He finally said yes. It went the way it always did.
First, he complained. Second, he thought about it. Third, he said screw you.
And then he did whatever was demanded from him. That was just the way Shawn Michaels worked.
They made a plan. Vince talked to him, Hunter, Chyna and Earl. Vince's voice was calm, but his black eyes ablaze with spite and hatred. Then he made them swear. Deny any accusations afterwards. Deny.
They did deny anything. Of course it didn't help. No one would believe them.
Shawn stumbled backstage and Hunter, Chyna and a bunch of security with him. No one really knew what had just happened except from them. They were lucky if they got outta here alive tonight. Hell, he didn't want to know how pissed Bret was right now. And the whole of Canada.
The security would keep Bret away if needed. That was, if they could.
Two days later a miracle happened. Not in a good way.
Shawn was high on pain killers and drank his fifth shot of whiskey. He was leaning on the bar, one arm propped on the sticky surface. The music was loud and mixed with the dancing people into a blur. Bodies everywhere. Hot and sweaty and needy. Shawn ordered another shot and gulped it down in one go. He smacked the glass back on the table when he saw the dark frame.
Oh fuck, he thought as he recognised Bret.
And the next second Bret spot him, too.
Shawn pushed himself away from the bar in an instant. Fled into the crowed.
From the corner of his eyes he saw Bret swearing and starting to run. As good as possible in a crowded club.
Two minutes later he got pulled back by his hair and punched in the face. He had his back against the wall the next heartbeat. The other man was close now. Could feel his breath.
"Oh hello Bret, how's your carrier going?" he said with a crooked grin, pain throbbing through his jaw.
Another punch to his chin. Fucking hell.
"Time to return the favour, Michaels," Bret growled.
"You wish," Shawn said and spat into Bret's face. A crimson stain on the Hitman's cheek.
He slipped out of his grasp, hooked his leg to the hollow of Bret's knee and with a push to his shoulder put him to the ground. The Canadian didn't stay long enough for him to kick him in his fucking face.
"You dare going out here. After what you did. Always knew you were one stupid son-of-a-bitch," Bret hissed and grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. "I'm gonna screw you hard, Michaels. You'll wish you would've never been born."
Admittedly it hadn't been his best idea going out partying. But he was on pain killers back in the hotel and had a fight with Hunter. He'd needed to get out. That was how he ended up here, doing shots with a different lady every 10 minutes.
"Don't play the victim, Hart. 'S not as if you didn't deserve it." Shawn smirked and Bret pushed him up against the wall again. They were in one of these corners where people didn't get interrupted.
"I don't deserve it!" Bret yelled and pushed his knee into Shawn's back, letting himself fall and throwing Shawn with him. He groaned when he collided with the floor. Hitman wanted to kick him in the face, but Shawn grabbed his leg and pushed the other one to the side. A second later Bret was on the floor, too.
People were still passing by their corner. No one intervened. It was late in the night and nobody cared if two guys beat their brains out.
Shawn got up first. He did the one only logical thing: Run.
A dead-end. There was just a wall and the toilets, so he ran to the toilets and shut the door behind him. It flew open again and hit him on the back of his head. Went down swearing.
The lock klicked as Bret turned the key.
"No way out, asshole."
"Did anyone ever tell you how negative your personality tends to get?" Shawn said, getting up again. Raised his eyebrows.
"Screw you!" Bret shouted. The hate making his irides all black.
"You flirting with me, Bret?" he said mockingly. His time to give the motherfucker a punch in the face.
The next moment Bret had him against the door and they were close. And he could feel his breath. Bret's dark-brown curls, stringy and wet against his cheek. He twisted his hand in those curls as he felt Hart's body up against his.
A ragged breath in his ear, a bruising hand on his neck.
Shawn really didn't know how it happened. It just did.
His eyes fell shut and then Hart's mouth was over his. It wasn't a kiss. It was war.
Fought with tongue and teeth and finally Bret won. He claimed Shawn's mouth. And Shawn clawed his free hand into the bulky leather jacket Bret wore, pulling him down. Against his belief Bret went down on his knees.
Trembling fingers tearing at his belt, then shoving his pants down.
By the gates of fucking hell. Bret put his mouth over Shawn's erection and swallowed him down. Well, this obviously wasn't his first time. Shawn's neither. There had been a few times with Hunter under the shower. But every thought of his friend was erased as the Hitman started bobbing. Shawn twisted a hand in his hair again and forced him down on his cock more slowly.
He was still panting hard as Bret spit his come to the floor.
The leather jacket had slid from his right shoulder, revealing naked sweaty skin over contoured muscles. He wore a tight black tank top underneath. Shawn sneered at him, satisfaction warm in his belly. Who would've thought.
But the smile dropped from his lips as Bret flipped him over and pushed his trousers down in one motion.
Shawn gasped as his forehead hit the wall. For a moment the word went black, then there were slippery fingers trailing up his thighs.
He laughed low in his throat and arched back against Hart.
Moans were falling from his mouth and filled the air. Bret's ragged breath in his neck, his chin on his shoulder. One hand on his hips, the other in his hair. Bret's wet, parted lips brushing his cheek every time he thrust into him. They moved against each other roughly.
When it was over, Bret left without a word. Shawn stayed there, hands against the sticky wall. Trying to catch his breath.
He never told anyone. Not even Hunter. Especially not Hunter.
Still he was not sure what to think about Montreal. If he'd do it again if he had to. At last his loyalties had always been with the company. Even if he didn't like what he had to do.
He felt a little regret anyway and when Hart warned he wouldn't attend his Hall of Fame party if Shawn turned up, well Shawn didn't turn up.
It wasn't until 2010 when they hugged live on RAW thirteen years later that they ended their clash. Finally. And he had to admit, it felt a little like redemption.
Now it was June 2011 and they were working on a dvd together. Both changed man. He, with new faith and married with children. Bret, finally without bitterness and divorced with children. More than a decade between now and then and it was strange after all these years.
They talked about a lot while shooting and when the cameras were off, too. They never talked about that night.
But once he catched Bret smirking around his cigarette, watching him.
He knew what he was thinking. With a bit of regret, a bit of guilt, a bit of shame.
And a bit of I wanna do it again.
Shawn watched how the smoke crawled over Bret's lips. Both of them knew it was a once in a lifetime thing. Shawn smirked back anyway.
Notes: I should stop writing until 6am just to finish fanfics in one flow.
Plus, I applaud myself for this title. God, I'm not even sorry.