Wrestling 1. Chapter 1

**A/n: Pls read—I want to point out that the beginning paragraphs do not reflect the whole setting of the story. They are just a beginning point. This IS NOT a college set fic. I know a lot of people run away from those and don't like them so I wanted to point that out before anyone freaks out and leaves. There will be eventual slash. People in this story include: **_John Morrison, The Miz, Shawn Michaels, Jeff Hardy, John Cena, Glenn Jacobs, A.J. Styles, Ted DiBiase, Cody Rhodes, Chris Jericho, Shane McMahon, and R-Truth._** There may be others briefly pop up, I'm not completely sure, but all of those mentioned above are the main characters. Thanks and enjoy.**

Guru

John wrapped his arms around Mike, and held him close as they leaned against the bricks and watched from the Student Union as the sun sank low in the sky. The fountain in the center of the campus, which could be seen only feet away from their vantage point, had been shut off for the day. The elegant white body of it was silhouetted against the setting sun which washed the sky with hot reds, pinks, and oranges. Above the fiery ball of light, the sky began to bruise and darken with the oncoming of night and it was a beautiful sight to behold, and an amazing moment to be held in. Mike closed his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of John's muscular arms around his waist.

John was amazing, plain and simple. His voice dripped with charm, his smile could dazzle the masses, and his body—it was so perfect it seemed unreal. His mind was deep, full of wisdom that did not seem to befit his young age. He seemed to be a god among men, a beautiful, all knowing presence that had stepped down from silver lined clouds and decided to chose a mere mortal as his own. Mike would never know what John had seen in him, but he didn't question it. They'd been together since freshman year and now both were second year seniors, due to graduate with the class of 2003. Mike was seeing the extra year because he didn't fare well with books and term papers, and John because he couldn't seem to make up his mind on a major. He flitted from one thing to the other, his most recent declaration being a major in Marketing with a minor in Public Speaking. Mike didn't know why John would need a degree in either—he seemed to be a natural at that type of thing. He could get anyone to do anything for him with a flash of his smile and a few carefully woven words.

Mike just knew that some day John was going to be greatness. Maybe he already was. Words purred against his ear, tickling the sensitive flesh, and swirling deep into his mind. Mike closed his eyes, leaning back against John's rising and falling chest. Being with John like this made him feel dizzy, high even. It was an experience Mike had never imagined himself being entranced in but just the same it had happened. Many times he woke up next to John in the morning and wondered if he was awake at all, if he wasn't still asleep dreaming. It just seemed so surreal. As if John knew, he placed a soft kiss to Mike's neck, validating the beautiful reality.

"Michael, open your eyes and look at the sky." John urged him, his voice like honey.

Mike slowly opened the dazzling blue orbs and the sight made him gasp. The sun had nearly disappeared, the last trace a burning aura against the horizon. Above the night sky was a deep, royal purple that faded slowly to black, and against the velvety blackness stars winked like precious diamonds. It was such a simple sight, the sky, and yet Mike had never noticed it or beheld it with such pure awe.

"Beautiful." John purred breathily against Mike's ear. "It's so freeing, to look up there. There aren't any outlines of buildings, no anxious bustle of people, no stink of smog, just an infinite chasm of freedom, if we could reach it." He tilted Mike's chin upward, and caressed his neck. "Wouldn't that be wonderful Michael, if we could lose and find ourselves, in that celestial plane? We could fly. Nothing could hold us back, nothing could bind us, we could fly."

John smiled when a cool breeze kicked up and ruffled his soft hair against Mike's cheek. Mike's eyes closed and he was lost in the warmth of John's arms and the wafting of the night air, which made him prickle with a deep need he could not place his finger on. John was always saying things that made Mike think and feel in ways he couldn't comprehend, and just a few years ago, would not have thought possible. He was never a deep thinker, but John with only a few words, could seem to plunge his mind to intoxicating heights and depths.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful Michael, to be free?"

John quieted and let his last words envelope them like the silky fingers of night. After a few moments, he loosened his grasp on Mike and trailed his hand down the young man's back.

