So about a month or so ago, I watched Chicago and something told me that the 1920s would be the perfect setting for a bit of slashy goodness. And then I was chatting with someone about A Single Man and I remembered how much I liked all the flashbacks to brief moments of the relationship. And then I found a picture of Cody Rhodes in a trilby - needless to say, that kinda pushed me over the edge.

So here you have it - my little one-shot, which has now turned into a three (possibly four)-shot. As I said to someone yesterday think suits, braces, fedoras, 1920s, whiskey, run-down apartments and rumpled sheets...

WARNING: Contains large helpings of slash.

DISCLAIMER 1: I don't own Cody Rhodes or Randy Orton.

DISCLAIMER 2: I don't own the beautiful lyrics at the beginning. They are all Florence + The Machine's work. But they are my fourth source of inspiration.

DISCLAIMER 3: I apologise for any historical inaccuracy. I did my best, but I am easily distracted when it comes to history.

A/N: Italics symbolise flashbacks to late 1920s/early 1930s. Everything else is told from Randy's POV in the late 1940s.

Hope you likey :-)

Part 1

You are the hole in my head
You are the space in my bed

You are the silence in between
What I thought and what I said

You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear

When it's over you're the start

You're my head
You're my heart

'No Light No Light' Florence + The Machine

As I leave the bar, I instantly regret my decision. But it's too late to turn back. I'm half a block before I even realise that it's raining hard, that the holes in my shoes are too large to ignore any more and that rain water is trickling down the back of my neck. I pull up my collar and hunch my shoulders, bending my head low against the downpour.

I should have stayed. I should have ordered another drink. I should have let the girl drape her arms around me, whisper in my ear, all the things she thinks all men want to hear. I should have sighed, smiled, breathed in her intoxicating perfume and let her show me a good time.

Problem is, her idea of a good time isn't necessarily the same as mine. So I got up, thanked her as politely as I could with half a bottle of whiskey inside me and left.

Someone brushes past me, not hard enough to knock me over, but with enough strength to make me stumble. My mouth opens and in my head, the perfect insult forms, yet my mouth closes again before I can make a sound. Mind and body unable to co-ordinate.

I take it slow, despite of the rain. I'm soaked to the skin already, so what difference does an extra five minutes make? It's not like I have anyone to hurry home to. Not anymore.

I used to fucking run home. I would down the compulsory post-work drink in a matter of minutes, shake hands, wish everyone the best for the weekend and I was off like a shot. I would bound down these streets with only one thing on my mind.

Him.

Nowadays, I'm the last one standing. Everyone else makes their excuses, make promises that next time will be the late one, like the good ol'days... We smile and nod, tell each other that would be great, we'll have a blast... But I know they don't mean it. And they know that these days, I'd rather drink alone.

Even the girls in the bars know to keep their distance. She must've been new. Too high, too drunk to notice my lack of interest. Some days I wonder what it would be like to give in and take one of them home, or at least, out into the alleyway. I wonder if it would make everything okay. Would it make the pain go away?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Is it a risk I'm willing to take?

No.

Not now anyway.

Give me another year. Maybe two. Or three. Who knows how long this will take. I thought, in my naïvety, that time would be the answer. But how much time? I see men with their girls, girls that last six, eight months, dropped in a flash, only to be replaced the following week. Six months is a long time. Are these men without emotional thought? Are they that hard on the inside that one girl is no different to the other, that each is replaceable should he feel that their relationship, encounter, whatever it is, has run it's course?

I fumble for my key, as I round the corner of my building. It takes three attempts to slide the key into the lock. I turn, push and stumble inside. Water patters around me, as I take the stairs slowly, one at a time. I produce the second key and this time my mind and body briefly unite to let me inside on the first try.

I pull my hat from my head and slowly hang it up on the coat stand. I slide my coat off and arrange it neatly. I peer into the dirt-ridden mirror propped against the wall. My eyes are bloodshot, my skin pale. My shirt collar is a mixture of grey from the dampness and sweat and brown from dirt. I peel off my suit jacket and throw it aimlessly at the chair. It misses. I look at it on the floor for a moment, before I unbutton my shirt slowly and let it fall to the floor.

I close my eyes. I can almost feel his breath ghosting over my shoulder blades, his hands working their way up my back, his thumbs working out the knots. His hands sliding around my torso, pulling me hard against him. His mouth pressed against my skin. The way he would toy with my earlobe between his teeth, making me hiss.

I shiver and open my eyes.

I'm drunk.

He's not here.

Kicking the shirt out of the way, I stumble towards the chair and drag it closer to the window. Closer to the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the ledge. I sit, lean forward and push the window open. Wide open. The rain continues to thunder down, the perfect way to drown out everyone and everything.

The barely-clean glass next to the bottle is filled in an instant and I toast to no-one before I gulp it down. It must be one, maybe two in the morning. I should be in bed. But I haven't slept in that bed for a long time now. I prefer the chair. I prefer to drink myself to sleep than to lie there in the dark, willing, begging for sleep to take hold.

