The Personification of Elegance (One Shot)
Title: The personification of elegance
Author: Shardinian
Rating: PG-13
Rights: I own my story, and I wish I didn't.
Disclaimers: ...none.
Notes: Wrote this during SD friday night, start to finish. Muse hit me like a ton of bricks, I have no idea where it came from, and I almost wish it had never come at all.
Two elbows, miss a line.
A'ight.
Take the buckle.
Sell to the outside, splash over the top.
Fate, counter, off the ropes.
Whisper.
The call sounded clearly in Matt's ear. Louder than the crowd. Louder than the adrenaline pounding through his blood. Louder than everything. One of the few calls Jeff had made all match. Of course he heard it, whispered into his hair, just before Jeff's open fist flew across his shoulder, just below his jaw line. It was so close, he felt the breeze on his neck. Matt grunted, loudly enough that the ringside mics would pick it up, and snapped his head back in an arc so sharp it whipped his ponytail against the back of his neck, all without thinking about it. His muscles were trained to react without him; his mind was already four moves ahead. Kick-out, cut-off, fate, counter... After that, the end was easy.
Matt sold his way around, back to the buckle. Jeff was already in the air, spinning in that elegant, twisting arc that bore the Whisper in the Wind name so fittingly.
They didn't have to time it anymore. Jeff knew where Matt would be. He never even looked.
Matt knew where Jeff would be. He never even looked.
They both knew.
They always did.
Matt took his bump the second Jeff's feet brushed his shoulders. Back and sideways, to give Jeff enough clearance to take his own bump, neck tucked, slap the mat hard enough to rattle the turnbuckles.
Matt never even felt the canvas. Four moves ahead, and into the finish. Pressed chest to chest with his little brother, Matt whispered the entire last two minutes of the match in a single call.
The ref's hand slapped one.
Barely loud enough to hear himself. Barely more than three syllables.
Two.
Counter, finish.
Jeff grunted his understanding.
Thr -
Matt kicked out, the crowd booed, the arena vibrated, the rafters echoed, the cameramen dashed around the ring, the photographers snapped the action shot, Jeff rolled away, Matt twisted to his feet.
One breath.
All in one breath.
It was flawless. The cut-off. A solid clothesline that the fans felt more than Jeff did. Kick, twist, spin into the counter, double-over as Jeff's boot brushed against his abdomen, take the twist of fate.
The crowd roared.
Matt dead sold, three feet from the turnbuckle, writhed his way to forty-five degrees, tucked in his arms, and lifted his eyes.
They were chanting, now.
Hardy. Hardy. Hardy.
Jeff was already at the top of the turnbuckle. He glanced down.
The brothers caught each others' eyes, just long enough to make that line-of-sight contact and say everything they needed to say, without any words at all.
Ready?
Ready.
Jeff Hardy flew.
Up, arched, over.
The personification of elegance.
The arena came alive. Fifteen thousand camera flashes turned the swanton into fifteen thousand moments lived in strobe-light slow-motion. The whole world screamed at once.
It drowned out everything.
It drowned out Matt's pulse, thundering in his ears.
It drowned out his ragged, exhausted breathing.
It drowned out the wet, sickening... crack.
Matt jerked his head and legs up, sold the blow to his gut, waited for the pin...
Waited for the pin.
It never came.
He cracked his eyes open, twisted his head just far enough to see over his shoulder, still selling the pain of the landing he never actually felt.
Jeff was lying where he'd landed. On his back, barely two inches away, staring at his brother. The intensity, the concentration, the ferocity of the match, was swallowed by the terrified greens of his wide eyes.
Terrified.
Matt felt his own eyes widen. For a second, he didn't move. The ref was kneeling between them. What's wrong? What's wrong? What's wrong?
Jeff didn't answer. His wild eyes flicked up, then back down, up again, around, and back to lock desperately on his brother's.
The cameras were still rolling.
The match was still going.
The crowd was still screaming.
Ring instinct hauled Matt to his feet. Whatever was wrong... The show must go on. He sold a disoriented stagger - the crowd booed - shook his head for a second to pretend he was clearing the impact from his brain - the crowd booed louder - gave Jeff as much time as he could to do something - anything - the crowd tried to smother his waxing strength, he couldn't even hear them over his own panicked pulse anymore - and couldn't wait any longer. He dropped onto his brother's prone form, wrapped a thick arm around Jeff's leg and hauled him into a pin.
