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HE THINKS, with the crowd’s indignant cries pressed to his back, that they should have expected this. That he should have expected this. Every taunt that cut too close, the cocky set of his shoulders when he strides to the center of the ring. Quackity is the fast-talking-easy-going trickster, dipping over and out of the line where the jokes become too mean for a babyface. Whatever they want him to be.
He’s been the bad guy before. He’s been the good guy, too, and he’s been anything between. The only thing he doesn’t do is win.
Maybe it’s just that, if anyone were expecting a heel turn, they’d think it would come after the Blade gets him in the eye with a foreign object- a level of brutality fans have come to expect and anticipate from the infamous heel, one that has the mat stained with his blood and Quackity dragging himself backstage alone.
Except he doesn’t. Except he’s back in the ring weeks later, thick white bandages plastered over the left side of his face. He thinks an announcer comments on his tenacity. Or whatever. The only thing he remembers of that match is the feeling of his shoulders hitting the mat, someone’s forearm weighing on his chest as the referee counts to three. His opponent leaping up, celebrating his victory. The fluorescent light bulb burns its afterimage into Quackity’s eye, long after he squeezes it closed.
Shit fucking hurts. He knows that. He’s known well before he signed onto this job. Concussions, spinal fractures, muscle tears. Death, even. There’s no shortage of wrestlers who retire because they were hurt too badly, and Quackity won’t be surprised if that’s the fate that one day awaits him, too. He lies on the mat and feels like he’s sinking, breaking, if not his bones then something else.
Is this where it ends? A rookie fighting his way through the independent circuit just to crack open as a jobber. No shame in that, he supposes, but it’s not what he wants to be. Not at all.
: :
QUACKITY IS GOOD AT TAKING HITS, so with that in mind he learns next how to make them look like they hurt more than they do.
(And while the strikes still hurt, it’s not like the other thing, where there’s no ring to escape from, no referee to throw up the X. Just someone behind closed doors whose anger is always, always dangerous and terrifyingly real.
But it’s good now. It’s opponents who will aim a punch at the fleshier part of his arm, where it stings less. Even if those standards may be crossed in the thick of a real match, well, now Quackity can always send some back.)
He learns to fly back from a throw the same time he learns to fly off the top rope, to hit and get hit with the least amount of damage, and for what seems like the first time, to land safe. Alive. Ready to get back up.
And if Karl accidentally socks him a bit too hard when they’re training together late at night, he can force a grin through the tightening pain in his jaw to calm the string of apologies that spill from his friend's mouth.
“It’s fine, hey, hey- You don’t have to apologize.” Quackity shrugs. “It’s just practice. I mean, even I’ve hit stiff before.”
“Yeah, but you’re too much of a lightweight for it to actually hurt.”
“Fuck you. I take it back. Get fucked for real, Jacobs.”
Karl giggles, ducking out of the way of Quackity’s lazy swipe. “Promise?”
Quackity grumbles, working his jaw out. “Nope. Not at all. C’mon, let’s try that again.”
Karl obliges and they go through the moves a second time; slide under the first swing, bounce off the ropes and get caught the second time around. Roll through the suplex. Prop up his torso with an elbow, a hand braced against his spine. Take the hand Karl offers and let himself get pulled to his feet.
: :
IN THE RING, he goes by Big Q. He lives up to his name not in stature but in personality; he is louder, brighter, and braver. The name itself's a childhood nickname, so long ago that he has no reservations when he gives it up. He doesn't tell people what the Q stands for.
Well, most people.
“Your real name is Quackity?” Quackity watches Karl tap his fingers against the steering wheel. His rainbow nail polish scintillates in the pale light of the sunset. Neither of them wear masks for their gimmicks, but Quackity has his beanie and Karl always looks like a Blade Runner extra in technicolor. He watched Karl apply this coat yesterday, while they stretched in the side of the gym. Now Quackity focuses on the sparks of glitter instead of Karl’s eyes. Or the tiny shadows in the corners of his mouth, or how his hair sticks up and looks like it glows under the sun.
