A/N: This is for the lovely Takersdarklover. She requested a fic with this song using either Shawn or Jeff. After much thinking, this poured out. I hope you like it TDL! Shawn is in it somewhat, but it kind of ended up coming from Bret. He just kept on going and going, pouring out into this. O.o I have my own little slashy theories about all of it…but anyway. Here it is! The song is Tequila Sunrise by The Eagles and lyrics are in bold. Tada! I hope it makes sense. Song fics...idk. They're weird for me. But this is what I got out of this song to convert into a fic. Like it, or don't. :) OH ALMOST FORGOT...the lyrics are just slightly changed to better fit. Mainly changing 'she' to 'he' and I changed one line 'he was just a hired hand' to 'he was just a hired lad' because it sounded better. I'm sorry Eagles, ily!

Dear Shawn

In Calgary, the sun slowly rose from the snowy horizon to greet the morning. The iridescent, burning, orb lit the heavy-clouded sky, turning the fluffy, cumulus underbellies beautiful, shades of pink and orange. Near the horizon the color faded to a fuzzy yellow. The new light glittered off the undisturbed blanket of wintry condensation, the ground cover shimmered and glittered like crushed diamonds. On the thick, fury arms of blueish pine trees, the flakes winked like fine, glassy powder.

In the window of a fine home overlooking the scene, stood a man with a sad, lost look on his face. His graying hair hung loose over his shoulders, still a little messy from sleep. His jaw was rough with morning stubble, which he rubbed thoughtfully with one hand. His hazel eyes swept over the daybreak scene, but seemed to be looking past it, beyond, for something that wasn't there to complete it, but was far, far away. As if he could find that completion in the glass in his other hand, he glanced down into it, at the amber liquid. He swished it a little, then brought it to his lips and swallowed. The taste and feel of the liquor was familiar to him, this morning scene of staring, and drinking, and dawn of another lonely day had became routine to Bret.

Just as his thoughts led him every morning, back to the same person who haunted them no matter how much he tried to thoroughly hate him. The truth was, he hated himself the most for being too weak to ever confess his inner most feelings to that one man. He had been something rare in his renowned family, something they wouldn't have understood or been proud of he thought—a Hart of weakness—and now these days, a heart of stone. He'd just left Shawn, it seemed like the easiest course of action at the time, a time when he'd still managed to tease himself with the lie that he didn't really love Shawn. How could he after everything?

But each day when he woke up, emptier than the last, and stood at his bedroom window gazing at another meaningless sunrise, he only managed to love Shawn more. Damn him. Damn him! He wished that goodbye really meant something, but it was just a word. He had left Shawn physically, but emotionally, never. Bret frowned, and squinted at the sun as it peeked over the chubby pines, and swallowed the rest of his booze.

It's another tequila sunrise
Staring slowly 'cross the sky
I said goodbye

He shuffled towards the closet, considered getting dressed, then figured he had no one to get dressed for. Why did it matter? He made his way downstairs, refilled his glass, and headed for his chair in the living room. He sat there flipping through channels filled with early morning news, scrolling banners at the bottom of the screen with the latest headlines, updates about the weather, the newest diet fad. His eyes saw it, but it was just numbing garbage that meant nothing. His thoughts were elsewhere. The way the news anchors hair hung golden over her shoulders, reminded him of Shawn. When he switched the channel, the man pointing at map and speaking of more snow had piercing blue eyes that seemed all too familiar.

Bret switched off the television. Silence enveloped him, and then darkness as he closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to a time that always seemed achingly near, yet just as painfully far away.

Shawn was just there trying to follow his dream like everyone else, only Shawn was special. Vince had noticed him from the beginning, his beauty, his drive, his willingness to do anything, his tendency towards low self-esteem, and it had all been so manipulated. It didn't matter if Bret and Shawn had fallen in love, something that was lost on nearly everyone but Shawn and Vince, and Bret even though he refused at times to admit it.