"I have to go. Class in the morning." John explained. Mike barely nodded, his eyes focused once more to the simple, elegant beauty above them. _Wouldn't it be wonderful, Michael, if we could lose and find ourselves? Nothing could hold us back. We could fly._

Mike stayed there after John had left. The silken words kept pirouetting through his mind, and as his eyes roved over the millions of winking stars, they misted with tears. John had touched on something so deep, that it stirred Mike in a way he had never felt before. He _wanted_ the kind of freedom that ghosted from John's lips, the offering like a gift just waiting to be unwrapped. There were too many things that keep people locked in chains, and most of them go through their whole lives being shackled, many never even realizing it. _Wouldn't it be wonderful…we could fly. _

Mike moved through the darkness towards the tower of dorms where he lived. The soles of his shoes seemed not to touch the sidewalk path that wound to building. It seemed as if he was floating, no it seemed as if he had left his body still standing near the fountain at the Student Union, gazing into the sky, and his spirit had moved on. He didn't remembering entering the building, or pressing the button for the elevator. He didn't remember taking the car to the sixth floor, or moving down the hallway to his room, or entering it. He brushed back the curtains from the single window in his room and his eyes which seemed to see through new lenses once again focused into the inviting realm of the never ending, inky heavens.

_We could fly. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be free?_

Mike closed his eyes once more, recounting the soft breath of wind kissing his face. How amazing it would be to let that wind bare his soul, carry it weightlessly through space and time, ascending it above and beyond everything that tied him with unforgiving and unrelenting bonds to this mundane and unfulfilling existence. He opened the window, and opened his eyes, and wind danced against his face.

_We could fly._

Mike climbed onto the thin ledge of window, stood for the briefest moment, arms outstretched and a content smile on his face. The night breeze was going to bare him away to a peaceful eternity. The silhouette toppled, uncaring, with a contented smile upon its young face. It was a smile that was dashed to blood on the parking lot, six stories below.

x-x

Jeff Hardy woke with a start, and with a gasp spun to look at his clock so quickly his feet tangled in the white sheets, and he was tossed to the floor. He looked up at rounded clock upon the glass table that was next to his bed. The clock looked like a big lime-green egg rested on its side, and the face was black, the little white digital numbers unlit. _Damn it._ He untangled his naked body from the sheet and stood up, giving his back a little stretch. He bent again and snatched by the corner a decorative pillow that had also tumbled off the bed along with himself. He tossed it onto the bed, admiring for a repetitive time how much he liked it. He had hand-made the pillows himself, as well as nearly everything in the room—including the room itself. Well, that he hadn't _made_ but he had designed it meticulously. The whole house was spawned from his own drawings and when he had it built into the side of a cliff the poor men under his employ had nearly tossed themselves over because of his pickiness in every minute detail.

Even something as small as those pillows he had to have done perfectly. They were white with lime and leopard print detailing; the same theme carried brilliantly throughout the room with only a splash of purple here and there for an intermittent pop. The fact that he'd been able to use such a vibrant and loud color pallet without it looking tacky in the least, was only one of the reasons he was Hollywoods top interior designer. His schedule was booked in advance for months and was as hard to get a spot on as was the most upscale restaurant in the city. The top of the top graced his list of clientele, and he was probably about to be late to one of his meetings just now.

He padded through the spacious, open house, and gave his morning hair a ruffle as he made it into the kitchen. He plucked his charging Blackberry up from the counter where it was charging, and noted the time. He was not late, but just the opposite. He was up an hour earlier than he needed to be. With a sigh, opened a cabinet and removed a glass, and poured himself some orange juice. He took a sip of it and his feet moved over the cool flooring and into the open living area. It was furnished with modern pieces, low, and angular shapes, white with splashes of red for accents. He moved past the couch and chairs that rarely had visitors seated upon them, and framed himself in one of the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the ocean below was gorgeous, but he rarely found himself taking the time to _really_ notice it, and after all, the amazing view was the whole reason he had picked such a location for his home to be built. That, and the seclusion.

Despite severing all ties with his country upbringing, he was still that boy at heart and he needed that escape from the noise and constant drum of the city. This was supposed to be that place where he could go at the end of the day to get away from the world, a place where he could breathe, and yet it still felt empty. The perfect house upon the cliff had seemed to forget its purpose, and it was just a shell with things in it. Jeff's shoulders slumped.

"This negativity isn't going to do you any good, man." Jeff told himself, as he watched the blue and silver waves wink in the distance.