Oh , he is so screwed.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
(He hasn’t used any other name than Quackity in years. He does not tell Karl this.)
“There’s no way that’s your real name.”
Quackity turns his head to face Karl, grinning.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“You’ll never know.” A part of Quackity wants him to. The other half wants to keep it far, far away, wants to tuck his entire self into Karl’s palms and not tell him what he’s holding. Karl makes him want to lie, if only because he knows Karl likes puzzles. “Is Karl Jacobs your real name?”
“Nope!” Karl answers brightly. He’s always like that, vibrant and upbeat like his gimmick, though Quackity thinks he's sharper than the wide-eyed time traveler act he puts on. Karl, this Karl, sitting with him in the shared space of Quackity's car, is more. Quackity, on the other hand, feels like he's less of himself. “But it’s close.”
“Can I guess?”
“Go ahead. You won’t get it, though. It’s like Rumplestiltskin.”
“Your name is Rumplestiltskin?” Quackity snickers. “Sounds dumb.”
“No it's obviously not. I meant it’s like the story! Like obscure enough it won’t even cross your mind if I don’t- Nevermind. That was a bad comparison.” Karl drops his forehead onto Quackity's shoulder (who very carefully does not allow every muscle in his body to seize up at the contact. Which is ridiculous. Karl had him pinned to the floor just a few hours ago and he'd been fine.) and heaves an exaggerated sigh. “You’re making fun of my name. That’s awful.”
“I don’t even know your name! How am I making fun of it?”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s still Karl but not Jacobs.”
Quackity pushes Karl’s head off his shoulder. “That’s a shitty hint. I give up.”
“Perish then.”
There’s little room for flinging his arms about so he settles for clutching his chest. “Woah! Betrayal!”
“Too late!” Karl crows. “ And it's breaking kayfabe.”
“That's not what that means. Match's already over.”
“Oh. Is it?” Karl leans over the invisible gap between the driver and passenger seats.
Quackity replies with a clipped yeah that’s breathier than he means it to be. Karl reaches a hand up to brush against the rim of his beanie.
“Do you ever take this off?”
Because it is Karl who is only so many inches away and the sun’s in his eyes and they are the only people in this faded parking lot- in this whole town, really, and because he can think of no reason not to, Quackity tugs his beanie off.
“‘Course I do.”
Karl’s eyes widen. “Oh- that’s, uh- cool! Shit, I didn’t think you’d do it right now.”
Quackity laughs, running a hand through his hair. It’s kind of sweaty. Gross. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“I guess. I’ve just never seen you without it on.”
“I’m hotter with it on. My hair’s a mess.”
Karl brushes a stray out of Quackity’s eyes, fingertips skimming over his forehead. “You’re hot all the time.”
“Flirt.”
“It’s true!”
“And what about my noodle arms?” Quackity parrots Karl's teasing. “Hm?”
“So? I love a man who can’t lift for shit.”
“Asshole.”
“You love me.” Karl wraps his arms around Quackity, pulling him in. Quackity lets him, pressing into the cool underside of his arm. “You took off your hat, we’re inseparable now-”
Quackity muffles a giggle into Karl's shirt.
“I am going to kick you out of my car.”
“ Our car. Because I'm driving.”
“Debatable. Last I checked your hands are not on the steering wheel.”
“Oh? Would you like me to take them off then?” Karl slowly starts lifting his arms off Quackity.
“No,” Quackity admits.
Karl settles his arms back over Quackity, dropping his head down on top of his.
“Wait, do you have anywhere to be tonight?”
Quackity thinks of his empty apartment.
“Not at all.”
“So we can stay here a while?”
Quackity’s stomach does flips as he moves closer. “Yeah, man. Of course.”
: :
I KNOW OF YOU, Quackity thinks when he meets the Devil Samael for the first time, or otherwise known as-
“Sapnap!” The man smiles. This is not the persona Quackity has seen at matches and on TV. Out of his makeup, he looks strikingly kind. “And we’re rebranding. Dropping the ‘devil’ part.”
“Aw, man. I thought it added flavor.”
“Yeah, well I can’t exactly start my face arc when I still have Satan in my name.”
