A/N: This story kind of freaks me out. I hope I'm doing okay. Last ch was more 'bret' this ch is more 'shawn' because I was skimming back through Heartbreak and Triumph...haven't read it for years. Trying to get events lined up in my head, so, yeah. Hope this is working out. Thanks to all for the reads, reviews, alerts, and faves. I really appreciate it. It helps when you guys let me know how it's going. *hugs*I hope I don't f- things up. Feel free to tell me if I do.
After the debut—the one with Bret in the locker room, things became much more quieted. Shawn hadn't been quite himself that night. He'd been nervous as hell about the Rockers taking that big leap, and he'd done the only thing he knew how that allowed him to escape situations he didn't know how to deal with. He got a buzz on, and went with it. It was probably not the best idea but going at it as himself was too much to handle most times. Even though Marty was there, always sticking by him, it was still tough to be real, because Shawn didn't know what that was. As for Bret, the man who had tossed him out of the locker room on day one went back to being reserved. He stuck with his group, or sat off to himself, sketching before a match. There were few words traded between the two of them for quite some time. Shawn had often wondered about the guy, about that first meeting. Shawn had only walked through the door and Bret had bolted, seeming to be frightened, only to come back moments later like he owned the whole damn world. Shawn had asked Marty about it, smirking a little, suggesting that maybe he'd scared Bret. Marty just laughed.
Still, Shawn couldn't help but watch Bret in some of those quiet times. He would find his eyes trained on the hand as it drew lines onto paper, on the dark curls that hung over Bret's face, on the earth-tone eyes that would dart up and catch him in the act—and the way his cheeks would tint pink and he'd shift uncomfortably having noticed Shawn's eyes on him. Marty teased Shawn about it from time to time, but never in front of anyone else. He'd bat his eyelashes and simper, and mock Shawn playfully as if he was a school girl displaying her first crush on that guy in the school who everyone wanted. He didn't admit it to Marty, but the evaluation of his best friend was a correct one. Bret was a handsome man, and when Shawn watched him in the ring he couldn't help but be amazed. It was obvious that Bret prided himself in his work, which was nearly flawless. Shawn could only hope not to press Bret's buttons too far, although he had done a pretty good job of it already, in hopes that they could work together one day. It seemed like a long shot, because Bret didn't seem to really care for Shawn much—which was the general consensus in the back about both Shawn and Marty. Apparently, their reluctance to mingle much with anyone else, had been mistranslated into snobbery.
Eventually, Shawn drew up enough alcohol and a little bit of courage to try to engage Bret in a conversation. It didn't get very far, Bret gave him cut replies, and even though the dark haired man appeared nonchalant during the conversation, there was something about him that made Shawn feel Bret was nervous underneath it all. But why?
Bret had decided that avoiding Shawn would be the best road to take. Of course they now worked for the same company, shared locker rooms, but Shawn was lower on the card so it was unlikely they'd have to confront each other in the ring anytime soon. Even if that should arise, well Bret could handle that. After all, business was business and whatever went on outside of those ropes shouldn't dictate what went on inside of them. If avoidance wouldn't work, then it's just as cold cousin 'ignore' would be the next step. That was somewhat harder though, because he wanted to talk to Shawn. He wanted to know him, despite the original impression. He'd immediately thought Shawn disrespectful for various reasons, his demeanor towards Bret, and the strong stink of alcohol on his breath. However, most of that was just a defense mechanism in Bret's head. If he could pit something against Shawn, if he could make Shawn seem less desirable, then maybe that would help. Bret himself would have never come to work buzzed or drunk, he just couldn't fathom that. Yet he couldn't just label Shawn based on that one incident, could he? There were plenty of amazing men in the business who had pulled a Shawn and showed up to cut a promo out of their mind, or to wrestle with a handful of pills dulling the pain. It was unfortunately the nature of the beast. His own cousin Roddy was known for his less than sober antics. He could drink anyone under the table, and cut a promo better than anyone else, all while being loaded. Of course, Roddy was batshit crazy anyway so it was sometimes hard to tell if he was sober or wasn't, there really wasn't a lot of difference most times. Bret would never question Roddy's respect for the business—there was no way. He admired the guy and knew without doubt he was good at what he did, to hell with his recreational wildness.
So, Bret had to drop 'ignore' because logically it didn't make sense, and really, he didn't want to ignore Shawn. That was what frightened him because the things he wanted with Shawn, the places his mind went when he thought about Shawn, should not exist. He didn't even know the guy, and even still that wasn't the biggest problem—Shawn was a man. It was just that simple, and the things that came into Bret's mind late at night, as he'd lay in some cold bed alone, would be blond things with pretty blue eyes and warm bodies, all of them named Shawn, and all of them forbidden. Just thinking of Shawn laying next to him in bed made Bret feel guilty enough without the fantasies having to go any further, but there were occasions when they did and in his mind Bret would yell at them to shut up, to go away. He'd try to lock phantom Shawn behind some mental door, kept safe by an alarm system, guarded by snarling dogs, so he couldn't ever come out again. But eventually, the lock would be picked by that imaginary Shawn, the code to the alarm system would be stolen as his pink lips smirked, and he'd calm the baying canines with treats rested in the palms of his soft-looking hands. Then there the demon was, free to torment Bret's mind again.
