He'd been here before. The sound of clapping, the locker room lining up along the walls, leading him to the back, patting his shoulder, his side—some stopping in front to give him a hug and whispered words. It happened the year before that. And the year before that, he was the one on the wall, coming with the hugs and the whispered words. The same words he heard now.

Wow. Fucking wow.

That was amazing.

You did it.

It's over.

Hunter grunted.

Shawn's hand squeezed his again. "Almost there."

His feet dragged along the concrete. Somewhere in the blur of wide-eyed smiling faces, sad concerned looks, long curtains, bright lights and big walls, they ended up in the back, Shawn helping him up onto a table. Taker was long gone, off to tend to his own bruises, scars and whatever else he inflicted on him tonight.

More light shined in his eyes. Hands he didn't know—the doctor's, his mind supplied—checked his body. Arms, legs, knees, "how's that Hunter?" and he groaned back, "Sore."

"I bet." Palms smoothed over his forehead. "That looks nasty."

His good eye found a blurry ceiling above. "Yeah."

"Won't take long. Give me a minute."

He grunted back. His eyes fluttered shut.

Pressure on his hand returned. Then, "Relax." Shawn's voice.

Hunter squeezed back.

In the time it took for the doctor to patch up his body in stitches and bandages, his mind had cleared, and the adrenaline had worn off. Everything ached. But he could see again, when he opened his eyes. He could breathe easier too.

"Lay there for a bit," the doctor said when he finished. "I'll be back." A pat to his thigh. "Hell of a match, man. Great job."

"Thanks."

The door clicked open and closed. His ears still buzzed, filling up the silence.

A few seconds later, Shawn's hand squeezed again.

Hunter took a deep breath in and out.

I did it.

He didn't feel this way at last year's show. It was a good, strong and successful match, but what he felt then didn't compare to how he was the year before that. Shawn sitting on a chair in the back, him kneeling on the ground, holding his head, foreheads pressed together—that was the 'end of an era.' Tonight, he should've felt the same gamut of emotions like he did then. He should've felt sad, elated, joyful, grief, relieved, everything mixed together and jumbled up to the point where his chest wanted to explode, or his head, or his heart.

Instead, he felt the same way Shawn said he did two years ago.

I'm tired.

Hunter lifted his free hand to his forehead, running the palm over his sweaty hair. "Shit."

"Hm?"

He sighed. Shit.

Another hand squeeze. Hunter squeezed back, his eyes falling shut.

It's over, they said. You did it. It's over.

When he looked up again, Shawn's head moved into his vision, hair framing his face. "Hey."

Is this it? His hand lifted up from the table to Shawn's cheek. Hair tickled the back of his fingers. Is this what you meant?

Shawn leaned down. "Hunt?"

"You were right."

He frowned.

Hunter smiled. His fingers pushed Shawn's hair up and over his shoulder, behind his ear—beautiful—and he pulled him down until their foreheads touched. "You were right." He sighed, closing his eyes again. "I get it."

Shawn's breathing deepened. His body floated somewhere else, into some comfortable state of warm nothing, when their clasped hands lifted from the table, and lips kissed his knuckles.

"Yeah," Shawn whispered. Another kiss. The pressure on his hand turned painful. Lips murmured heavy against the skin: "That's it," and he pulled Shawn down to his chest, pushing his cheek to his heart.

Hunter relaxed his hold on Shawn's hair to pet the back of his head.

It's over.

Their clasped hands settled over his hip.