Fighting to Let You Go

A/N: Today is not an easy day - November 13, 2005 will forever live under a black cloud for reasons most of you probably already know. To those who have vented and reminisced with me about the life and legacy of Eddie Guerrero, thank you. Just having you there to listen to my shock and disbelief has meant more to me than you can know. Sometimes I feel like the only thing I really have to offer the world is my writing, and though this story has nothing to do with Latino Heat, I am dedicating this chapter of happy reminiscence and painful loss to his memory. Maybe it's corny, but right now I just don't care. It makes me feel better. As always, I don't own any of the superstars mentioned here. Thanks for your reviews, and I'll be watching for more - I love you guys. Enjoy!

"Moo shoo?"

Trish groaned and stretched her arms above her head. Take out containers surrounded her on the bed, as Jeff offered her one and chewed his Chinese food slowly. "I'm full," she mumbled, leaning back against the head board and patting her stomach for effect.

Swallowing, he raised an eyebrow in question. "Off an egg roll?"

With a slight giggle, she watched as he shifted on the bed and leaned beside her, nodding to his shoulder. Flopping her head over, she rested it against his neck and let out another little moan. "I ate before the show," she informed him, her eyes drifting shut lazily. "I thought I already told you that."

He huffed and rested his cheek against the top of her head, tossing his own dinner to the side. "Half a bag of Oreos doesn't count as dinner, Trisha," he insisted, worming an arm around her waist to pull her closer to his body.

Pouting, she turned her wide eyes to his and smiled again. It was impossible not to smile when staring into those eyes, that beautiful face. "I had a Twizzler, too," she assured him.

His free hand reached for the television remote as he rolled his eyes and began to channel-surf. "Of course," he sighed. "What was I thinking?"

Trish giggled, crossing her arm over her body to lace her fingers with his. "Hopefully good things." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "About me."

Tearing his eyes from the football game on the screen, he placed a soft kiss on her temple. "Always."

"TRISH!"

Jumping from sheer volume of his words, Trish turned her eyes to the man in her bedroom doorway, eyes wide with shock. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, shaking the old memory from her mind. "What was the question?"

A piece of paper dangled from each of Adam Copeland's hands, a stern look of concern on his features. "Do you want pizza or Chinese?"

After two days of hiding between her covers, drowning in her sorrow and self-pity, she had finally agreed to let her best friend into the house. As long as he promised not to talk. And now that he was breaking the agreement, Trish found herself irritated.

"I'm not hungry," she snapped, pulling her blankets back up over her head.

But Adam was tired of watching her mope. Or at least lay in the bed like a corpse. Throwing her covers back, he lifted her tiny frame into his arms and slung her over his shoulder. "Come on," he barked.

"What the hell?" Trish screeched, punching him in the back as hard as she could. Of course, it barely made him grunt, but it made her feel a little better, at least.

Stepping into the bathroom, Adam sat her feet on the floor and nodded toward the bathtub. "I'm ordering food and you're taking a shower," he laid the plan out for her, and then gave her a look that said he dared her to argue.

"I don't wanna eat anything," she insisted, crossing her arms like a defiant child. "And I don't feel like taking a shower, either."

Rolling his eyes at her immature behavior, Adam mimicked her stance and squared his shoulders. He had been determined, upon entering the house, to bring at least some part of the old Trish back to the land of the living. If it wasn't her twinkling eyes or her free spirit, he would focus on her shiny hair, at least. "You stink," he pointed out in the way only her best friend could say it.

"I do not." Sniffing the armpit of his sweaty tee shirt, Jeff tried his damnedest not to react to the post-match stench that was rolling off of him.

Trish scrunched her nose up and pretended to push him away, shaking her ponytail. "I mean it, Jeffrey. No kisses while you stink."

Hovering inches above her face, a wicked grin spread across his lips. "You wanna get my hard-to-reach places?" She giggled and he pulled her closer, his warm breath caressing her ear. "You know you want to."

She played coy, pushed him away, and did her best to set a stern expression on her soft features. Pointing to the shower, she motioned for him to go, and then smacked his ass as he stepped past her. He stripped his shirt, and then his pants, on the way to the shower, turning to cast another offering glance over his shoulder just before shutting the bathroom door.

He had been wrong that night, she hadn't wanted to shower with him. All she wanted to do was stand in front of the mirror, studying the stains his red and yellow paint had left on her jeans and her arms. She watched a single drop of his green hair dye coursed down her cheek, like an emerald tear, making it's way to her lip. That night, she had thanked God for bringing someone so colorful into her life, and for letting him love her.

The memory took her over and tears began to flood her face again. A couple of days ago, all she wanted to do was be alone with her pain. All she had wanted was to be left to her misery, to wallow in it and bury her face in the broad chest of agony. But as Adam sank to the floor before her and pulled her trembling body flush against his, she changed her mind.

As the sobs subsided, she looked at him with an expectant look. "When does it stop hurting?"

The naiveté and the innocence in her voice broke his heart, and Adam fought like hell to keep his own tears at bay. He had always told Trish that she had a shining smile – it was the kind of smile that lit up a room. And being with Jeff had only seemed to make that light ten times brighter. They had been good together, and Adam had always been glad to see two of his close friends so happy together.

But this Trish wasn't even the girl he had known before Jeff. The look in her eyes was broken, empty, and terrified. He sat back on the cold tile floor and cradled her in his arms. Shaking his head, he answered her question as honestly as he could. "I don't know."