He finished off his glass of orange juice, and flopped onto the curvy sectional that he had customized himself, just as he had every detail of the house. He sat the empty glass on the dark wood floor and reached for a book poised on the edge of the glass coffee table. The receipt for the book poked up from the pages, marking his place in it. He was nearly through with it, and stopped to admire the handsome features of the author which graced the cover. He called himself 'The Guru' and his newest self-help book which Jeff held in his hands was called 'Achieving Greatness'. Jeff had everything The Guru John Morrison had ever written. His first book was out in 2004. Jeff had stumbled upon it by pure change. It was misplaced among the Art section of the Books-A-Million. He could still remember tugging it free and seeing that face for the first time. He seemed to be captured by it immediately, and when he read the summary on the back cover of the book, he was sold. The words swept him away so completely, and spoke to him in such a deep way, that he had immediately sought out more from this man, but at the time that had been Morrison's only offering to the world of self-help.

That book had propelled Morrison to a quick fame. He soon had countless followers and was jokingly deemed by many as just another fad. John began to speak at events, he sold DVD's, he wrote a second book, and in the blink of an eye it was the top selling book in the nation. He was featured on talk shows and early morning news programs, and it was on one of the Late Night shows that he was first labeled 'The Guru'. He was consulted by celebrities and business moguls, politicians, and common folk all alike. His following became immense, and tickets for his events were always sold out no matter how high the price. His name was as commonly known as the presidents. There were those who discounted his work and his followers, sometimes labeled a joke, and other times labeled a cult master. Those were the real whackos, the ones who could take something beautiful and meaningful and twist it into something vile. Jeff had been to many of John's live events and he knew first hand that such sadistic attacks at the man were unwarranted. He was an authentic fellow with words of truth that would find many living better lives if they would only listen. It was The Guru who helped Jeff keep his life on track, and it was The Guru helped him become the successful man he was.

By now John had written six books, all of which Jeff owned. His blue-ray collection featured every set John had released, including tapings of live events which took place all over the country. He subscribed to The Guru's Pod-cast, was a member of his fan club, and received daily e-mail updates from his website. The Guru's Ten Principles were placed in every room of his house and his phone buzzed every morning with that days inspirational quote from John. He was one of the _really_ devoted ones, not one who just read his books and thought they were nice, and not one who just went to one of his seminars, had a moving experience, and called it a day. Jeff Hardy was one of The Guru's children.

He touched the face on the cover of the book reverently. This time next week, he would be driving to LAX to catch a plane to Santa Fe, New Mexico. There he was going to meet personally the man who had changed his life. The last event Jeff had attended was a kick off to 2010, and there had been pamphlets handed out which spoke of a special retreat. The prices were ungodly—for many middle class attendees it would have been the amount of an annual salary. Only a select few would be able to attend this one of a kind retreat. Only the most devoted followers would be moved to put themselves in that much debt, to give their life savings, to write that check, to be able to attend. Jeff was doing well for himself, and had that kind of money. He had planned on using it for other things, but the chance to spend one week with this man who held so many secrets—and was going to reveal them to the Select—was more than worth it. He had signed up immediately, eagerly writing the check and dashing to the lobby to seek out the person to turn his money over to. He'd found a man who worked closely with John, a man who John simply called 'Truth' and Jeff had placed the filled out pamphlet and the signed check into his brown palm.

Soon he would be away from this empty feeling house, out of the layers and layers of fakeness that was Hollywood, and most of California in general. He would find himself face to face with John Morrison, and face to face with discovery.

x-x


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: TY for the reviews-and as for the person who asked all those questions, yes they will eventually all be answered._

Clinton, Mississippi, was a small town seven miles from Jackson. The people were friendly and were typical hospitable southerners, with warm faces and hands that still waved at passerby from cozy porches. Main Street was dotted with homey old buildings, plenty of mom-and-pop owned businesses, and even a drug store complete with a vintage soda fountain in the back like there used to be—and the root beer floats were nothing short of amazing. It was a piece of Americana, a cozy little nook of quiet and slow in a world that was too fast pace and to full of noise. It was the kind of town many people might drive through on their way to somewhere else and never give a second glance or thought, except for the church.