That wasn't how it was supposed to end.
The ref counted. He had to.
Slowly.
Three heads twisted instinctively away from the side of the ring that was televised, all at once, all without realizing it.
Jeff?!
Jeff!
Matt felt the trembling reply, breathed directly into his ear, that the referee never heard.
He felt the familiar curves of his little brother's body rising and falling in shallow, racing breaths that were heaving much too fast to be simple exhaustion.
He felt tears on his cheek.
Terrified tears.
Matt...
The ref leaned in closer, playing at the slow count.
...One.
The crowd hissed and cursed and booed, shaking the foundation of the arena itself.
Matt...
Jeff, what's wrong?!
Matt... oh god, I can't feel a fuckin' thing, man... I can't feel anything, I can't feel anything, oh my god, oh my god, Matt...
Matt's heart stopped.
The ref's hand banged off the mat.
Quickly, now.
He'd heard.
He knew.
So did Matt.
So did Jeff.
Two.
Three.
Ding ding ding.
The crowd screamed their outrage.
Matt rolled off his brother's perfectly still body.
Still, except for the hyperventilating breathes struggling in his chest.
Still, except for the trembling of his bottom lip as he sucked it into his mouth to keep from sobbing.
Still, except for the terror in his wild, desperate eyes.
Matt dropped to his knees.
The ref crossed his arms in a sign that brought the backstage commotion to a sudden stop.
Shoot injury.
Serious shoot injury.
Matt feigned at mocking his defeated brother, just so he could lower his head enough to ask what he didn't want to ask. What he didn't want to know.
What he already knew.
Jeff... oh god, Jeff, tell me you can move... oh god, man, please god, tell me you can move...
The glassy tears that welled in oceans of green was his only answer.
The ref grabbed Matt's hand, raised it over his head, poignantly urged him away from his fallen brother.
The show must go on.
Matt followed without feeling himself follow. Drowned in the boos without hearing a single sound except the empty buzzing in his ears. His feet moved, they carried his numb body along with them, but everything that was Matt Hardy was still kneeling beside his brother, cradling his head - the only thing he could still feel, likely - petting his beautiful, rainbow hair, whispering hollow reassurances in his ear, staring into his terrified eyes, into his terrified tears, into his terrified soul, and trying, trying, trying to be strong enough not to cry, too... Matt raised his hand in the most hollow victory of his life. His muscles were trained to move without him... but his mind wasn't four steps ahead anymore.
It wasn't even one.
For the first time in his life, Matt had no idea what the next step was.
Matt looked back, just once, as he rolled out of the ring and leaned out of the way to let the paramedics scramble past him.
Jeff had twisted his head around, and was still staring at him.
His cheeks were glistening with silent, shattered tears.
His lips were quivering.
His hair was stuck to his face, but he hadn't pushed it away.
His body was unnaturally still.
The brothers caught each others' eyes, just long enough to say everything they needed to say, without any words at all.
Please... for the love of god... don't let this be happening to me... make it all better, big brother... please, make it all better... let me move, please god, please brother, please, Matt, tell me this is just a dream... let me move, let me feel something... anything...
Jeff, oh god Jeff, you're gonna be ok, man, you're gonna be ok, it can't be as bad as we think, you're gonna be ok, I'll be here for you, we'll get through this together, oh god, oh god, oh god, you're gonna be ok, hear me? You're gonna be ok...
Two elbows, miss a line.
A'ight.
Matt covered his face with his hand as he staggered up the ramp. He'd wait, just out of sight. He'd ride in the ambulance. He'd sit in the hospital. He'd come back to work, to pay his brother's bills, but he'd never feel another match in his heart.
This one had taken everything he had.
Take the buckle.
Sell to the outside, splash over the top.
Jeff sobbed softly as the paramedics crouched over him. They asked him questions he didn't want to answer. Questions he'd dreaded his whole life. Questions that terrified him more than death itself.
Can you feel my hand? Can you move your legs? Can you wiggle your fingers?
Jeff cried, just cried, as he answered.
No. No. No.
Fate, counter, off the ropes.
Whisper.
Swanton.
Up, arched, over.
Ready?
...Ready.
And Jeff Hardy had been, one last time, the personification of elegance.