After leaving J.R. atop a storage box, Shawn considered the possibilities available to him thanks to the creative control clause in his contract. He was well aware of the numerous opportunities that this allowed him – Last man standing and Hell in the cell matches, just to name a few - but he had already decided what to do first. It would involve giving Triple H a little punishment, as well as heightening the feud between DX and Rated RKO.

Shawn walked slowly back to the hotel, trying to avoid eye contact with fellow pedestrians. His surroundings were ignored: the sounds of city life not quite reaching his ears.

He was deep in thought. He was trying to understand how for years he could endure the vicious lies of strangers, and yet when a best friend struck him with cruel truths, it had pushed him into retirement. Better still, he was unsure as to how such emotions of hurt, anger and shame, should be conveyed to the cause of all this at their next confrontation.

Shawn’s initial response was that he should do so with a firm level of brutality. But his conscience would cut in, smugly reminding him that doing any such thing would result in a very panicked HBK, wondering if his friendship would survive this argument. And then it would be Shawn, not Triple H, struggling to repair their fractured relationship.

At this thought, a war of honesty and resentment began in his mind, and Shawn was left, a neutral observer, cuddled inside a mist of uncertainty. He was completely at a loss as to what he should do for the best.

He sighed, blinking up at the downcast sky. The day had suddenly turned cold, and he wondered just how long it had been raining for. Without so much as a grumbled complaint, Shawn tied his hair back.

It would be unwise; Shawn knew, from experience, to begin a discussion – No, an argument – With Triple H, lacking preparation. On the few occasions that the two had argued, The Game had managed to chip away slowly with malicious little comments until Shawn’s resolve gave way, his body physically and emotionally spent. Paul did not need to expend himself in terms of saying nasty things. Shawn was naturally troubled by what others had to say, and to hear such obsenities aimed at him from a close friend was more than disheartening.

Of course, Shawn had formed ideas that he had almost convinced himself with. He wanted to believe that he was bitter towards Triple H, that he was the innocent here, that none of this was his fault, and that he should be issued with an apology. Yet behind that mask lay the truth; Shawn was a hurt man. To fight with one’s best friend is unpleasant to say the least, but for Shawn, it was simply a degrading experience he would rather not bother with. For many years, Triple H had been Shawn’s life, and so it only made sense that his actions affected the emotional state that the Heartbreak Kid was in.

Paul had been the one Shawn solely confided in. He was the one who brushed off the insults aimed at his friend. He was the only man who Shawn would believe when he was told the rumours about him were not true. He was the one who had absolute control over how Shawn felt, because their moods were decided by the others. He was the man that Shawn loved… Even more so now than when they’d been together.

Elaborating further on these feelings was something Shawn did not think of as a priority on his list of things to do. It could only affect him professionally, and that was sure to be a drain on his physical well being as well.

After doing his little bit on RAW, he would leave this city and go home to his children, those who were too young to understand what he was going through. His parents would take him in, and he could talk to his brother’s and sister once more, resting until the time came for him to do something about his last few appearances on RAW.

But that would not be for another week at the most, he realised, entering the hotel briskly. It was hardly the most ideal of arrangements for one who had just argued with his sole travelling partner. Shawn, if he were to follow his current travelling plans, would be subjected to Triple H’s presence, which alone had deterred him from competing next Monday night on RAW.

He walked along the narrow corridor to the end of the lobby, taking the stairs. He wasn’t in the talkative mood, and taking the elevator would almost certainly mean facing someone who had been present last night, when the incident took place.

It was rather ironic, then, that he was going to knock on John Cena’s door. His mind drifted to the package he’d given the man previously, but thought no more about it when he rapped his red, raw knuckles against the door.

Unsurprisingly, Randy was the one to answer.

“Hey there, Shawn. Wanna come in?” Randy asked, briskly, barely stopping even to lean on the doorframe, as was customary with the Legend Killer. “I’m just packing our things for tomorrow.” He explained, throwing another batch of what looked like dirty underwear into the haphazardly packed suitcase open on his bed.

Shawn raised an eyebrow at the unconventional organisation of Randy’s suitcase, but let it slide, thankful for his silence towards the happenings of last night.

“Are you and John driving to the next venue?” Shawn asked directly. He was distantly aware that his voice was more hoarse than usual, but put it down to the weather; His masculine side refused to admit that it was because he had just handed in his notice to Vince, that this time, it really would be over for him. No one off performances, no comeback.

“Err…” Randy said distractedly, bunching two socks together and throwing them into his case, “… Yeah, we’re driving. I guess you want us to take you there?”

Shawn nodded, fidgeting with the zipper on Randy’s suitcase idly. “If you don’t mind.”

