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He was confident he’d never get used to it. Dozens, hundreds of bodies violently vying for space, the stench of frying oil mixed with deodorant so overpowering he could just about taste it on the roof of his mouth. No matter what, every hole his son happened to be performing at on any particular night was as cramped as it was labyrinthine. He swallowed his complaints to remind himself that nobody forced him to be here and counted his blessings. At least it wasn’t a church this time. He may have grown distant to his faith, but some things would remain blasphemous in his eyes.
Over the noise, he made out a masculine voice calling his name. “That you, Bronson? Over here!”
His neck cranked in the voice’s general direction and he quickly located the source: A male, middle aged otter waving emphatically accompanied by who was unmistakably his wife, comfortably seated in the front row right behind the barrier separating the audience from the ring.
The Hunters.
It wasn’t unexpected. Sydney had kindly let him know of this arrangement and made it abundantly clear that his options were to go along with it or not bother showing up. The choice was obvious, but part of him wished he could have remained lost in the crowd and claim ignorance after the fact.
Still, he walked towards the couple, bumping and tripping into what felt like every single other patron on the way there, before finally planting himself on the empty folding chair next to them. Their expressions were inviting, adorned with fault lines and streaks of gray much like his own that were all the more noticeable under the fluorescent lighting, yet no doubt looking younger than he did. He wore chinos and a button up shirt made out of that picnic tablecloth fabric. She wore cargo skinnies and a teal colored top with ballet flats to match.
“Was starting to think you’d never show up.” The man said in a joking tone, and it stung even though it clearly wasn’t meant to be an insult.
He awkwardly swiped his paws across his jeans and wiped nonexistent dust, then tried to remember how to be amicable. “It’s always a pain finding a seat at these events. You know how it goes.” He was breaking the ice by looking for common ground. As he understood it, they were both very supportive of their son’s wrestling escapades.
Mrs. Hunter tilted her head, amused and maybe a bit pitying. “Really? Whenever we come to one of Chase’s shows there’s usually a security guy to escort us to the friends and family area.”
He’d been to about a dozen of these and he was just now finding out there was such a thing as a ‘friends and family area’. He slumped in his seat. “…Right.”
“Anyway,” Her attempt at a segue left much to be desired, but nonetheless she flashed him a smile painted with lipstick, reaching over to squeeze his paw. “We’re so glad you came. Everything okay back home? How have you been managing with… you know.” She lowered her volume to barely above a whisper. “The D-word.”
Mr. Hunter bumped his shoulder against hers. “Really, dear?”
“What?”
Ah. That explained the pity. “It’s all water under the bridge.” He told them. “I’m doing fine, thank you for asking.”
Did he sound as self-assured as he wanted to come across? He was left to stew on that mystery.
Mr. Hunter patted his shoulder and set them back on track. “That’s good to hear. I feel like shit that we didn’t try to stay in touch, but we’re here now if you need anything.”
He didn’t mean that. They were never on good terms. He pretended to be touched anyway, because that’s how this dance went for people their age. Anything could be conveniently omitted in the name of civility.
His wife leaned in, a glint in her eye. “Especially now that we’re practically family.”
Yeah, that.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
***
The show had begun a while ago, but with none of the matches so far featuring the fruits of their loins, the trio soon quit feigning interest in favor of making up for lost time. Having a conversation in the middle of all that racket was tricky, but they managed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bronson,” Mr. Hunter started, already tipsy from the beer sloshing in his grasp and thus unaware or uncaring that those words never preceded anything kind. “But I never in a million years thought I’d see you at a wrestling show. Figured you hated this kind of thing.”
“Yeah, I suppose I did.” No point trying to deny it. In fact: “Still do.”
“Well, there’s no shame in that, as long as you’re supporting your boy.” Mrs. Hunter said, like a sailor rushing to mend a leak. “What was it you hated about it, though?”
Did he have to answer? He did, didn’t he.
