Language or the Kiss

(Just a note: This takes place 30 years in the future; it makes Bret about 60, Shawn about 55...just age everyone about 30 years in your mind.)

"These are the days," The invitation had read, "for celebration and joy."

Bret Hart had RSPVd with great reluctance. The classy, embossed WWFE logo inconspicuously sealing the envelope had given him reason enough. "I'm going," he told the secretary who had answered the phone, "for my son's sake, and not the other man mentioned in the invitation."

The receptionist had enough gal to laugh.

Now he paused to study himself in the spotlessly polished glass partition that separated a gallery of media members from the elite WWF employees, past and present, who sat on the dais. On the floor below him, breaking into their $200 rubber-chicken dinners, were fans who had spent (probably, Bret amended) over
$50,000 apiece on Bad Bludd packages. He had gained about 100 or so pounds over the years, and his hair hand turned salt-and-pepper; his face had become heavily lined from the stress he had labored beneath. Otherwise, he summarized,. He was the same person he'd been thirty-five years ago. Judging From the flashbulbs that exploded when he entered the room, he might not have aged at all.

"Hey pop," A smart-alecky voice called from a few seats down the table, "Remember me?"
Bret managed a smile for his youngest son, "Hi, Blade." He said, simply.
Blade came from a tradition of expressiveness; Bret was proud of his kid's articulate speech. He was summarily horrified when he grinned and blurted out, "This is so fuckin' awesome!"
"Blade! Language!" He punctuated sharply.
Blade rolled his doe eyes, cupping his chin and leaning forward on the table. A young girl in the audience shrieked passionately, and he smiled for her camera.

Blade Hart; teenage heartthrob at 32. Bret had been there before. His vanity allowed him to admit that his son had turned into a conventionally better-looking man than his sire; a similar build, but taller, but blessed with Kewpie-doll lips and big wide eyes, as well as long reddish-brown hair.

A commotion by the service entrance drew his attention; then it was his turn to look heavenward. The drama queen, of course. Sure enough, a white cowboy hat bobbed into view, followed by a younger kid in a matching black cowboy hat.
He looked like the birthday boy he was.
Blade smiled when he saw his lover approach "Hey, baby," He said, stretching backward for a kiss.
A 20 year old Cameron Cade Hickenbottom welcomed his lover's affection with an affectionate kiss. Bret looked away from his son and his son's husband embarrassment. A few of the teenage girls coursed an "aww", and Blade sent them a semi-pathetic glance. Bret was amazed at the improvement in social acceptance homosexuality had experienced in recent years. Those girls hadn't even blinked at his son's behavior.

He felt rather than saw his old rival seat himself next to him. "Remind you of something, Bretster?"

Vividly.

***
"Shawwwwwn!! Marrrtyyyy!! Come on, let me back in!" Bang, bang, bang.
Bret pressed borrowed pillows hard against his ear.
Bang "Shawwwwnn!! I need my Clooothes!!!"
Bret lifted the pillow timidly back from his ear, as the banging recommenced. He sat up and pounced out of the bed and onto the floor.
Anvil, as always, snored cluelessly from the neighboring bed. The man could sleep through D-Day. Well, he would solve this.
He wasn't at all surprised to see a naked, sweaty teenage girl pounding on the Rocker's hotel room door. A typical Shawn and Marty game, made even more mean when high or drunk.
The girl's eyes widened, then shuttered.
"I can call you a cab." Bret said.
"I need my clothes," She said, and suddenly all of her bravado was gone and she sobbed.
Bret had taken quite enough of this. He knocked.
"Yah?" Shawn Michaels slurred on the other end of the door.
"Shawn, give the girl her clothes back."
Blunt seriousness in Bret's tone got it's desired reaction; the door came unlatched and Shawn appeared, his weight supported by the doorframe.
The nameless girl pushed past Shawn's slumping form, gathering her discarded clothing in a heap.

Bret was somewhat repulsed by the room's condition; empty bottles littered every empty space, condom wrappers were piled up in a corner of the dresser. The bathroom was a mass of towels. But most importantly Marty Janetty lay sprawled flat on his back, passed out.
"Turn him on his side, kid," He told Shawn. "Or he's liable to choke to death on his own puke."