Randy nodded. “We leave early. I can’t stand the traffic, but at least we’ll be moving,” He said, sitting down on the bed beside Shawn. His face looked uncharacteristically serious. “You’ve not spoken to Paul, then?”

“I’m waiting for him to speak to me,” Shawn said quietly, quickly. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but no doubt he’ll act like a little kid about this.”

Randy listened for a moment to the rain, which was now beating down in such a way that it had drowned out the noises of John showering. “I agree with you in a way, but you and Hunter are great friends. You’ll work this out.” He said at length, trying to sound bright and encouraging.

Shawn shrugged a shoulder lazily. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought to himself, as he regarded the Legend Killer placidly, ‘it would be best to keep quiet about my retirement. I’ll let Vince do it.

Randy dimly heard the sound of John flicking off the shower in the other room, and went over to knock on the door to the bathroom.

“Shawn’s here, don’t come out!” He yelled, before returning to sit back on the bed with the older wrestler.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Shawn said hastily, appreciating the exasperation one must feel at having an unexpected guest when your partner is in the next room. They could just skip the stripping stage and get right down to the good parts. “What time do you want me to get here for?”

Randy seemed to understand. “9am.”

Shawn nodded and slid off the bed to leave, smiling at Randy as he left, grateful. It had been a while since he’d been around the younger superstars in the WWE, and he was glad that he could make those he worked with look better, stronger.

In a matter of minutes, Shawn’s outlook on talking had changed. He now wanted nothing more than to bitch about one Paul Levesque with someone, anyone – Just as long as it wasn’t the man himself. He wasn’t quite ready to talk with him yet.

This in mind, he took the elevator. To his disappointment, no one was in it, but he rode up to the fourth floor all the same, and approached his door casually, key card in hand. He swiped it through the lock and entered his room.

And who would be sitting on his bed, but Paul Levesque himself? Shawn’s eyebrows pulled towards each other, his expression changing into one of disquiet. Suddenly, his desire to talk was thrown into question, muted by the realisation that he had no idea what to say.

He decided to start off small.

“Paul,” Shawn muttered quietly, kicking the door shut behind him. The sound of it fitting into its frame made Triple H wince, once again regretting his actions of the previous evening.

“We need to talk,” He moaned instead, clutching his head sombrely.

Shawn threw his hands up in the air, frustrated. “So you wanna talk? You did enough of that last night, pal,” He drawled, pointing at Paul with a numb finger.

Triple H cringed, partly from the pain of his headache, but partly from his friends’ words.

“Shawn, I had a bit too much to drink last night, and some things were said that shouldn’t have been said, so-”

“No, because I meant every word that I said.” Shawn shot, interrupting the mandatory speech given to appease every friend who’s ever been spoken badly to. “So how about you come up with some reasons why I shouldn’t hit you again?”

Triple H fell silent at Shawn’s aggressiveness. ‘I’ve really crossed a line,’ he realised dully, gripping his hair firmly, tugging at it.

“Well, look,” Triple H started, seeing Shawn shift his weight from one foot to another as he spoke, “That’s the truth, Shawn. I’d had too much to drink last night; you know I talk crap when I’m like that. Just forget about what I said, all right?”

For once, Shawn was almost able to sympathise with the countless diva’s he’d encountered who’d called a man tactless, thoughtless, pathetic.

“How can I forget what you said?!” Shawn snarled, frustrated by his friend’s lack of finesse, “You know it, I know it – There was at least some truth in the stuff you gave me last night. I used to be arrogant, I used to be controlling, and yeah, I went too far on a lot of people. I will be the first to admit that. But I thought that you, of all the people I know, would get that I’m NOT like that anymore! And I mean, even if it was a few pinfalls, I wouldn’t get too hyped up about it, but that’s ALL it would have taken. ONE PINFALL! Is that too much to ask?!”

“Shawn, you’ve spent your life making other wrestlers look good, I don’t see why you should stop now at me, your best friend.” Triple H snapped, reasoning with himself that being polite and apologetic would get him nowhere.

Shawn squinted fiercely at Paul, wondering whether this was the same man he’d spent countless hours joking and wrestling with. Although nothing had changed about Triple H physically, the look on Shawn’s face suggested that the other changes had somehow manifested themselves on the face of his hung over degenerate friend.

“You don’t need to be made to look good in front of others,” He answered coldly, grimacing to the extent that the bruise on his cheek ached, “But I want the fans to know I can operate without you. And just so you know, I won’t be driving with you next week. Oh yeah, and you won’t have to put up with me on RAW, because I’ll only be there for five minutes. You’re going to be in a Handicap match against Rated RKO. No doubt the great Triple H will win, single-handedly.” Shawn muttered scornfully, kicking the door beside him open. It led to the hallway. “Now get out. Find someone else to share a room with.”

