A Losing Champion

“Babe. I’m being so serious right now; I don’t have it,” Andrew is saying desperately over the phone while he digs through his luggage for—what—the fourth time? His hotel room looked like a damn bomb hit it. He was sure by then he could give anyone a full inventory of everything inside. Ten shirts of varying niceness; approximately six polos, one wrinkled button up, and three sleep shirts. One of them was his own merch, arm holes cut extra-long. Seven or so pairs of boxers, all black. Ten pairs of mismatched socks, one pair with little dogs on them (a gift from Connor). Three pairs of wrestling trunks, one set of kick pads and one pair of wrestling boots. Andrew had always been a pretty light packer. At least recently, ever since he became champion. It was enough trouble lugging the ten-pound championship belt around, he didn’t need any extra hassle. The constant what’s this? conversations he was having during customs at every airport ever was quite enough.

“Did you leave it in your uber?” Connor is asking, as he tries to stifle an obvious laugh. He was absolutely terrible at not laughing all the time. His knee jerk reaction to everything was to laugh. Panic, anger, joy, sorrow—laugh. His parents had dreaded taking him to funerals as a child, they may as well have been comedy shows for Connor. That said, his predisposition to laughter was one of Andrew’s favorite things about him. Even in the midst of his stress, he couldn’t help but chuckle as he went on.

“Connor. I’m serious. I can’t walk into the ring as champion without that fucking belt tonight,” Andrew groans, though the amusement in his voice is clear as day. The phone call is all smiles on both ends, even as Andrew tears his hotel room apart again, and Connor can be heard padding around their apartment, too, in search of Andrew’s championship gold. The big, shiny, diamond-clad belts were a big deal in professional wrestling. Not only did they symbolize to viewers who was the best, but they were a kiss of approval from the higher ups. They had just put their faith into Andrew, and here he was losing the god damn belt. 

“You mean to tell me they don’t have back-ups?” Connor asks after a little moment of silence. They both seem to stop.

“Even if they did… I don’t wanna admit I lost it.”

A silent eyeroll from one of the boyfriends, “Andrew.”

Andrew knew logically that it was a shit excuse, and he should just call his damn boss and say he lost the belt but… just the thought made his stomach turn. He’d been in this industry since he was a teenager. He’d just captured his first real championship title after over a decade of hard work. For so long he had just been the funny guy, the comedic relief. Just not championship material, they’d say, with a half-smile as they handed off his dreams to somebody bigger or stronger or more good looking. Finally, he had his chance, and within a month of being entrusted with being the face of the company, he lost his belt somewhere between California and Chicago. 

Fuck.

“I can hear you panicking, babe. Just take a breath for me, okay?” Connor says then, his voice softer now, more serious. He may have been a giggler but with Andrew, he always knew when enough was enough. A funeral couldn’t stop Connor’s laughter, but when Andrew was in distress… there was nothing funny about that. The burning silence from Andrew in his Chicago hotel room was enough to tell him that he was on the verge of cracking. 

Andrew closes his eyes, phone held to his ear, sucking in a deep breath and then exhaling. 

“Good,” Connor says, “and again.”

Andrew breathes, and Connor pads around the apartment some more, eyes wide as he tries to find that big, shiny belt that was supposed to be around Andrew’s waist in only a few hours. When he’d started dating a professional wrestler, he’d thought it would be rather unconventional, and it had been. Andrew was scantily clad on TV every week wrapped up in soap-opera storylines with other men. They’d stand there and shit talk and be all oiled up and angry, and then they’d fight and onto the next. Connor hated to admit it—he’d never been a pro wrestling fan before—but since he’d started dating Andrew he had become completely hooked. As much as the loss of a championship belt may have seemed trivial to others, Connor understood it not only as Andrew’s lover but as a lover of the sport in general. 

“Did you leave it at the front desk? You’re always doing that with your phone,” Connor says then, remembering the last time he’d been traveling with Andrew. The man had a real pension for being forgetful. He’d left his phone right on the hotel counter, completely unaware until hours later. As Andrew heard this, he paused his meditative breathing and immediately grabbed his room key, heading down to the front desk again with the phone still pressed to his ear. 

“If it’s there I’m gonna kiss you till you’re blue the minute I get home,” Andrew says as he’s riding the elevator down to the hotel’s front desk. The anticipation was only growing as he watched the red, glowing number trickle down to the ground floor. Connor laughed softly on the other end.

“I think I might deserve more than some measly kisses if I reunite the champion with his title. I should be paid in cash,” Connor jokes, flopping back down onto the sofa in their apartment, staring out the window at the pale blue sky. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Andrew says almost reflexively as he finally rounds the corner and—

There it is. 

His championship belt in all its battered leather and glittering glory. The lady behind the desk immediately smiles when she sees him, swiftly moving to grab it and hold it out toward him. He could see that it was heavier than she’d expected.

“I think this is yours,” she says simply, as a wave of relief washes over Andrew so quickly that he feels like he’s just been dunked in ice water. The nervous sweating dissipates. The turning in his stomach stills.

He makes sure to thank her immensely before he gets back onto the elevator, laughing softly to himself while he brings the phone back to his ear again. Connor knew him that well. He’d solved his problem in Chicago all the way from California. The need that Andrew felt to kiss him was almost dizzying. 

“What’s so funny? Should I check my cash app?” Connor asks as he hears Andrew’s breathy chuckling. He could practically feel the change in Andrew’s demeanor even just from the way he breathed. His easy warmth had returned. 

“Just wait till I get home…” 

Connor smiles. 

“I’ll be here, Champ.”