Shawn staggered after him, intercepting his attempt to enter his own room. "Yer no fun, Bretster." Shawn complained, "All ya do is cm'plain about Me n' Marty."
"Drinking and whoring around isn't a good career choice, Shawn," Bret informed him as he struggled with the locked door.
Shawn chuckled, "Stick in the mud!"
"I am not!"
He took two long strides, bringing himself face-to-face with Bret. "Prove it by Kissing me."
Bret had never considered such a thing. His eyes traced Shawn's pouty lips and an unfamiliar sense of desire overwhelmed his inhibitions. No permission have been given, but His hands were filled with bleached blond hair, and his mouth was filled with Shawn's tongue. He tasted alcohol, and yet was thrilled completely out of his mind. He broke it for his own sanity; a quick glance into Shawn's eyes betrayed the young wrestler's own confusion; the lump in his pants revealed his lust.
"Go sleep it off, Michaels," Bret barked, slamming the door in Shawn's face. He wiped his mouth frantically, trying to get rid of the alcoholic concoction that coated his tongue.

Anvil woke briefly from his heavy sleep. Glancing up at his partner, he muttered, "Geez, Bret, were you out drinking?"
***
"Memories....like the pages of my miiinnnnnd!" Shawn crooned, drawing Bret from his memories. He glared back at his rival, who tilted his hat as a sort of response.
A young, manicured hand appeared just beneath Bret's nose, "Glad you could make it, Hitman."
Bret looked up at the hand's owner, "Glad to be here, Ian."
Ian McMahon gave Bret a sappy smile, "Grandpa's smiling down on us today." He proclaimed, before offering a similar greeting to Shawn.
Bret's features darkened briefly at the mention of Vince McMahon. If he were alive, Bret wouldn't have shown up at all. Painful memories remained just as fresh as the sweet ones. Vince's death at the hands of a stalker's bullet more than ten years ago hadn't made things any better (some part of him had assumed it would).
Shane and Stephanie had been thrust into the roles of elder statespeople in the federation after Linda's death from cancer several years ago. He had never really stopped speaking to either of them, but no offer they could make him to return could seal up the pain Vince had caused him those years ago....

*****
"Bret! Let me in!"
"Are you crazy?!"
"No! We need to talk."
"We have shit to talk about, Michaels; you screwed my ass over."
"I didn't know anything...come on, Bret, let me in."
The latch came loose;
"Oh, Bret," Shawn sighed. His lover's face was stained with tears.
"You wanted to say something?" He said, trying to maintain his dignity. "After humilliating me in front of thousands of people in my home country?"
"Babyface, I didn't do anything," Shawn pled, "It was all Vince; I was just as shocked as you were. Let me inside, let's talk..."
Bret moved back from the door, and Shawn stepped inside, shutting it behind them.
"Fine," Bret snapped, "Talk."
He didn't start talking. Instead, he slipped to his knees and unhooked the zipper to Bret's chinos.
"Sex isn't going to get you out of this one, Michaels." Bret snapped, "I.."
"Bacon.." Shawn sighed, slipping his hand up, down, and then around Bret's half-erect cock.
"Shawn, it's bad enough we were going to be forced into a long-distance relationship; now we won't be able to see one another in public..." His voice faded as Shawn licked the very tip of his straining prick.
"Don't tell me you can't forget about this, babe." Shawn retorted, "Melvin has already."
Bret laughed at Shawn's use of Bret's nickname for his own penis. That was the crack in his armor Shawn had been prodding around in search of. He used it as an opportunity to swallow Bret's cock whole.
Negative thoughts were blissfully forgotten.

***
When Bret returned to himself, Blade was giving his introductory speech. His son's compliments floated over him,

"Five time world champion...hard worker...pleasure to the locker room...never gave up...honor and dignity...ladies and gentlemen, my father, Bret Hart!"

That was his cue to rise; a glance to his lap told him that this was impossible. He used his napkin as a shield, then Shawn (which won him an aware glance) and finally the podium shielded him.

