled his lips, instinctively desperate to convey a lighthearted image.
He waited a beat for Carmelo to speak again, to explain why he had opened the door, but he didn't say another word. Instead, his unsure expression faltered, his dark-eyed gaze melting with a gentle warmth that made Ilja's heart explode. Before he could bring himself to speak, or even think, he was tugged into a tight embrace in the middle of the hallway.
Carmelo was warm. His body heat was palpable against Ilja's back like a midsummer sun, even through his sweater, an immutable yet gentle radiation that made Ilja's jaw go slack, made his knees buckle, but Carmelo held on tight. His skin was fragrant and soft as ever — he carried a distinctly floral scent, Ilja realized, and he couldn't help but wonder if that had always been the case or if perhaps the ghost of the red roses had just clung to him. Understandable; if Ilja were a rose, he would too have held on by any means necessary: a petal or thorn pressed firm to the flesh, or even a kiss of fragrance.
Ilja’s mind went blank, though, trying to conjure a specific memory of Carmelo's usual fragrance in the ring or otherwise. From the moments just after an H-Bomb or bound in a headlock, he could only recall a certain sense of calamitous safety, which might have sounded ridiculous, but there was a difference between matches that were personal and matches for the love of the sport, and when Ilja was in the ring with Carmelo, he was absolutely flooded with feelings of love.
As he began to blink away the moisture welling in his eyes, he couldn't help but wonder who this embrace was really meant for. Was this a hug of gratitude, sympathy, or both? Ilja could scarcely believe that Carmelo understood what this meant to him — their friendship, their fleeting conversations and glances, this magic moment — yet he refused to let go first. He had accepted the roses that clung to him, so maybe, just maybe, it was possible they remained on the same wavelength even as Ilja's feelings continued to evolve on the daily.
Carmelo had surely been right: they were too far into their journeys to be plagued by self-doubt, to look in any direction but forward. Someday soon, Ilja hoped to truly convince himself of this, to prove that he was the honourable, powerful warrior he dreamed of becoming. Yes, he would eventually have his rematch for the United States championship, but his dreams would not be attained through one grand gesture or victory. No matter the outcome, he would press onward, slashing through every obstacle that dared to doubt him, including himself, because the man he aspired to be was not defined by shiny accolades or televised success. There were other things worth cherishing, like the privilege of being caught between Carmelo's tender arms on a Friday night — or rather, quite early on a Saturday morning — even just for a moment, hopelessly and happily stuck on him.