Things started spiraling downwards when Vince began to manipulate both of them, his actions often times pitting them against one another, causing endless problems and meltdowns, that could never seem to be solved by anything other than harsh, cruel, words on Bret's side of things, and tears on Shawn's.

In the end, Vince screwed Bret out of much more than a title belt, so fucking much. And Shawn had agreed to it. Shawn had gone along with Vince. Shawn chose to be loyal to Vince fucking McMahon rather than Bret. That day in Montreal, everything Bret lived for came crashing down. Bret saw Shawn's eyes one last time, eyes of betrayal, eyes that seemed to say I'm sorry, but Bret couldn't believe anything that swam in their hypnotic depths any longer.

Time had passed since then, years. Sometimes Bret felt close to forgiving Shawn, to apologizing for his own wrongs, yet other times he assured himself that he still hated Shawn Michaels with the same raging fury that had rushed through him that very day, standing dumbfounded and enraged in the ring. But Shawn was Shawn, and the image of his beautiful face swimming in Bret's mind when he closed his eyes to sleep, his cobalt eyes always sad and teary, the same vision still touching him when he woke, made him never able to forget what was buried deeper than any amount of anger, bitterness, or so called hate. He was just Shawn, the alluring siren who never, ever let go of hearts he held.

He was just a hired lad
Working on the dreams he planned to try
The days go by

He remembered how lonely he was before Shawn was in his life. Sure, he was big bad Bret Hart, he had family and a few close friends around him as if they were his entourage, but it never seemed to matter. Even with Davey Boy, and even with his own brother Owen around he still felt alone. They didn't understand him, they weren't on his level, they were just ghosts brushing by. There were those nights with Vince, those things that looking back on he wasn't proud of at all, and the nights he spent with that douchebag didn't help how he felt. Bret tried to appease the ache in his heart in that classic way men tend to revert to more often that not—being macho, assuring himself that he didn't need anyone. Psh, he was Bret Hart. Who did he need but himself?

There was Vince, but he didn't need Vince. Bret had more talent in his pinky toe than McMahon had in his own fucking body. Bret didn't need to sleep with Vince, or be his clandestine lover in order to get to the top. He had the skills, the look, he had it all. Vince even told him so, as he smiled that knowing leer of his. The only reason Bret found himself in Vince's bed was because McMahon wanted him, and he was good at getting what he wanted—by hook or by crook you might say.

Then, Shawn. Shawn had come into the company and the first moment Bret laid eyes on him, he was gone. He was lost to that perfect, almost feminine beauty that was Shawn Michaels. It was the way he smiled, the way he blinked, the way his eyes moved, the way his hair shone and fell delicately over his shoulders and stuck to the curves of his arms, it was everything. He was an angel, or a demon. Sometimes, Bret didn't know which it was.

He wasn't the only one who noticed Shawn. Nearly everyone noticed the vixen, including McMahon. Shawn was brought into their relationship. For a while things were fine as they were, but things quickly spiraled out of control with three of the biggest egos in the industry driving bitter arguments and selfish pursuits. The three-way dance became like a triple-threat match and in the end the only one who really won was McMahon. He was a fat cat perched atop a pile of shattered bodies, never caring who was bleeding out or why, just licking the sweet milk of victory from his twitching whiskers.

The aftermath left Bret worse off than he was before. He hadn't thought it possible that he could be any more alone than before, but after Montreal, he might as well have been living by himself on the desolate moon. Anyone who might have wanted to try to reach him, like some of his family, he shoved away. He'd allowed his defenses down once already, and that had left him with the most intense pain he had ever experienced with nothing to blot it out or even lessen it. Meanwhile, he heard from Owen that Shawn was running around with nearly anyone and everyone in Vince's employ. It was Owen's perspective that people had different ways of coping, and Shawn's reckless promiscuity, boozing, and everything else he was doing was just his way. Bret didn't buy it, instead opting to harden his heart further with thoughts that Shawn never really loved him. It was all one big ploy to bring down the mighty Bret Hart, one great plot to shatter him into pieces that he couldn't rebuild. Well, fuck that. That was what Bret tried to tell himself as he laid alone in hotel rooms that seemed more like cold crypts.