He wrapped his fist around the WWF Hall Of Fame Induction Statue; it seemed weightless. He allowed the audience and press to obtain their photos. As they did, he deftly withdrew an index card from his left breast pocket. He tried to thank every person possible; his father Stu, dead for some years now; his brothers, his children, his partners, his friends, his enemies...finally the cards ran out and his speech concluded. Fans cried as he backed away from the podium and took his seat.

Shawn watched his old lover approach him once again, passing by Cameron as they switched places. Shawn took a long drag off of his water as Cam began to speak.

His kid, Shawn thought with a smile. How the years had flown by....

***
"What do you want for your birthday?" He had asked Bret.
"The same thing I'm going to give you. Lots and lots of cock."
Only at times like these could Bret be so loose.
"Will you wrap it up in a red ribbon just for me?"
Bret pointed one finger out into the distance, "If you get me that starfish, I'll be your slave all day."

The starfish, of course, was tangled in seaweed. But Shawn had retrieved it.
"Into the water, slave!" Bret had demanded, and, buck-naked, he had run into the ocean.
**
He didn't quite know what had gone wrong between them. After surviving Montreal, they simply grew apart. Shawn's marrying Rebecca had been the final straw. Bret's "dear Shawn" letter, delivered devastatingly on his birthday, had sent him into a spiral of depression. But his love for Rebecca was true; as true as Bret's had been at one point for his wife, Julie. As their marriage crumbled, Shawn's had grown and flourished. Children were born, raised; yet they were still happy. Shawn's hair had fallen out, Rebbecca's had gone gray, he was less than svelte. But he was still himself.
He and Bret had entered into this relationship completely aware of their joint bisexuality. But they were both more emotionally involved than they had expected.
Of course, long ago and far away were those times.
"...MY father, Shawn Michaels!"
Shawn chuckled to himself. Christ, he was no better than Bret, daydreaming about the past.

His own speech was much more brief....he thanked Rebecca (Who lifted a glass to him from the press box), and of course, his Clique ("For keeping my ass in line," he'd said), Vince, anyone who's worked with him over recent years....He knew that he was lacking specifics, but specifics tended to get him in trouble.

He finally returned to his seat, and Ian McMahon introduced a video package in tribute of their contributions to the WWF. The room darkened and on the mini-Titantron beside the dais brightened to life.

Memories passed before their eyes; years of their lives. Bret in the Hart Foundation; Shawn as a Rocker...Shawn with Sherri Martel, Bret winning his first WWF Championship....Bret with his brother, Owen...Shawn with Kevin Nash...slow-motion epic battles between two men, never reaching a conclusion...DX Clips...Shawn with the WWF Belt...those last, final battles...the glossing over of Montral...the lights came up, then.

Shawn gently disengaged Bret's sticky fingers from his own.

***
After placating the press with a round of photos, a private reception was held in a distant, glittering ballroom. Bret mingled, picking apart a white-frosted chocolate cake that he hadn't really wanted to eat. His son and Shawn's danced cheek-to-cheek as Beatles' "Two of Us" played lightly in the background by a cheesy brass band.

Bret drifted onto the balcony.
"This cake tastes like shit." Shawn noted from over his shoulder. Bret jumped as far as his aching bones would allow him.
"I know." He said.
"It was a nice thought, though," Shawn said, "Rebecca makes a fabulous Kentucky Bunker cake...makes me wish I were back home.."
"...and not here with me?"
"I didn't say that."
"It's OK." Bret sighed.
"I didn't mean it...the two of us, needed to be closed."
Bret lifted his chin as a gesture of agreement.
"I think I'll go out drinking," Shawn said.
"Uh-huh."
"..pick up some hookers."
"Heh.."
"Something you wouldn't do, you stick-in-the-mud..."
"I'm not a stick-in-the-mud."
"Prove it. Kiss me."
Bret glanced into the ballroom. Their spouses and children were occupied. It was the right opportunity, and he took it.

The kiss was a thousand times more bittersweet, more pure, than the dare that had first caused it to come about.

They backed away simultaneously, both knowing it was over, yet in complete denial.
"Hey Shawn?"
"Yeah Bret?"
He smiled briefly. And the fleeting years were set in their place, "Happy birthday."

The End