“And now you’re just Sam.”
“I guess,” Sapnap says despondently.
“You sound disappointed.”
“It was a fun role to play.”
Distinctly, Quackity remembers Sapnap even growling as part of his gimmick.
“I'll bet.” He claps Sapnap on the shoulder. “At least you get to keep some of it.”
“But no more fire.”
Quackity nods. That one always made matches interesting. “I'll miss seeing it.”
A month ago, Sapnap turned face against his longtime tag team partner, Dream, with George following. The two of them stopped showing up after that, but it looks like Sapnap is back, a changed man. Or he will be back, as soon as they figure out his perfect entrance.
Which turns out to be this: Quackity is not booked to lose. Instead he's set to get thrown out of the ring and into a table, pushed up against the ring stairs, his opponent unstoppable in his onslaught until Sapnap- Samael, the announcer crows -charges in and throws Quackity's opponent off of him, helping Quackity to his feet. With Sapnap's help, Quackity pins his opponent.
Later, unscripted, Sapnap gives him his number in the locker room.
Sapnap, Quackity learns, is nicer than the monster he used to play and a lot more chaotic than the babyface he is now. Wrestling, for Sapnap, is a family thing. His father, now retired, used to bring him to events and later taught him how to play the game too.
His eyes light up when he talks about his past in amateur wrestling, animatedly explaining the differences in rules and style when Quackity reveals that he knows, in his words, jack shit about the sport.
“They’re giving me a shot at the championship,” Sapnap says one day, eyes fixed on an invisible point above the horizon.
“Shit, for real?” Karl drops down next to them on the curb, pulling out a bag of chips from his shopping bag. “That’s huge, dude. Congrats.”
“Thanks. Yeah.”
Quackity reaches over his lap to grab a few chips from Karl. “You don’t sound that excited. Is this salt and vinegar?”
“No,” Karl says, sticking out his tongue. “You’re insane for liking those.”
“And you’re a pussy.”
“It’s cool, it’s just. The current title-holder is,” Sapnap’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Dream.”
“Oh. Huh.”
“So I gotta keep doing this fucking- feud thing with him, right? I think that’s half the reason anyways.”
“Weren’t you guys friends?” Quackity asks.
“Yeah. Well, not anymore.” Sapnap sighs. “It’s complicated, I guess. I think I just want to not have to work with him so much. Shit, sorry, does that make me sound like an asshole?”
“Nope,” Quackity says. “Rip. That sucks. At least you get to punch him? Legally?”
Sapnap snorts. “I can do that anytime as long as nobody snitches. The point is I don’t want to, you know?”
Karl shifts, turning to face Sapnap and Quackity more clearly. “Wait, what happened with him anyways?”
“Dream’s kind of an asshole.” Sapnap shrugs. “Or he became one. I don’t.. Yeah, I can’t really say. Maybe not, you know, maybe this is all in my head! Who the fuck knows! We had a lot of fights about, like, wrestling shit. And non-wrestling shit. And George never wants to talk about it and literally fucked off to Japan and I think Dream’s just set on ignoring me.”
“Ignore him back,” Karl says.
“Great, I’ll try that.”
Quackity pats his back. “You guys should do a deathmatch,” he jokes.
Sapnap groans louder. “Please don’t even say that.”
: :
THE BLADE IS A HARD GUY TO LIKE, even when he’s dropped the whole “worshipper of the Blood God” schtick. He’s a hard guy to hate, too. Mostly because he doesn’t do anything; in the locker room he sits alone and awkwardly entertains anyone’s short-lived attempts at small talk. Sometimes he brings a book. Like, fucking Karl Marx and shit. Which Quackity can respect, he supposes, but who the hell reads political theory right before a wrestling match?
Which you could say is a testament to his acting skills when Quackity’s chest squeezes with something akin to fear whenever he steps into the ring. It helps his case that the guy’s fucking enormous, scraping seven feet with the muscle to match. Behind his pig mask, colored contacts sweep over the audience, the ring, and Quackity. They’re unnerving, red pinpoints that almost seem to glow from the shadows, but that’s probably the point.