It wasn't long before Bret was seeing the end of The Rockers. Davey had said that the two young punks wrecked a bar. Davey had been there along with a few of his friends, the Samoan group, Greg Valentine, and some other guys. Shawn and Marty were staying off to themselves as usual, having gotten the stare-down from many of their coworkers when they'd walked into the dark, cavernous place. Jimmy Jack Funk was wasted, and he'd gone to the bar to confront the two of them. After a slurred challenge, he'd grabbed a glass and bit into it, chewing off a piece. According to Davey, as he relayed the story in much grandeur to Bret later, Shawn had retaliated by snatching a glass and busting it over his own forehead, and then all hell had broken loose. Apparently, The Rockers had wrecked the bar. The same story had been yelled all over catering the next day by Funk, who couldn't have possibly remembered any correct version of the events, in the state he'd been in.
x
"We should try to socialize, I mean, the guys in the back already think we're just a couple of snobs. We haven't…well especially I haven't made the greatest impression." Shawn took Marty's hand and led him towards the bar, where they'd heard a lot of their co-workers liked to frequent when in this particular area. "And no crazy stuff tonight, Marty."
"Oh but Shawn, ya never let me have any fun." Marty mocked playfully, smiling and squeezing the blonds hand before dropping it.
"You can't have fun, Jan. Especially if I can't." Shawn teased, brushing his fingers through his hair. He had to admit he was a little nervous, but this had to be done. He and Marty couldn't hang around as outsiders forever, that would do nothing to further their career.
The two of them walked into the bar, and it was so dark and eerie. It seemed more like a cave than any bar the two of them were used to. They could pick out various familiar faces in the dimness. The Samoan guys were all together in a group, at a table back in the corner. Davey Boy, Greg Valentine, and Jimmy Jack Funk were hovering around a pool table, the click of the balls seeming too loud somehow. The men stopped their game, pool cues poised. Valentine took the square of blue chalk and scraped it against the black tip. All eyes who knew Shawn and Marty watched them with anything other than friendliness. If they had been nervous before, they were terrified after that warm welcome. As if they shared some sort of mind link, they both veered away at the same time, and headed for the bar and away from the other guys. They took a couple of open stools and gave each other looks.
"I thought we were going to be social." Marty said quietly.
"Shut up…we…we were social enough." Shawn patted Marty's thigh, and ordered them drinks.
The evening seemed to drag on, Shawn and Marty kept contemplating their approach, but never actually got around to it. Marty was racking up a nice stash of empty beer bottles, and he kept peeling away the labels and playing with them, rolling them into little balls and flicking them at Shawn.
Shawn was giggling, and picking the little weapons out of hair, and flinging them back at Marty. Usually by now things would have gotten much more rambunctious, a beer label war was so very tame, but it was helping them both to feel a little better. Their silly game was interrupted by a man stumbling up to the bar beside Shawn. Funk grabbed an empty glass from the bar, and bit into it. Shawn could only watch shocked as the wasted guy crunched the shards of glass, a dribble of blood seeping from the corner of his lips. Marty had turned back to his bottles and was pulling off another label.
"Oooh c'mon ya purty boys I heard yas'pose ta be some kinda biiiiig partiers." He slurred. "Well come on n'give us s-somethin' big shots."
"Uh, well…not tonight Jimmy. We're not here to cause any trouble." Shawn glanced over to Marty, wishing he'd say something, but he was just fiddling with those lables.
"Chicken shit." Funk bit the glass again, and grinned at the two of them, his teeth coated with blood.
"Jesus." Shawn shook his head. "Marty, come on maybe we oughta go." Shawn slid off of his stool and grabbed Marty's hand.
"Aaaw well lookit that, the two sweet lil fairieses is holdin' hands. Some big badasses you two are."
Shawn dropped Marty's hand as if it had burned him.
"Come on tough guys…aren't ya s'pose to be some big deal? S'that what you think?" Funk came closer, advancing on Shawn until Shawn backed into Marty, stepping on his toes. Funk jabbed his finger into Shawn's chest.
"Hey!" Shawn swatted at the offending finger. "Hey, I'm warnin' you, I told you…look we're not here for trouble, right Marty?"
"Yeah…we just-" Marty piped up, peeking over Shawn's shoulder, but he was interrupted by Funk's shouting. Some of the other wrestlers and bar patrons had began to gather around in a loose circle, intent on watching something big go down.
"Fuck you!" The drunk spat, spraying Shawn with a disgusting mixture of spit, blood, and bits of glass. "Fuck you two cock suckin', ass…fuckin', faggots!" Funk wobbled around laughing, his chin dripping with the same stuff splattered over Shawn's face.
"Shawn…" Marty whispered, his words close to Shawn's ear as he peeked once again over the blonds shoulder. "Don't." He knew the look on Shawn's face, it was that look that came over him when he'd finally been pushed too far. With a growl, Shawn grabbed himself an empty glass from the bar, smashed it into his forehead, and turned on his heel and stormed out.