Every night when the sun goes down
Just another lonely boy in town
And he's out running 'round

He'd been foolish enough to think that in time, he'd get over Shawn. How wrong that was. Shawn was not someone you could forget. If you could convince your mind to, you were lucky. But there was no way a heart could be convinced to let go of that man. It was all but impossible. He shouldn't have fallen in love with Shawn in the first place. He'd tried to keep from it, he'd tried to guard himself, but Shawn wiggled in just the same. He might have been able to deny it to any others who insinuated such nonsense, but inside, he could never deny to himself what he had felt before it had all disintegrated.

It was so, so long ago. Wasn't it? Looking in the mirror, his haggard face agreed with him. His memories told him otherwise, they were as fresh as yesterday. Those images were as new and wet as the tears that rolled down his shame-painted cheeks.

He wasn't just another man
And I couldn't keep from coming on
It's been so long

So numb. Shawn had just made him so numb. Vince had made him numb. That selfish bastard had just played them like a ruthless card game in a Vegas casino. He'd stacked the deck, marked the cards, made sure that the pot was high, the wagers so much more than titles and fame, but that didn't matter to McMahon. All that mattered to him were the amount of chips piled in the middle of the table, and that those chips were all going to be claimed by him, in the end. The House always wins.

Oh, and it's a hollow feeling
When it comes down to dealing friends
It never ends

These days, however, found Bret an older man. He noticed the lines emerging from his face, the gray streaking his hair, his health not once what it was. Not for the first time it occurred to him that maybe he ought to make that step in trying to make amends. It had been so many years. Shawn seemed happy now, he was purported to be a changed man after getting his life in line, and finding God. Yet here was Bret Hart, still wallowing in his pain and the wrongs that had been dealt him.

He leaned on the sink in the bathroom for a moment, pulling his eyes away from his tired twin in the mirror. His glass was resting near the soap dish on the vanity, the amber liquid still winking at him. With a sigh, and shaking fingers, he pulled the glass towards him and downed what was left all in one go. He had made up his mind. This morning was going to his last bitter sunrise.

He made his way down the hallway, his socked feet shuffling against the carpet as he went. He ducked into his office and lowered himself into his chair. He pulled a drawer opened, rummaged in it for a moment, and came out with a clean sheet of paper and a pen. He smoothed the blank paper onto his desk, uncapped his pen, and stared at it. It seemed so harsh and damning just glaring back at him, the ivory sheet like a watching eyeball, just waiting for something. He placed the tip of the pen to the paper.

He managed to write out two words, followed by a comma. It was a simple salutation in a script that was trembling from his nerves and from age, but mostly from nerves. Dear Shawn. He lifted the tip of the pen and ran his eyes over and over the black inked words. He stared at the paper. A million things, and yet nothing at all, crashed through his mind. Nothing came out on the paper though, absolutely nothing. What was he supposed to say now? Just what was he supposed to say? After hours of trying, and gaining nothing but a throbbing headache and a few teardrops to stain the paper, he left it, abandoned on the desk with only a scratched out header.

Take another shot of courage
Wonder why the right words never come?
You just get numb

Bret stood looking out the window. This day looked just like yesterdays. The snow had gotten deeper, the branches on the laden trees sagged further, some having snapped under the pressure of the weight. I understand. Bret thought, as he looked at one of the tall trees, once majestic in the sunlight of summer, now slumped and bent with the dreary doldrums of bitter winter.

I feel that weight too. He pressed his palm to the cool window glass. The sun peeked over the mounds of snow, but it just didn't seem bright enough. He swirled the tequila in his glass, and took a sip.

It's another tequila sunrise
This old world still looks the same
Another frame