Not so long ago, another chair would have been placed next to this one. Another body only inches away from mine. I could reach out, caress his fingers, the back of his hand, whenever I wanted or needed to. His fingers would curl around mine, squeeze them tight. I would look over at him and he'd give me that small smile that made my heart race. His eyes would open and close slowly, his eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheekbones. Every time I looked at him, I swear I fell more and more in love with him.

I used to joke that I had fallen in love with him before our paths even crossed. He'd roll his eyes, stick his tongue out and laugh.

That laugh still wakes me up at night.

That laugh was the first I ever heard of him.

I zip up my pants and head for the door. One more drink and then I'm out of here. People smile at me as I wind my way around the tables towards the bar. I smile back, shake hands with a few I've met before. I make a stop at my table, offer to pay for the next round and make a mental note of the requests. Not that it's that hard. The choice these days is between gin and whiskey, both watered down beyond belief.

I lean against the bar and fumble in my pocket for cigarettes and matches. The box is empty. I chuck it on the bar, cursing silently. The bar-man approaches me and I reel off the order. He nods and reaches for glasses as I continue to pat down my pockets in search of another box of matches.

"Fuck."

Someone jostles against me, laughing, chuckling, shaking their head in amusement at whatever their companion is saying.

"Watch it," I mutter. But I don't look round. The bar-man is lining up the glasses and I'm more concerned with retrieving the crumpled notes from my pocket.

"Have you got any matches?" I ask. The bar-man shrugs and shakes his head, pulling the notes from my fist.

"Hey man, you want a light?"

I turn.

Chuckles is gazing up at me. His hat is pushed back on his head, revealing dark, ruffled hair. He's young, a look of innocence about him, but then I notice his eyes. They practically gleam. His mouth is slowly opening, forming words that I don't hear. I'm fucking hypnotised.

I'm fucking staring.

Shit.

I quickly look away and then glance back at him. Those eyes are still gleaming and now his mouth is curled into a smile.

"Do you need a light?"

His fingers are curled around a match, ready to strike the side of the box.

I place a cigarette between my lips and inhale as the flame touches the tip.

"Thanks," I murmur.

"No problem." He turns to leave, but I can't let him.

"I'm Randy," I say quickly.

He glances over his shoulder at me. "Cody."

I empty the bottle and place it on the floor. I don't quite get the angle right and it falls on it's side and rolls away. I watch it go and then turn back to watching the darkness.

I didn't see him again until a month or so later. He'd been flickering in and out of my mind ever since the first encounter, so when I saw him approach me from across the room, I wasn't sure if I was wrapped up in one of my dreams and that the second he got in touching distance, he'd fade away and I'd wake up sweating, with my morning glory propping up the bedsheets.

But no, he was there, standing in front of me, asking if I wanted a drink. I nodded, dumbfounded and he disappeared for a minute or two. He returned with two glasses, placed them on the table and took the seat opposite me. And then he started to tell me stories. About how he'd just moved here from down south. Funny, I said, I'm from the south too. Really? Small world. He worked for the local rag. Reporter. And what did I do? I must do something real fancy, what with the sharp suit and that. I laughed. Nothing fancy. Tell me. So I did. I told him everything about me. I must've talked for a good half hour before he said another word. I had to force myself to shut up, to stop pouring out my very soul to him.

I remember him watching me closely. He rolled the empty glass between his hands, his legs crossed, his foot tapping against the table in beat with the band playing on the stage. He'd raise his eyebrow occasionally and every so often that mouth of his would curl into a smile, sometimes a grin. But his eyes never moved or changed.

When I paused in my monologue, he shuffled his seat and glanced at his watch. I could have kicked myself. How stupid could I be? He was just being polite. I reached forward and downed the rest of my drink. And then he asked if I had time for one more drink. So we sat some more. We drank some more. And then, when the bar-man practically hauled us to the door, he asked if I was free the next evening.

Hell, every time he ever asked me that I was always free.

I started to clock-watch in the afternoons. One minute to six, I was already putting on my coat, ready to bound down the stairs and fucking skip the two blocks from my office to his. He'd be outside waiting for me, cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, the evening paper under his arm, hat tipped back in his usual cheeky style.

That image of him never gets old. Forget everything else, if I could keep one memory of him, it would be that. The way his eyes would light up the minute he saw me. The way my heart would start racing, how my palms would start sweating. The way he took my breath away – I want to feel that all over again.

At first, I thought it was just me. I thought I was deluding myself, that it was all in my head. We were just two guys, who had something in common – both trying to make our way in this city. A city that could easily swallow you whole. A city that was so full that it was bursting at the seams, yet could make you feel so alone at the same time. The guys at work, they had their wives, families, friends. And who did I have? Up until I met Cody, I only had them.

And then we had each other.

I close my eyes and down the last remaining trickle of whiskey from the glass.

Sometimes, I wonder if things would have turned out the same way if... If we'd remained steady, if things hadn't spiralled out of control. Would we still be sitting here, sharing a drink? Or would I still be alone, no matter if we'd jumped in the deep end or not? Did my reckless abandon ultimately affect his decision? Was it all my fault? Or was it his destiny, his ambition, his need to constantly better himself that has left me alone once again?

Questions constantly whir around my mind, engulfing me in an endless what if.

The only way to forget, the only way to figure out the answer is to re-live it all again.

I lean back and close my eyes.

I remember it all so well.