Would have been nice to conjure some sort of paternal instinct to protect his son’s malleable mind from the clutches of gratuitous televised violence as justification, but the Hunters could have shot that down from a mile away. They’d have to be extremely gullible to buy him as a soft-hearted helicopter dad, even if they hadn’t seen him driving through town with Sydney looking miserable in the passenger seat and an animal carcass propped up on the back of his truck. In all honesty, he’d be shocked if they didn’t also know the bruises Sydney often carried to school weren’t all inflicted by other kids. The awareness that there was not a soul left in this world he could fool went down burning his throat, like a bitter ale. One that left him woefully sober and lucid, so perhaps it’d be more accurate to call it medicine.
“The whole thing was just… silly to me.” It’s the truth. Even Sydney didn’t seem to have any illusions about the low-brow nature of his line of work. What he opted not to tell the couple, more out of cheek-reddening embarrassment than any desire to appear virtuous, was that it’s…
It’s happening right before their very eyes, actually. Scantily dressed men fondling and throwing each other around. Call him old fashioned, but the display read like something very different from a simple brawl. And then there were all the costumes, and the pageantry. All that tassel and leather and spandex.
He liked to think the passage of time had chinked away at his prejudice towards those with… different inclinations, but seeing how their sons ended up, it made him wonder if his suspicions had been correct all along.
Not that that’s a bad thing.
He read the news, he could tell there’d been a cultural shift. And so he chose to swim rather than sink.
Made no damn difference either way. Sydney had been right; they’d both long outgrown the titles of father and son. Whatever feedback he cared to give wasn’t wanted or appreciated, his approval or lack thereof as sand in the wind. The one job he was expected to fulfill was to sit tight and wait for the sword to fall through his neck.
The lady otter giggled. “It’s definitely silly. Beats me why anyone would want to watch fixed fights. And they keep finding ways to get hurt even though it’s all fake.”
That last part stroke a sympathetic chord. He recalled the scare her son had with the broken ribs a few months back. “Must be hard on you.”
“Oh, I’m used to it.” She said, all wide smiles and good humor. “…Wow. Sounds so morbid when I say it like that. What I mean is, they know what they’re doing, or so Chase tells me. He doesn’t want us fussing over him.”
She’s trying to be a good sport, but her timbre buzzed with melancholy. Like Chase had gone out of her reach and she was resigned to it. All parents had a few things in common, in the end.
“It’s just like going to a swim meet.” Her husband piped up, wrapping a soothing arm around her shoulders. In comparison, his pride was as clear as the ocean, with no compromises. “We sure as hell didn’t get to experience that joy of parenting when he was in school, might as well seize the moment.”
“You don’t need to remind me.” She said, the opportunity to make fun of her child immediately lifting her spirits. “So many sports, and that boy was hopeless at every single one.”
“Nothing like—“ Mr. Hunter was interrupted by the announcer, who was ushering in the first recognizable name of the night.
“There’s Leo!” Mrs. Hunter said, excitedly pawing at her husband’s forearm and sounding so happy you’d think the large wolf was her own flesh and blood. “Hi, Leo!”
The boy (He still thought of him as a boy even though he must have been in his thirties by now) strode down the ramp, arms flexed and spread wide to better soak all the attention sent his way. Somehow, Alvarez managed to notice her over the hubbub, eyes turning warm with recognition, and regarded her with a wave as he climbed up the ring, charm seeping from every pore. The woman was positively starstruck.
Mr. Hunter’s furry elbow dug into his side. “You remember Leo?”
“Of course.”
He’d be remiss not to, the name alone dredged up memories. The same memories as when he’d found the Hunter kid at Sydney’s new apartment. That was to say, not good ones. In a town as small as Echo, gossip spread like a disease, and news of a young homosexual couple didn’t take long to reach him. An interrogation with Sydney soon followed, the details of which he’d rather not dwell on, but concluded with him being expressly forbidden from seeing Hunter or Alvarez again. Ironic where that landed them, in this quasi-class reunion, but he should have seen it coming. Even back then, he knew he’d been talking to a brick wall.