“You’re throwing me out?!” Triple H cried, in obvious disbelief. It seemed obvious that this conversation hadn’t gone as planned. “Just hang on a minute, Shawn.” He continued, prepared to go into another lengthy explanation of his actions, but Shawn cut across him first.

“No, Paul. Just get out, I can’t face dealing with you at the moment.” Shawn sighed, his voice exhausted from shouting. He kicked at the door again, which had slowly been swinging shut. “Just go. Get somebody to bring your stuff down later. I don’t care who, just leave.”

Triple H stared at Shawn for a moment longer, agape, before launching himself off the bed, marching past the Heartbreak Kid, and out into the corridor without so much as a backward glance, a look of solid irritation on his face.

Shawn would have liked to say to people later that evening that he didn’t need Triple H. That he didn’t care about the man’s future career, or his health.

That he had cried, but only because he had missed an opportunity to hit The Game. Because crying wasn’t something you did when you were in a situation like Shawn’s – You had to tough it out, and the only thing stopping each man from apologising, or from accepting each other’s apologies, would be their pride. Another friend or colleague would then point this out, and both men would realise their stupidity and apologise to each other simultaneously.

It’s a shame that what happens in Hollywood doesn’t reflect what happens in real life.

Instead, Shawn sunk down to the floor, fisted handfuls of his hair, and tugged until the sensation was drowned out by the tense quiet of his sobbing. A tear seeped from his left eye, but that was the only one he allowed himself to shed.

After what could have been hours of this moping, thinking of how things could have been had he remained silent, Shawn gathered himself. He struggled to his feet, and moved towards the drawers that contained his best friend’s ring attire.

There were many dishonourable things that Shawn could have done at this point. He had known people to urinate on, set fire to, and even bleach the clothing of someone who had done him or her wrong. Instead, he set about quietly folding the clothes before him, and arranging them into Triple H’s suitcase.

When Edge knocked on the door an hour later, his mouth set to ask questions, he thought better of it, and received the suitcase without so much as a greeting.

“His money is in there, in with his tooth brush in a small bag at the bottom.” Shawn said quietly, his voice maintaining a balance of calmness and sadness.

Edge nodded, clapped a hand to Shawn’s shoulder – as a sign of respect, really – and left, dragging the hefty suitcase behind him. Shawn watched him leave, and waited for the wave of relief and serenity that was said to accompany the departure of a loved one’s belongings.

It never came.

The following day…

“That will be $10, please.”

Jeff gave a quiet squeal and handed over the money delightedly to the somewhat bemused service station attendant. He turned around, having every intention of hiding his special treat for sampling later, when he walked straight into his brother’s shoulder. He sidestepped the entertainer, only to be cornered once again between his body and the sweets rack.

“Jeffery, I know that your hair dye only costs $8:50,” Matt said sternly, watching as his brother anxiously tugged on his red locks, “So what else have you bought?”

Jeff shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant. He tried to casually force the brightly coloured sweets into his back pocket, but Matt was too quick for him. He caught his wrist and sighed at the packet of Skittles gripped loosely in Jeff’s hand.

“Jeff, you know why I don’t let you have these on long trips, don’t you?” He asked, edgily.

Jeff nodded, staring down at his trainers, reminded suddenly of the days when he would do this in the Headmaster’s office at school for fighting.

“Go on, then. Tell me why,” Matt demanded, refusing to budge as Jeff tried to push his way past him.

“Because I get hyper off Skittles, Matty,” Jeff answered in a long, slow drone, “And you don’t want me hyper when we’re travelling because I’ll piss you off a lot.”

“That’s right. Now, I’m going to take these off you so that you can’t have them until we get to the hotel in about three hours, all right? It’s for the greater good.” Matt reasoned, smiling at his brother’s facial expression. He hadn’t seen Jeff look so despondent since Vince had announced he would be dropping the Intercontinental Title to Umaga.

Jeff sniffed pointedly, and walked into Matt’s shoulder deliberately, making a beeline for the food court. Matt shook his head, chuckled a little, and followed him, taking a seat on Triple H’s table.

“You look dead,” Jeff announced flippantly. Matt rolled his eyes at his brother’s lack of tact, and made a point of shoving the Skittles into his back pocket before speaking.

“How are you feeling, Paul?”

Hunter truly did look unwell. Obviously yesterday he had been recovering from his excessive drinking, but today his skin was pale, and the rings beneath his eyes more pronounced. His hair hung limply across his shoulders, no attempt made to tame it. The man had also, Matt noted, avoided trimming his beard, something that was rarely forgotten.

