Title: The Cost of Dreams, the Weight of Sins
Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m, angst, slight religious overtones.
Characters: Triple H (Paul Michael Levesque), mentions of Shawn Michaels, Stephanie McMahon, and a certain underworld personage
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Title and summary from What Is Eternal? by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
The night is newly begun, the shadows long across the room as Hunter sits alone in his study. He stares at the framed photographs, the magazine covers, the posters that grace the walls. Physical proof of his achievements. His eye is caught by one picture in particular, an old one from the days of DX. He and Shawn are standing side by side, a cocky smile curling the corner of Shawn's mouth; the arrogant smirk mirrored by Hunter. Two men on top of the world, without a single care or worry. The very best of friends.
Hunter snorts softly in disgust. "Best friends."
And look at Shawn now. Broken down, plagued by injury after injury. Never again to be the show stopper he was once known as. And Hunter knows it was all his doing. He'd deliberately sabotaged Shawn's own career in favor of his own. Oh, he could try and tell his story to the few guys who still pretended to trust him, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nobody would believe him.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," he speaks to the framed image of Shawn. "I swear it!" He stands abruptly and begins to pace, speaking aloud all the while. "If I knew what was gonna happen, if I'd known just how bad it was gonna get, I never would've made the deal. Surely you have to know that, deep down inside."
He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath, contemplating all the things he has gained from the covert arrangement he made so many years ago. "A useless fucking title no one wants me to have, an audience who would sooner spit on me than save me from drowning, a trophy wife who's more interested in her own family than her God damned husband, in-laws I can't even think about pissing off unless I wanna throw my entire career in the shitter..."
He falls silent, perhaps realizing the futility of speaking words that Shawn would never believe, were he to overhear Hunter's lonely confession. Full of impotent anger and lacking a suitable target, Hunter lashes out, knocking a framed portrait from his wedding off the desk, sending it crashing to the floor. He winces as a sharp corner cuts his hand and glances down, mildly annoyed to see that he's drawn blood. He abruptly pictures himself as he was on that long-ago day, just an ambitious kid, really, and eager to do anything to advance his own career no matter the cost...
Like so many of New Hampshire's more well-to-do families, Hunter was brought up in the Catholic church, the ideas of God and Satan very much a part of his belief system. Arrogance and cynicism soon intruded, however, and he adopted a more flippant and cavalier attitude towards what the priest assured him were 'very serious matters indeed.' It was that very self-assured, overconfident approach that was to be his downfall later on.
He'd just returned home for a few much-needed days off after another cross-country string of shows. A long night of heavy drinking was all he had in mind, but he didn't want to do it at his usual bar. He'd had more than enough 'Shawn's sidekick' comments in the last month or so and really needed a break. An added advantage of visiting a bar he wouldn't be recognized at would be that he could possibly hook up with a nice trick to take home, fuck senseless, and then kick to the curbside when he was done.
His mind made up, he ventured out into the night, soon finding a bar that was suitable for his purposes. He breathed a sigh of relief as his quiet entrance drew no notice and quickly took a seat that afforded him an ample view of the bar's patrons. His attention was almost immediately diverted as his phone began to vibrate, signaling an incoming text message. Hunter peered down at the view screen and swore under his breath. Even when he was on vacation he couldn't get away from Shawn, it seemed. The message took a few moments to come up and Hunter rolled his eyes in disgust. "'Suck it'? Jesus, idiot, couldn't you at least be a little creative?"
He deleted the message, shaking his head at Shawn's childish antics, before he became aware of someone approaching his table. There was none of the hesitancy that he was used to, the almost-mincing walk, the trembling, shy voice asking him for an autograph. This fellow was all business as he boldly sat down across from Hunter and looked him right in the eye. It was hard to make out the stranger's age, his features, anything about him really. But Hunter's curiosity was piqued all the same.
"There is no need to mince words so I will come straight to the point. You intrigue me, make me yearn to know more about you as you sit alone in your dark corner, trying so desperately not to be noticed, yet wanting that more than anything. I wish to know the deepest desires of your heart, your mind, for I may be able to give those things to you." The stranger's voice had a seductive quality to it, like a heady wine, and Hunter found himself leaning closer, eager to hear more. "We are men of action, you and I. Pretty speeches are best left to those with little imagination." He waved his hand and Hunter watched in wonder as his scotch and water was refilled, seemingly from thin air.
Hunter arched a tawny brow and regarded both the stranger and his glass with a blend of curiosity and skepticism. After several moments of silence, he'd formulated what he considered a casual enough response. "Neat trick. That must save you a fucking fortune in bar tabs alone."
The stranger leaned back and chuckled as he laced his fingers together. "You have a singular wit about you." He nodded sagely, as if in response to an unspoken question. "Yes, very intriguing indeed. I will assume you require further proof, yes?"