Alvarez’s opponent came out right after. A fat ram he’d probably seen at least once at a previous show but clearly failed to leave an impression, because he’d already forgotten his name. His instincts must have been correct, because the ram’s reception wasn’t nearly as animated as the ovation the wolf received. Or maybe Alvarez was just that good. Not like he’d know.
Indeed, the match was as much of a blur as every other he’d seen. They went through all the motions, and the audience was into it, but he could find his cue to clap and cheer only by watching the herd.
Alvarez won, a result even he was able to foresee. Heroes could be easily picked out from a crowd, and the wolf fit the bill. Like any good hero, he took his victory with cloying grace, helping his downed adversary up and giving him a brief but meaningful side-hug. All perfectly clean and by the books.
Mrs. Hunter exhaled. “Such a sweet boy.” Embarrassment crossed her features. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Sydney! But you know me, I get nostalgic.”
He didn’t know her, actually, or this competition she’d made up in her mind. The current state of Alvarez’s relationship with her son was the furthest thing from his mind. He knew they’d separated at some point, but they still got along quite well if the steamy performance they put on at the first event he went to was anything to go by.
That night, and the night after, Sydney had too much on his plate with the Hunter kid’s injury to grant him any time, but he did eventually respond to his confused texts to assure him that the kiss had been an elaborate farce, and Sydney and Hunter were, as the kids say, ‘a thing’ now. Practically gloated about it, daring him to say anything in protest. It was definitely unusual, but he reeled in his words.
The Hunters didn’t seem at all bothered by it, though. It was plain that they were deeply fond of Alvarez, even if that ship had sailed. Maybe they’d found room in their hearts to harbor hope that one day their precious child would come to his senses and realize what a mistake he’d made by falling for the brash Mormon boy.
It’s a petty thought and he knows it, but it brought a twisted sense of comfort. People like him didn’t often get to feel like the victim.
The ring was cleared out within minutes, and a strange calm enveloped the venue. No, not calm, he realized. It was as if the very air was charged with electricity, murmurs and bated breaths all around them.
This was… new. Tonight was apparently special, and not just because of the Hunters’ presence.
“Any second now.” Mr. Hunter said with childlike giddiness.
As if prompted, that grating, aggressive music that offended his ears blared through the cheap sound system, and all eyes turned towards the ramp.
Sydney had that air about him. That confident arrogance that screamed ‘try and kill me’ coming through with each swaggering step, the championship belt snug on his waist. He’s changed so little, even as he’s changed so much.
Some nights, Sydney would spare a glance in his direction, if he could find him. Sometimes he wouldn’t bother. Tonight, being in the front row, their eyes locked right away, and for the first time, Sydney held his gaze. It got him just a tad emotional. Until he remembered he was here with company. Sydney did use to go to the Hunters’ place so often it was basically his second home, after all.
The couple clapped with all their might, showing that they hadn’t forgotten either. He politely followed their lead, any doubt that his son was anything but well regarded in their eyes dashed. After about three seconds (he counted), Sydney turned his head forward, the moment gone as quickly as it arrived. That small gesture of acknowledgment was as much as Sydney’s gimmick could allow, if he was employing the term properly, but the meaning behind it was not lost on any of them.
Every night Sydney inspired the same reaction. People hated him, which meant they loved him. That’s how this worked. But tonight the crowd seemed a bit louder, a tad more rambunctious. Like they were all in on a joke he didn’t get.
As Sydney stepped between the ropes, the music changed, and he understood a little better.
In comparison, the Hunter kid looked like a completely different person. He knew this too was an act, but he was fooled for a second. He exuded the same confidence as Sydney, but there was an edge of mischief to it. And if Sydney received a mix of cheering and booing, Hunter got almost entirely the latter. Except for his parents, who blatantly played up to both teams and stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs. Once again, because he thought it was expected of him, he clapped along and made them into a trio of clowns. Chase hardly noticed them. It looked like he was actively trying to ignore them, actually.