In any case, the crowd loves him. Even when he plays the heel, Blade has the people’s attention.
Quackity can make the audience love or hate him depending on the day, but Blade has fans . He’d bet his month’s rent that the man even has a fan club. (Actually he wouldn’t, but that’s because he has preternaturally bad luck at gambling.)
That's not his concern, however. He does his job, runs the ropes and ducks around Blade a few times, playing off his energy against Blade's seriousness.
This match, at least, is quick. They go back and forth for a little bit until Blade looks at him and nods. About time.
Blade grapples him and flips Quackity to the floor, pinning his shoulders in place until the ref counts to three.
The crowd cheers and Blade turns to them, doing whatever character shit he does. An afterthought, Quackity slips out of the ring, pulling his beanie down tighter.
: :
HE TAKES THE FIRST PUNCH THAT LANDS, full impact, to his chest. And the four after that, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. Quackity lets Dream throw him against the turnbuckle, one hand reaching out to grip the top rope as he slumps down, trying to blink stars from his vision. Breathe in. Out. Try not to think about his ribcage collapsing.
Dream’s shadow recedes for a moment, and when Quackity looks up again he is jumping back into the ring with a chair in hand. Behind that painted smile on his face, Dream’s grinning for real.
What a fucking bastard. Dream raises the chair and brings it down on his face and Quackity doesn’t have to fake how his head snaps back against the top turnbuckle.
There’s blood in his mouth, on his forehead, running warm down his cheek. He doesn’t let go of the rope. It’s like his fingers have frozen, curled in place around thick cable on no will of his own, as his legs start to give way beneath him.
Dream’s saying something. The words don’t reach him but their tone, razor-sharp, catch on. Who are they meant for? Him or the audience?
The second, more pressing question: Does it matter?
Does it matter whether Dream’s putting his weight into his punches for himself or the audience, or whether I’ll make you bleed. I’ll kill you. What did you think you were doing, thinking you had a chance against me? is performance or a threat? What’s it even mean to Quackity that it’s Dream at all, his boot driving into his gut and not the Blade’s or the countless other guys he’s booked to lose to, day after day, week after week?
His hand is pulled free of the rope and there’s arms on his own, wrapping around his torso as he’s pulled up onto the side of the ring. He thinks he’d fall off if not for Dream holding him in place, shifting the grip he has on Quackity in preparation to throw him off harder.
From the top of the turnbuckle, the mat has never looked further away.
Quackity loves aerial moves more than anything else- springing from the ropes, the way he cuts through the air and the singular moment between where he is light, untouchable. None of that is what comes to mind when he falls, the all the air knocked from him when his spine meets the floor.
He meets Dream’s eyes from where he’s poised to jump on him.
This isn’t where he wants to be.
Dream leaps, flipping through the air and comes down, aiming to drive into Quackity’s collarbones. Hey, Quackity knows this one.
He rolls out of the way. Dream hits the mat instead and his shoulders jerk involuntarily at the unexpected pain.
Taking advantage of the moment of distraction, Quackity scrambles to his feet and sends a kick into Dream’s ribs. And his face. And he grabs the chair and brings it down until he doesn’t know if it’s his blood or Dream’s that’s making his fingers slip along the leg of the chair.
He’s not thinking about anything anymore. Not about where the referee is or how to get over or even whether he’s supposed to be the face or the heel in this match. Quackity’s body screeches in pain each time he lifts his arms up but he keeps going, driven on by whatever shaking thing inside him is convinced death shadows his every step and aches to survive anyways, the even louder burning core that wants to win.
Dream stops moving. Has stopped moving, maybe. Quackity steps back, standing up straight. Ringside medical staff start climbing into the ring. The crowd’s booing. Isn’t this what they expected? Isn't this what they wanted? Isn’t it both? Hell, they pay to see him get beat into the ground every week, but where are they now that he’s the one still standing?
He tosses the chair to the side and smiles, teeth red.
He doesn’t care what role the audience or the booker or his opponent wants him to play.
Quackity is whatever he needs to be.