He waited at the curb for Marty so they could walk back to their hotel together. His shirt was stained crimson from wiping the mess away from his face, and dabbing at the cuts on his forehead. The evening had since turned to night, the lamps in the street casting a yellowy glow over everything as bugs flitted and swam in the entrancing warmth of the beams. Shawn sighed, and looked at his watch. A drop of blood splatted onto the face, and he smeared it away. Marty was obviously not coming. Shawn walked across the parking lot and back to the bar, hoping he wouldn't see Marty in the middle of some big brawl. He peeked in, and instead saw Marty mingling. Well, at least he was alright. Satisfied that his partner wasn't being torn to shreds, Shawn decided to head back to the hotel. The night hadn't gone so well as they'd planned, and he needed something stronger than alcohol to take his mind off of it.
A few days later, Shawn got a call from Marty informing him that The Rockers had been fired from their dream. Shawn had been so high on it all, and now…the crash was in progress, and when he hit bottom, he was going to hit hard.
x
Things cooled off after Shawn and Marty had gone. The tension the two of them had seemed to bring into the back, and cover over everyone like a massive blanket, lifted. Bret could breathe a sigh of relief, telling himself that the blond haired vixen was now out of his life for good. He and Marty would probably go back to the territories, and bye-bye to the part of Bret that Shawn stirred up just by being present. It was a part of himself that he would rather leave deeply buried, and now that Shawn was gone, the truth could stay in that grave.
x
"This…is it?" Shawn asked in a small voice. He and Marty stood in Shawn's new apartment in Birmingham, Alabama. Marty had done business, and gotten them a new gig. It wasn't the original plan they'd had but the territory they had a shot in had moved from Pensacola, Florida, to up here. The thought that the two of them had blown their big chance over something as small as a busted glass sank Shawn into a deep funk. That's all that had really gone on that night at the bar, before Shawn had left. Marty had gotten with Funk's girl later, but there were no truth in any of the far-fetched allegations that had seemed to make their way to every ear. Shawn and Marty had seemed to do everything to that bar short from burning it to the ground, apparently. One broken glass, and now the world was shattered.
The crowds were tiny, there was nothing to do, and Shawn found himself in his free time holing up in his apartment, curled up on his mattress on the floor, sobbing onto the dirty sheets as he looked around at the liter of beer bottles, and reached for his stash of pills only to find he'd already depleted it. Sometimes he went up to Marty's place and they got trashed together, but there wasn't much fun in it as Shawn had found it to be earlier on. The nights usually ended with him weeping on Marty, the dark haired man stroking his hair, and leaving soft kisses to the tear streaked cheeks.
Having ruined their big chance wasn't the only thing tormenting Shawn. Two dark haired men tormented his thoughts when they were coherent enough in his head. One was Marty, whom Shawn knew he was falling in love with. They'd been close friends for some time, the closest, and he knew that Marty cared deeply for him but Marty couldn't possibly love him, not in that way. Shyly, Marty had said those words a couple of times, but they'd been said in a less than sober state and usually after their ventures in experimental sex, so Shawn was hesitant to really take the confessions to heart. Then, there was Bret. Shawn just couldn't stop thinking about him. It was a mystery of mysteries why, because they hadn't been friends. They'd barely even been social to each other, but among the stolen glances and scant conversations, something strange had happened. Bret had lodged himself into Shawn's mind like some sort of thorn and Shawn couldn't reach deep enough to pluck the point away.
There were times when he was so fucked up, sitting on that mattress, rocking back and forth with his dirty blond hair handing in his face, and he'd think he saw Bret. His barely-there eyes would glance into some dark corner and he'd think he saw Bret there, lacing his boots, pushing his damp hair off of his forehead, studying Shawn intently with pen and paper as if he was getting ready to do an intense artistic study on his subject matter. It was horrible, all of it was. There was barely anyone in his life he could talk to about these things that ate up his mind, especially not his mother who attempted to cheer him up via phone calls and a few visits. Shawn couldn't breathe a word to her however, about his reckless lifestyle, about his increasing depression, or about his unconventional love life…or whatever it was you could call it. 'Love' might not have been the correct word for it.
Desperation set in one night, as the darkness edged in too close to Shawn. He crawled to the door and managed to pull himself up to his feet, watching through the drapes of his hair as tears dripped onto his toes. He found himself at Marty's door, not sure how he'd made it there or remembered the number. He stared at the door through his tears, contemplating turning away, going back to his cave, and finding something to do himself in with. Those sort of considerations were weighing heavier and heavier upon him and he hated to think that his life—only a short while ago filled with the promise of a bright future in a business he had fallen in love with—had come down to a void so deep and miserable that he just wanted to hit the bottom of it, splatter to pieces, and be done with it all.
A small sob escaped his lips as he knocked at Marty's door. He half hoped that Marty wouldn't answer, but more than anything, right now he needed Marty to be there the way a man needs air to breathe. It was truly a matter of life, or death.