Notes: They're not mine, etc etc. For the record, yes, the song Jericho sings is "Martyr No More". I've never written this pairing before, but I was inspired after last night's Smackdown. They're just such an awesome pairing. So let me know how this worked, yeah? =D
He stripped out of his ring gear, leaving a pile of spandex, plastic and tape in his wake. The locker room was silent; the yells and catcalls that normally accompanied the small space before shows were gone. Most of the guys left soon after their matches, choosing to go out and party or sleep or drive to the next city, the next hotel.
Jericho grabbed one of the starchy white towels from the rack near the door and wrapped it around his waist. He stepped into the first empty shower stall and cranked the hot water on all the way, lost in thought as he waited for the water to warm. It didn't take long and soon he was standing under the burning spray, the heat and steam feeling wonderful on his sore muscles.
It hadn't been a rough match; Mark had been having troubles with his knees and Jericho was more than happy to take it easy on the old guy. Old guy. Hell, Jericho himself wasn't that much younger. Look at these guys like Hennigan, Bourne, even that loudmouth Mizanin. He had moves like that once, and now he could barely pull a Lionsault or a Codebreaker without feeling the effects the next morning. He'd been hot shit in his day, catching the eyes of anyone and everyone he wanted, without a second thought. The long blond rockstar locks, the muscular physique… he ran his hand across his midsection, trailing soapbubbles, and felt flab where there had once been washboard abs.
Those days were long gone. The days of coaxing anyone – superstar, diva or ring-rat – into his bed with merely a smile were all past him now. He still had his band, and that was good. He had a wife and adorable children… that was good too. Great, really. He wouldn't trade his best girls and his smartmouth son (who was clearly taking after his father) for ten, hell, twenty years of one-night flings.
But still… he wasn't getting any younger. He was one serious injury away from retirement, if he wasn't careful. And if he was lucky, what did he have? Ten more good years, maybe? Ten more years before they started subtly backing off his programs, making him a mid-carder, cutting his time for the newer talents? It was already happening now, he could see it. He could still cut a damn good promo, but guys like Hennigan, Galloway, the Hart Dynasty were all slowly but surely carving their niches out of his.
It was only natural, the course of things, but… damn, it sucked.
He sighed and attempted to push the thoughts out of his head as he halfheartedly soaped himself up. He wasn't dead yet, damn it. Even Ric Flair wasn't ready to be out of the ring, although that man was definitely past his prime. Or Hogan, for that matter. Getting old didn't necessarily mean he had to be out of the game… just out of the ring.
The water was almost too hot to bear as it pounded over his head, the back of his neck, his shoulders. He could feel it reddening his skin and didn't move, didn't care, merely turned his face up into the spray. Before he could catch himself, he found himself humming and then singing under his breath.
"It's so hard to let go of the past… Forever on my mind… I never dreamed things could change so fast… what do I have left?"
Under his words and the sound of the spray, he could hear the shower door slide open and closed. A draft of cool air flicked his ass before a warm body pressed against his own, arms wrapped around his chest.
"Are you singing your own music?" Adam murmured into his ear. "You're so full of yourself."
Normally Chris would have a snappy comeback, but all he did was lean back into the warmth of Adam's arms with a contented little hum. The two were silent for a moment, Adam pressing the occasional kiss to Chris's temple, the line of his jaw. Chris wriggled and made a face.
"Are you gonna shave that shit?"
"What, you don't like my beard?" Adam reached up a hand and stroked the scruff. "You don't think it makes me look… dignified?"
Chris craned his neck back to look Adam in the eye.
"It makes you look like Grizzly Adams."
"No, you know who looks like Grizzly Adams?"
"Phil." They answered in unison, and looked at each other with wide eyes for a moment before bursting into shouts of laughter.
When their laughter faded, Chris turned and wrapped his arms around Adam's waist before leaning up and kissing him lightly. Adam returned the kiss and before long, Chris found himself pressed against the cool tiles of the shower wall, his hands woven through damp blond locks. Oh yes, he definitely missed this. Missed the way Adam's skin felt against his own. Missed running his fingers through his hair. Missed that devilish smirk and the crazy sense of humor, missed the only person who could match him wit for wit.
"As much fun as this is," Adam murmured, trailing kisses along the side of Chris's neck, "we probably want to take this somewhere else. These showers are filthy."
"Agreed," Chris said, and pulled away, rinsing off what little remained of the soap on his skin. Adam moved forward and did the same, looking golden and glorious under the rush of the spray, the water running in rivulets down his skin. As if sensing his attention, not to mention impatience, Adam cranked the water off and grabbed a towel from off the door, drying himself off quickly. Chris was about to protest when he noticed there was still an extra towel. Adam had come prepared. Nice.
He dried off quickly and wrapped the towel back around his waist, following Adam back to their duffel bags. Chris watched him walk, sure and steady, not even the barest hint of a limp. This from the man who had, seven months earlier, snapped his Achilles' tendon neatly in half, lay in agony on the mat while Chris himself could only sit backstage and watch in horror. There was no way he'd be able to recover. A year in a cast, god knew how much rehab afterwards… his career was over, with one freak accident.
Except it wasn't. He had worked his ass off and proved everyone wrong, and only seven months later, he had returned in grand fashion to win the Rumble and go on to headline Wrestlemania. Chris couldn't help but smile to himself as he quickly threw on clothes that would be coming off within half an hour's time. The evidence was walking around in front of him (not to mention bending over in an extremely enticing way) that you weren't out of the game until you were goddamn good and ready to be out of the game. And maybe not even then.
"What're you smirking about?" Adam asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He was already fully dressed, bag in hand, ready to go.
"Nothin'. Let's get out of here."
And later, in the dark, as Adam dozed on his chest and the sweat dried on his skin, Chris realized that he wouldn't trade this moment -- and all the other moments like it still to come -- for his glory days, washboard abs or all the time in the world.