“Like shit,” Paul answered sullenly, bluntly. It was a straight to the point summary of his entire aura.

Matt shot Jeff a look that advised him not to speak (to which he received a pout and a mouthed ‘You’re no fun.’).

“Well, have you spoken to Shawn yet about what happened?” Matt asked, trying a more direct approach. He decided that Triple H did not want to solve a series of clues in order to realise what it was he was asking him about.

“Yeah. But he basically just told me to fuck off out of his hotel room. I had to send Edge to get my stuff later.” He responded dully. Yesterday, Edge had recommended that he kept quiet about the conversation he had had with Shawn, so not to aggravate the situation further by having the gossips come after him. So far, the advice had proven to be of use.

And whilst Triple H understood that Matt Hardy was perhaps not fishing for information about this ‘scandal’, he was still wary about talking to him about it. It would be better to keep quiet, to act as if it didn’t bother him in the slightest, because that was the manly thing to do. He couldn’t talk about his emotions because, well, that would be considered gay.

Before Matt could answer, he heard his phone ring. “Jeff, answer it,” He muttered, to which Jeff’s hand dived into his back pocket, answering quietly.

“Hello?”

“Hi Matt. It’s Vince. We need you to come to a meeting tomorrow at the arena. It will probably be in the function room there at 12 noon. It’s had to be postponed because of some useless idiots using it today. It’s a mandatory meeting.” Vince explained, sounding slightly angry at the thought of another person using his precious function room.

Jeff nodded, before remembering that Vince couldn’t see what he was doing. He did that often on phones. “I’ll let Matt know, Mr McMahon.”

There was a slight pause. “God Damnit Jeff, I can never tell you two apart. You must also attend. Tell everyone you know, I have a very important announcement to make.”

“All right. Thanks for letting us know. Bye.” Jeff said, hanging up. He replaced the phone in Matt’s pocket, and the older man continued to speak with Triple H.

“Look, you and Shawn have been through a lot together. You’ve had to sacrifice parts of your career for him before – Like with the curtain call incident, remember that? He felt like shit about that. He hated the fact that you had to spend a year of your career putting other people over, because he knew you were better than that. Besides, you were way over than any of the superstars you helped out,” Matt reasoned, sipping on his lukewarm coffee. “Shawn’s spent a lot of time making other people look good, and he knew that most of the time it would be the only reason people would work with him. He was okay with that, but not many people could stand to be near him. I think he knew that, too. Because he used to be a mean little shit who pissed us all off at one point.

“But he isn’t like that anymore. He’s apologised for how he acted and we’ve accepted those. And let’s face it; you haven’t let him secure a pinfall. I’m sure the fans won’t think any less of you for giving him one every once in a while. They’ve probably noticed too, and they might end up hating you for it. So find Shawn and talk all this over before he really starts to hate you.” Matt said with a smile, downing the rest of his coffee.

Triple H had nodded in agreement throughout Matt’s speech, and though he said nothing, he stood and walked off, hopefully to look for Shawn. Matt smiled and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of sitting down without being restrained by a seatbelt.

It was then that he heard a quiet giggle from his left. He glanced at his brother, worried by the huge grin on his brother’s face.

“Jeff?”

The younger man giggled, and Matt noticed a neon green packet flutter to the floor behind him. He didn’t even need to look at the logo to know what it was.

“Jeffy. Tell me you didn’t…” Matt asked, in the tone of voice that suggested he knew exactly what his brother had done. He touched his back pocket and, sure enough, the packet of skittles was gone.

Jeff stuck his multicoloured tongue out at Matt in reply, and took off at high speed towards the Gentlemen’s. Unfazed, Matt jumped over his chair and tore after him, seeing a blur of colour rush into a cubicle and hearing the sound of it locking.

Jeffery Nero Hardy then spent the next few minutes of his life with his fingers stuffed into his ears, humming contentedly to block out the noise of his brother hammering on the cubicle door.

Randy, Cena and Shawn.

“Okay, you’ve been pissing me off all day, why are you acting so weird?” John asked Randy, pulling harshly on the gear stick as he abruptly pulled to a stop, squinting ahead at the sudden bout congestion on the motorway.

Randy had, since John’s shower yesterday, been acting strange. He had been sweeter, almost – As if aggravating Cena would be the last thing that he wanted. But after half a day of Randy’s politeness and agreement on most things, John was finding himself sick of it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randy said mildly, reminding himself that whatever it was in that package had better be worth a day or two of acting like someone else. “Here I am, acting nice for a change, and all you can do is criticise me for it.”