The threads of this plot escaped him, but the announcer filled in the gaps for him. A love triangle resulting in a bloody rivalry from which Sydney emerged victorious, with a shiny belt to prove it. And because every successful story had to be stretched to its breaking point until everybody got sick to death of it, Chase was now back for revenge. That’s what all the commotion was about. Low-brow to the extreme.
However… he had to admit, once they were both in the ring, the mutual animosity was palpable and magnetic. That might have explained the sensation churning in his gut that somewhat resembled anticipation.
Sydney held a microphone. “I see your family’s here.” He pointed in their direction, and now they truly stuck out. “You sure you wanna go along with this, man? I don’t need your mommy dying from shock on my conscience.”
Understanding that they’d been made part of this, Mrs. Hunter dug blunt nails into her thighs. Not because she was offended, mind you, but because she’d burst with glee otherwise. The threat must have gone in through one ear and come out the other sounding like a cheeky compliment from her in-law. Still, she managed to carve her expression into an indignant frown for the sake of the cameras aimed their way.
“Oh, Syd. How do you think I feel?” Chase responded. “I warned them, told them I’d just be showing them a funeral. They just begged to come. What can I say, they’ve always had my back.” He grinned. “But you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?”
It’s part of the deal, this little pantomime. Sydney insisted that since the Hunters were visiting, it’d be nice to give them a small role. And he was brought along too. As Chase’s… uncle, or something. He failed to see the family resemblance, but those who didn’t belong to mustelid species likely bought it.
They’d been told there’d be some ad-libbing involved and that it was all in good fun, but that last line was something of a shock. For himself, and apparently for Sydney, who threw his mic square into the Hunter boy’s snout without missing a beat, sending a jarring feedback spike through the speakers.
…This was fake, right?
***
Things took off from there. Gun to his head, he wouldn’t be able to trace the flow of the match, but it was weirdly compelling. It was choreographed, but felt like a real fight. It felt like a real fight, but didn’t look as messy as a real fight would. Could have been bias, but he was glued to the edge of his seat.
Sydney threw Chase into a sprint towards the ropes and held an arm out on the rebound, catching the boy with a… ‘close-line’? Whatever it was called, it nearly tore the head clean off of Chase’s shoulders. He winced in sympathy pain.
At the moment of impact, there was a stir just within the edge of his vision. Mrs. Hunter’s paws reflexively shooting up to cover her mouth, then conspicuously lowered back onto her lap as if nothing happened. She’d made similar gestures all throughout the match, waved away with an awkward chuckle. An aborted gasp here, a death grip on her husband’s arm there, wearing maternal love on her sleeve.
Used to it, my ass.
He wasn’t looking down on this woman for fretting over her son’s wellbeing. If anything, he was jealous. This must be what it’s like for normal parents, but he’s too desensitized. Too rough around the edges.
Chase writhed on the canvas, clutching his windpipe. He could hear the choked noises coming from the boy all the way over here, and he thought he spotted tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Mrs. Hunter looked like she was about to cry too.
Sydney nudged him with his boot. Rolled him around until they reached the edge of the ring, and once there was no more apron to hold him aloft, Chase fell onto the floor with a sharp groan. The Hunters stood up right away, followed by the rest of the front row sans himself, trying to get a closer look. Sydney dropped beside Chase, the boy too winded to fight back as he was dragged to his feet by the headfur.
Sydney stared directly at them.
“Try not to hate me, lady.” He said, tugging on Chase’s hair. “I’m just giving him what he deserves.”
He tried to avert his gaze, but his traitorous eyes landed on Mrs. Hunter. He studied the wobble of her lower lip, the barely contained sorrow in her posture. The same people who heckled Chase earlier jeered at the pointlessly cruel display.
And then, she spoke.