Hunter lifted his head a fraction of an inch higher, the move appallingly arrogant despite its simplicity. "So what do you do for an encore? Havana cigars?"
The stranger smirked at the young man's brash manner. "If that's what you really want." He snapped his fingers and in the blink of an eye, Hunter was holding the sweetest-smelling cigar he could imagine. "I live to serve, after all." He inclined his head regally, not really expecting the other man to respond.
Hunter gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, appearing to accept the rather strange course of events as being perfectly normal. He nonchalantly puffed at his cigar, closing his eyes as a cloud of smoke curled lazily around him like comforting arms. "Tell me."
The other man's voice was cold, condescending. "Tell you what, a bedtime story? A tale told 'round campfires, intended to frighten small children?"
"The truth." Hunter raised his tumbler, tossing back his drink in a few rapid swallows.
"Most men cannot handle the truth," the stranger retorted, waving his hand and again filling the glass.
Hunter stared down at the amber-colored liquid with an almost disdainful look before leaning forward and focusing clear hazel eyes on his companion. His voice was a husky growl. "I'm not most men, now, am I?" He gave an arrogant toss of his head before continuing. "I asked for the truth and I expect the fucking truth. What do I get?"
As the stranger opened his mouth to reply, Hunter's phone buzzed again. He snapped it up with a curse, beyond irritated to be interrupted in the middle of such a momentous occasion. Not surprisingly, it was Shawn again with the same message as before. "Mother fucker..." Hunter swore as he slammed his phone down.
The dark man let out an amused chuckle at Hunter's consternation. "And what is it you want, friend?"
Still glaring daggers at the phone, Hunter growled, not really thinking his answer through. "That irritating little shit cut down to size. That'd suit me just fucking fine."
"And you'd like your own career to surpass his, I would assume." Hunter's quick nod gave the stranger the answer he anticipated. "You realize, of course, that there would be a price to be paid."
Hunter fixed the other man with an amused stare, lifting the again-full tumbler to his lips. "Isn't there always?"
"You will no longer be respected, adored, loved as you once were. You will have successes unheard of in the business, but the price is that you will be the only one to enjoy it. Is that something you are prepared to accept?"
"And Shawn?" Hunter's eyes narrowed, rage and jealous anger flooding his senses. "He'll suffer?"
The stranger chuckled, the sound cold and ominous to the other man's ears. "In ways you cannot yet imagine."
Another nod and Hunter set his glass down. "What do I have to do? Promise you my first born or something?"
"Oh no, my friend. Nothing quite so drastic. There's just this small matter of a contract to sign and then you're all set. Ready to conquer the world, as it were." The stranger gave a negligent wave of his hand and a piece of paper appeared on the table. Beside it was an ornate feathered quill. He pushed the paper towards the other man with an almost reverent motion.
Hunter lowered his head to scan the document with a cursory eye, still intoxicated by the thought that his own star would soon be on the rise, no matter the cost. "I'll sign the fucking thing," he growled, picking up the quill.
The stranger casually plucked the implement from Hunter's fingers and inclined his head. "If you will allow me?" He reached out with his free hand, indicating that Hunter should do likewise. When the other man complied, the stranger turned his hand over, palm up and quickly jabbed the point of the quill into Hunter's index finger, drawing an immediate bead of blood.
Hunter jerked his hand back, wincing at the sudden, sharp pain. He looked down accusingly at the spot of crimson before letting out a disgusted sigh and taking the quill again in his hand. "Whatever floats your boat, man." He quickly scrawled his name on the paper and shoved it back with an air of importance.
The other man took the document and nodded approvingly at the drying signature before rolling the paper and tucking it into a fold of his coat. "That will do quite nicely, thank you." He rose from his seat, again filling Hunter's glass. "If you will excuse me, I have many stops to make this evening. I thank you for your time and attention."
A wicked smirk curled the corner of Hunter's mouth as he contemplated his own imminent spotlight. "Nice doing business with you, man." He raised his glass in a toast and sipped at it happily, sighing with satisfaction.
So long ago and yet it seems as if it all happened yesterday. Hunter stares down at his hand where the metal picture frame has drawn blood. He's not surprised that it's his right index finger, the same index finger that produced the blood that sealed Shawn's fate. And his own.
His life has been everything the stranger said it would be. Untold success, wealth beyond his wildest dreams, surrounded by the most beautiful people imaginable. And he hasn't a single person to truly share it with. How can he have been so foolish? No dream such as his could come true without the greatest cost.
"You're an idiot. A fucking idiot." His voice seems unnaturally loud in the room as he speaks to his silent audience of former friends and associates.
Above all else, he regrets the one thing he wishes for that he can no longer have.
"I'm so sorry, Shawn..."