John rolled his eyes, rolling the car forwards several inches. He looked in his rear-view mirror, smiling sympathetically at the travelsick Heartbreak Kid. He had unbuckled his seatbelt and laid himself out on the back seats, looking ill.

“Are you all right back there?”

Shawn looked in the mirror and nodded once, not wanting to elaborate on the unease in his stomach.

He knew that Vince would announce his retirement sooner rather than later. He would want to arrange final autograph signings, TV advertisements, special match types, and a huge party at the end of it all, as a thank you for dedicating himself to the company in the way that he had. It was the way that Vince worked, which often came as a surprise to the newer athletes, who seemed to be under the impression that Vince was as corrupt as his wrestling persona. Shawn was one of the lucky few to understand that this was wrong.

Shawn thought once more about leaving the company. He had already left twice, both due to injuries he thought he would never recover from, but this was it. There would be no special comebacks, no colour commentary contracts, and no writing agreement. After four weeks, Shawn would be rid of the WWE, and rid of those who had wronged him over the years.

He wondered how his workmates would react to him leaving. Would they be happy? Would they be sad, or even shed a tear for him? Or would they perhaps be indifferent to their loss, continuing onwards without so much as a second thought for him?

Whilst Shawn pondered this, John’s eyes fixed themselves back onto the road ahead which, predictably, hadn’t moved.

‘Great,’ He thought dully, ‘What a whack-ass travel day this has turned out to be. I’ve got a Forty-something year old who won’t stop moaning, and a Legend Killer who’s acting up… Perfect.’

John glared ahead at the road. He just relished the thought of a further three hours of this. His eyes raked over the cars that he could see, searching for any familiar ones. The Hummer ahead of him by two spaces may belong to Johnny ‘Bad Gimmick’ Nitro, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a Rover to his right, which was having difficulties in containing Mickie James, an ill looking Candice Michelle, along with the singing Maria Kanellis and Torrie Wilson. Cena cringed at the sight, wondering just what the women’s division was coming to.

He moved the car a few more inches forwards, and glanced once more in the rear-view mirror. He could see the Hardy’s car behind, and chuckled at the sight. Matt had his head against the steering wheel, exhausted, annoyed, or both, whilst Jeff fidgeted with his hair, things on the dashboard, and the knobs in the car that he was unfamiliar with. He flicked on the wipers and watched the reaction, fascinated, whilst Matt continued to knock his head against the steering wheel.

It was odd. They were all celebrities in their own rights, and yet they still acted like ‘normal’ human beings. Shawn was going through a tough time; Jeff was happy playing with whatever knobs and switches he could find; The futures of the women’s division remained oblivious to their appalling wrestling skills; Randy seemed to be excited, as if waiting for something… John rested his arms on the steering wheel, moving the car forwards just a little more.

He would have to find out whatever it was that Randy was acting so nice for. It was pleasant, but it left Cena feeling terribly uneasy. He was sure that he hadn’t caused this unexpected bout of sweetness from the Legend Killer, and he couldn’t tell who, or what, else could have done so.

The sound of a car horn sounding from behind him alerted John to the fact that he could move forwards another few feet. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, smiled sheepishly at Matt, but the look went unnoticed. He was too busy berating a hyperactive Jeff for scaring the dreaming John Cena.

Three hours later.

A very travelsick Shawn Michaels staggered his way over to the reception desk in the lobby of a large, cosy-looking hotel. His pale face, crumpled clothing and grimace seemed to say it all, and the secretary directed him to the nearest toilets, so that he could vomit.

It was unusual. Shawn was rarely travelsick, and to be so in a business that involves a lot of travel did not bode well. His arms, strangely heavy after vomiting, pulled on the chain to destroy the evidence. He slid the lock to his cubicle back, and was met with the understanding face of Randy Orton. He offered Shawn a drink of the water in his left hand.

“Come on. Drink some of this, and wash your face a little bit. You’ve gotta keep those young girls screaming at the shows.” Randy advised, the final part making Shawn laugh. Though there was little substance behind the laughter, it was a start. It was the most noise he’d made for most of the journey.

Randy stayed with Shawn until he had done as he’d suggested, and then offered him his room key.

“Room 84…” Shawn murmured, tracing his finger over the numbers that had been engraved on the over-sized key ring.

Randy nodded, guiding the older man out into the lobby. “Uh huh. Me and Cena are in room 93, just down the hall from you. You can come in at any time if you need anything.” He said, exercising a soft, polite tone reserved usually for speaking with his family.

“Right.” Shawn said flatly, picking up his luggage from where it had been discarded in his rush to reach a bathroom. “Thanks for the ride, buddy. I’ll buy you and Cena a drink for the trouble later.”