“Shut your fucking mouth, trash. You’re not even worth the air you breathe. Does it hurt knowing you’ll never be half as good as he is?”
Silence swelled over the venue.
The lines weren’t exactly witty, and she delivered them with unselfconscious hamminess, but they shook him to his core. Even Sydney was stunned, eyes wide and cheeks red. Chase’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he could tell it wasn’t to convey pain, at least not the physical kind. Next to him, Mr. Hunter had raised his middle finger at Sydney in silent support.
One of those moments that seemed to stretch on and on before disappearing into the horizon, when you realized it’d merely lasted an instant. Like some kind of mirage or trick of the light. It caught up to him all at once.
He thought he’d forgotten how to smile.
What was it that Mr. Hunter said earlier? Seize the moment? Sure. If they were all going to be playing open mic night, he saw no reason not to add his own contribution to the pile.
“Kick his ass, boy.”
As soon as he said it, Chase got a burst of energy and drove an elbow into Sydney’s midsection that sunk him to his knees. The silence was broken, and the crowd came alive once more.
He painted a picture for the cameras and everyone else in attendance, of an elderly otter of loosely defined parentage giving Chase the inspirational words he needed to push through. He’d keep the secret that those words weren’t addressed at him.
***
“You’re not upset you lost, are you?” Mrs. Hunter cooed, holding her son’s bruised face between her paws.
Chase batted her away. He’d shed his wrestling bad guy persona like a coat and was left like any other boy embarrassed of his parents. “Mom. For the last fucking time, I was scheduled to lose. I’ve known for weeks.”
“Well, you never told me!”
“I tried! You said you didn’t want spoilers!”
“Damn good match either way.” Mr. Hunter intervened before they started screaming at each other. He ruffled Chase’s hair. “You did well, champ.”
“He’s right. Give your folks a break, Chase.” Sydney said, wrapping his arms around Chase’s middle from behind and resting his chin atop his head. “But I’m the only champ around here, don’t ever forg— Urk!”
That was the sound of Chase’s heel crushing Sydney’s toe. The Hunter couple took a few steps back so that the boys could roughhouse in the parking lot without interruption, as people streamed out of the venue and shot them strange looks.
They really were just like kids, so openly affectionate. Not a bad thing at all. Meanwhile, he stood stiffly with his paws shoved inside the pockets of his jacket out of lack of anything to do or say, the fifth wheel. That was fine, too.
“Son?”
Sydney released his boyfriend from the headlock he’d caught him in and looked up. “Huh?”
“That was... It was good.” He had to dig each vowel out of his throat individually. “Good job.”
Sydney leveled his suspicion at the praise until he was sure it wouldn’t bite him, then let his shoulders go slack. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Yeah, thanks. That alone coming from Sydney meant more than he’ll ever know. It’s pathetic. It’s music to his ears. It’s all he deserves. It’s all he needs.
“I’ll call you later.” He tipped his chin at the rest of the group and turned around. “Have a good evening.”
His arm caught on something on the way out. Someone. Mrs. Hunter, to be exact.
“You’re leaving?” Maybe it was that legendary, endless supply of patience and forgiveness mothers supposedly had. Maybe it really was pity. She sounded genuinely sad, whatever the case. “We had the whole night planned out.”
Her husband egged him on. “Yeah, come on Bronson. It’s a Saturday, it’s not like you’ve got work tomorrow.”
Chase got up from the concrete and held Sydney’s paw in his own. His body language said that he’d let Sydney have the last word, but he wouldn’t verbally oppose. Perhaps that counted for something.
And now it was Sydney’s turn. “Hey… dad?”
“…Yes?”
Sydney scratched the back of his neck, aged ten or twenty years backwards. “If you want… I mean, if you’ve got nothing better to do… You should come.”
A car whizzed past them, the throb of the engine drowning them in noise and exhaust fumes. But he’d heard. He heard perfectly clear.
“I would like that very much.”