Before Randy could protest, Shawn had turned, dragging his suitcase behind him. He located the nearest lift, and rode it up to the second floor. He smiled fleetingly at those who got into the lift after him, and hoped his stomach would settle in time for dinner. He swiped his key card through the slot, and kicked the door open, tugging on his suitcase.

The first thing he noticed was someone’s luggage already on one of the beds. The second thing he noticed was Paul Levesque, leaning into the wardrobe supplied in every hotel they stayed in, stilled by the realisation that he wasn’t alone. He turned, and offered Shawn a weak smile.

“Hey there.”

“What the heck are you doing here?” Shawn snapped, refraining from using any language that compromised his religious beliefs. He was sure his sickness was partially down to his lack of control the other evening, that his sickness was God’s way of tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him who he was, and what language he couldn’t use.

Triple H straightened his back, hoping that this plan worked. He shrugged as casually as he could, forcing a look of realisation on his face.

“Vince doesn’t know we’ve argued. He’s just paired us up together because he didn’t know to do anything different.” He stepped towards the bed nearest to the Heartbreak Kid. Now he had the ideal opportunity to speak with Shawn, without any outside interference.

“Get out,” Shawn hissed, holding the door open. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

It was almost as if he’d read Paul’s mind. Or perhaps they just knew each other too well, as was often the case with tag team partners who spent every waking moment together. Some thought it added to their chemistry together in the ring, but some saw the strain that this caused on their unprofessional friendship apart from the WWE. It was what often caused former partners to turn on each other.

“Come on Shawn, just hear me out!” Paul began, but Shawn simply knocked his head back against the wall behind him, an aggravated look overriding his pale complexion.

“Just leave. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. Don’t you get it?” He growled, his accent thickening as his anger increased. “Now. For the second time. Get out.” He kicked at the door once more, yanking his suitcase out of the way. He felt his arm twist out of place a little, but refused to allow Triple H the opportunity of staying with him to inspect it. He was more than capable of operating on his own, whether it be in the ring, or when left to deal with a minor injury.

Triple H signalled the wardrobe behind him. “I’ve already begun to unpack. Can’t I at least…”

“No,” Shawn whispered, a bitter edge lining his words, “I won’t fall for that one. If I let you stay, you’ll spend the whole time we’re together trying to convince me that what I said was wrong. Well, I’m not the only one who’s noticed that you’re hogging the pinfalls, and they will agree with me, I’m sure, when they find out what I’ve done.”

Triple H saw an opportunity, and decided that him and Shawn talking was a good thing, regardless of the subject. “Why? What have you done?”

Shawn rolled his eyes, just knowing that Paul would have found something to prolong his stay with. “Just go.” He growled, kicking at the door once more. “I’ll send your stuff down to whoever’s room you’re sleeping in tonight. They might have to switch and stay with me, but anyone’s company is better than yours at the moment. So, for the last time… Get out.”

The Game wanted to stay, to say something else, to do absolutely anything to talk with Shawn, but he realised, from the look of resolution on his face, that Shawn was not going to allow it.

He nodded. “All right. I’ve tried.” He raised his hands, in a gesture of surrender. “And I know you won’t do anything to my clothes.” He went to grab his coat, but the sound of Shawn clearing his throat was enough to discard that idea from his thoughts. He nodded to his former best friend, and placed his hand on the shorter mans shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He proclaimed, despite the knowledge that this was futile embracing his entire being.

“And I’m also sorry… About the shit I stirred up with the curtain call incident. I know how sorry you felt for me afterwards, and that’s really-”

“Get out.”

“… Excuse me?”

Shawn shoved at his suitcase, hard, so that it fell against Triple H’s legs, crashing to the ground.

“Get out, get out, GET OUT!” He screamed, taking Triple H by the collar and shoving him out of the door, slamming the door behind him.

How dare he bring up how he felt about that? The audacity of him to bring that up! What happened then had no relevance to their current situation, and the only reason why he brought it up, Shawn thought furiously, kicking at his fallen suitcase, was to make him feel better. So that he, in some way, could obtain the upper hand, because that was what Paul did in arguments.

He couldn’t do that if Shawn kept pushing him away, taking the time to avoid him and staying with Randy and Cena as often as he could. That way, he would only have to deal with Paul’s childishness when they had to perform on RAW.

Outside room 84, a bemused Triple H was considering shouting something he would regret back through the doorway at him, but somehow managed to keep his emotions under check. Still fractious from that confrontation, he adjusted his t-shirt, in sharp, blunt movements.

‘So that didn’t go very well,’ He admitted to himself, appreciating what an understatement that was, as he strolled briskly down the corridor to knock on Adam Copeland’s door, folding his arms as he waited for a response. ‘But I’ve appeased him for the time being. I just need to keep making small, frequent little visits to him over the next few days, and hopefully he’ll have calmed down enough to let us talk about what happened in a little more detail. It might take a while, but I know this has affected him more than it has me.’

Before Triple H could address the wave of shame that passed through him at that thought, the door to room 96 opened, and Edge’s face took in his on-screen enemy’s face and ushered him in without asking any questions. He understood what had happened.

“It’s a small step,” He assured the King of Kings before he could say anything.

It was in that same instant that Paul decided not to mention the final few minutes of his and Shawn’s discussion to Adam. If he did, he may be considered the biggest douche he’d known. After all, it’s common sense, to not do anything to exasperate matters, whilst they’re still sensitive subjects.

Fortunately, the Legend Killer, who was supposed to be Edge’s room partner, noticed Triple H’s despondent face, and murmured very quietly to his tag team partner that he was leaving for Cena’s room. He was not to be expected back at all. Edge nodded in response, and opened the door so that Randy could exit quickly. He nodded to the older man and left, closing the door behind him as he left.

“Look, even though this hasn’t worked for now, you made the effort to go out and speak to him. I think for the rest of the day, you should back off for a little while.” The Canadian plotted, searching through his suitcase for something. “And then tomorrow, you’re back on the offence with him. Maybe it’ll make him realise that you are sorry for what happened, and that you want to make it up to him.”

Triple H nodded slowly, his eyes locked on the back of Edge’s head. He could only hope that his efforts would not be in vain, that Shawn would eventually realise just how sorry he was.

“… But in the meantime,” Edge continued, producing his wallet from deep inside his suitcase with a grin, “It’s time to drink.”

Though Triple H no longer trusted himself when he drank, he accepted the offer to forget about himself gladly. Because sometimes, it’s nice to change personalities, to feel what it is like to be completely oblivious to all earthly duties and responsibilities, even if only for a little while.

He would just have to be wary of the disastrous consequences that this excessive drinking could cause. And so for the rest of the evening, he and Edge stayed well away from the Hotel, where he knew Shawn would not leave.

**At the Arena**

“Come on, Matty!” Jeff begged, tugging on his brother’s hand impatiently. “I’m bored!”

“I’m almost done,” Matt replied, not heeding Jeff’s words. A minute or two later (and after several moments of Jeff stamping his feet, and crying “Finally!” rather loudly), they were making their way to the conference room at the new arena. Members of the production crew were already beginning to construct the set, assigning superstars their locker rooms and wardrobe stylists.

Jeff, tired of Matt’s slow pace bounded ahead, moving in such a way that it resembled a skip, opening every door he came across to see if it was the designated meeting room. On his fourth attempt, he found the correct door, and squealed in delight, entering. Matt was soon to follow.

The room did not seem large, but, after glancing around at the faces sat, or squashed, around the room, Matt realised that Vince had ordered every superstar from both rosters to attend this meeting, which may have contributed to making the room appear smaller.

And whenever everyone was called together, they all knew that there was to be a huge announcement. Matt could even see the eager look on Jeff’s face as he realised it, too, and he grabbed his brother’s hand once more, cramming himself next to Shannon Moore, who had been talking to Gregory Helms.

“Did Vince tell you why we’re here?” Matt asked, before Jeff could erupt with a paragraph of meaningless gibberish, caused by yet another sugar rush. It seemed that the man had an endless supply of Skittles in his suitcase, and had crammed his pockets full of as many packets as was possible. Matt hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry when Jeff had announced this to him (after eating every last Skittle he had, of course).

Shannon shook his head, his hair yet again resisting gravity. It was almost remarkable that Shannon’s hair could make it through an entire match without coming out of place, let alone a meeting in a hot room full of professional wrestlers.

“You,” Came a growl from behind Matt.

He turned and looked up, having crouched down slightly so he could speak with Shannon. Triple H was livid as he stood before him, his arm occasionally snapping back to throw off Edge’s hand, paying no heed to his begging.

“Yeah. I told Shawn about the curtain call incident, and you know what he did to me? He shoved me out of his goddamn hotel room, throwing his suitcase at me as I went. Great advice, Hardy!” He snarled, silencing the majority of superstars in the room.

Matt, who had been leaning on Jeff for support in his crouched position on the floor, was thrown off balance as his younger brother stood, glaring into the furious eyes of Triple H.

“And did you ever realise, you chubby twat, that Matt never even mentioned bringing this up to Shawn?” Jeff intervened, before Matt could even regain his balance. His happy tone had gone, the child-like qualities of his face replaced with a hard, calculating glare. He shook his head and cried, exasperated, “Of course he’d tell you to fuck off! He’s already mad at you, so why would you go about trying to make him even more pissed?”

Now the entire room seemed quiet, and every eye was fixed on the standoff between two very different men. The only sound was of the creaking of someone who had been fortunate enough to have a chair. Matt, who was still at ground level, stared up at his younger brother, able to see the amusing side of the situation. He suppressed a giggle, and Shannon gave him a startled glance. It was almost as if him and Jeff had switched personalities.

And then, someone began to clap. It was very sarcastic, though it worked well for breaking the tension in the room. Jeff peeked around Triple H’s stocky frame, and began searching through the sea of heads, until he heard:

“Well done, boy. Chubby twat. That was sheer, honest-to-God brilliance. Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Came the exaggerated drawl from JBL.

Again, Matt sniggered into the back of his hand. Before Triple H could retort to JBL’s sarcastic congratulations to Jeff, Vince and Shane McMahon entered through a door at the other end of the room. They had been saved two seats at the end of a huge oval-shaped, pine table, and one look from the Chairman of the WWE was enough to silence everybody’s muted laughter. Jeff, seemingly back to his usual self, stuck his tongue out at the distracted Triple H, sitting back down with his brother.

“Usually when we all get together like this,” Vince began, once everyone was quiet. He was addressing his employees in a formal, but pleasant tone, “We give you news of some kind. I’m afraid that I must warn you, this news isn’t going to be pretty.” Vince’s voice remained vacant of its usual edge, allowing his regret to be known to those who knew him well.

Immediately, the superstars understood. There were few times when Vince deliberately delayed telling everyone what had happened to a WWE superstar – Eddie’s death had been one of those occasions.

Vince allowed the pause to stretch out for a further moment, before sighing and clearing his throat, wearily.

“I regret to announce that the WWE superstar Shawn Michaels is retiring. He approached me three nights ago, asking to be discharged from the RAW roster, and it is my duty to tell this to all of you.” He stated sorrowfully, looking directly at the uneasy, ill-looking Triple H. His look was softer than Jeff’s had been, dominated by understanding and concern.

He could tell, from his expression, that he had known nothing about this. And in this emotional state, Vince was unable to make any connections between this and the reasons why Shawn was leaving – Because of course, Shawn had told him nothing about it. He had merely told Vince what to tell his colleagues.

Shane McMahon, who would one day inherit the Chairman’s position, bowed his head.

It was now official. Shawn Michaels – The Heartbreak Kid, The Showstopper, Mr Wrestlemania, The Boy Toy – was leaving the company, never to perform again. He who had achieved so much in his illustrious career would be leaving them in four weeks.

Matt heard his brother gasp, and squeezed his fingers tightly. Jeff had always held a lot of respect, as many people did, for Shawn, and to hear that he was leaving was like losing a member of the family. And for a moment, Jeff forgot about being angry with Triple H for snapping at his brother, or about being hyperactive, and stared at his boss, sincerely hoping that at any moment he would break into a fit of laughter, dismissing them all, smiling at his cruel joke.

“Why?” Asked Michael Cole, who was closer to Vince than Matt was. Glancing across, Matt saw that he was crammed between JBL and Chris Benoit. Both athletes wore similar expressions of surprise on their faces.  Michael’s instincts as a journalist begged to know the reason, and his eyes implored with Vince to reveal all. As he asked, JR lowered his head and took off his hat, thinking of how Shawn had left him two days ago atop a storage crate. Had that been why he’d been crying? Was it because he knew he would no longer be a part of the company he so dearly loved in a matter of weeks?

Vince understood Cole’s curiosity, and saw it fit to slake it. “He said that he’s lost his smile… His drive to do well in this business.” He managed slowly, steadying his voice. “We’ve had several discussions concerning the issue, and he seems very much set on leaving us. And I’ve told you all well in advance so that… Appropriate preparations can be made for his departure. After all, we can’t let Shawn leave without being treated like the WWE Legend he is.”  

Cole grimaced at Vince’s explanation, dissatisfied. “But wasn’t that what he said last time? ‘I’ve just lost my smile…’ So does this mean he’ll come back, or is he gone for good? Is this his final retirement?”

Vince regarded Cole sadly. Shane shook his head, unable to voice the horrible truth to the Smackdown commentator, genuinely distraught at the thought of Shawn leaving the company.

Triple H, meanwhile, was still standing, but instead of looking awkward and out of place, he looked ill. His lips were slightly parted and could have been shaking. His stomach was abruptly flooded by the desire to vomit, and it was then that he understood the damage that his words, said in a horrid, drunken rage, had caused to his fellow degenerate…

…And soon to be former tag team partner.