Off of Main Street and out past the rows of neat, post-card houses, the road wound up a hill, and that top hump a massive white church was the crown. This was what made Clinton more than another Mayberry, this was what made Clinton famous, want it or not. Every Sunday thousands flocked to the tiny town to fill the parking spaces and pews of The Cornerstone Christian Church. Televisions across the country and even across the world tuned in to the morning services hoping to be taught, or enlightened, or filled with joy, or maybe even saved. The Sunday broadcasts with Reverend Ted DiBiase Sr. at its helm had surpassed many other televangelist programs in popularity, including the one with Creepy Smiley Joel Olsteen. DiBiase's name was right up there with such pulpit prominence as people like Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell, Pat Roberston, John Hagee, Charles Stanley, or Oral Roberts. DiBiase was the top of the top, and his bank account, multiple homes, and endless amounts of needless toys reflected 'God's gifts' to His good and faithful servant.

His son Ted Dibiase Jr. was set to inherit the empire one day, because Ted Sr. had a 'vision' one night of his namesake preaching to the masses behind the pulpit Sr. had built. His other sons were quickly disregarded as appropriate heirs, despite his older brother Mike showing a greater interest and actually _enjoying_ his stint in seminary unlike Ted who had wished to be almost anywhere else. He didn't want to preach, but his father—or Father, rather—had seemingly made up his mind for him. There had never been a question about what young Theodore was going to do when he grew up, and there was certainly no question of what deity he would serve, or not serve, for the rest of his life. He couldn't face his parents, his family, his legacy, and tell them all that the things he had learned in Sunday school as a boy left him feeling empty. He couldn't tell them that he didn't 'feel the spirit' when he was dutifully baptized as a teenager (his mother having bothered him about 'when' until he finally pretended to be moved to do so). He certainly couldn't tell them that he wasn't sure if their God was real or not, and if He was, he certainly didn't love Ted because Ted didn't really love the perfect little Christian woman he was engaged to. He was the kind of person who the Bible slated would not inherit The Kingdom of God. He knew because he had struggled with that part of his life for a long time, and those words about his sort of desires became a memorized mantra that haunted him when he looked 'wrong' at another man and excited himself with the possibilities he had not yet explored, but desired to the point of tears in the dark, lonely nights.

Ted had taken to relying on his father's copious amounts of money to try and appease himself, and was often pegged as the picture of spoiled rich kid. He even adopted the attitude and was harsh about trivial things, demanding his way in all mundane aspects of life, just to watch people fall over themselves in an attempt to please him because he hated them all for being ordinary and untethered to a legacy that seemed to choke him more and more with each passing day.

He had never wondered how he could be a convincing evangelist without even believing his own words. Hell, there were plenty of "Godly men" who fell into that category. He didn't worry about it because since early adolescence when he'd discovered that girls meant nothing to his raging hormones, he'd pretended to be interested in them anyway. He had perfected lying and deceit and his family didn't even suspect that their favorite son was not a fundamental, conservative, Christian, heterosexual—what else _could_ he be?

Ted had asked himself that very question many times. _What else could I be?_ The possibilities had always fascinated him but he knew they were unreachable. His life was already laid out before him like a set of clothes pre-picked the day before school. He was asking himself that question just now, as he sat at the bottom of the hill in his Escalade staring at the blot of white church that seemed to _loom_ from its perch on the hill and damn him with tall, stained windows, that looked like empty eyes. Ted's hands flexed against the steering wheel, and he reached for his glove box and popped it open. He pulled out a pamphlet and a ticket and examined them both against the steering wheel, reverently touching the glossy cover that might be his ticket to freedom. The first class ticket would take him from little backwater Clinton, Mississippi, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. There he would find others who like him were searching for something to believe in, and he would meet the man who had moved him to do something really blasphemous. Ted Dibiase Jr. had been given his grandma's fragile, hand-me-down Bible with the dead, dried rose pressed between The Old Testament and The New, and he had taken it out of the pristine zip-up cover he'd bought for it, and replaced it with a more progressive text. Under the black cloth cover with the famous "Footprints" poem embroidered on the front, was not that 'treasured' family heirloom, but a book written by a man who called himself The Guru. The pages were well worn, the words having been read over and circled, underlined, and highlighted.

Ted slipped the pamphlet and the plane ticket back into their secret compartment and shut the drawer. He turned then back to the church with its spiraling steeple and gave it a steeple of his own, his middle finger.

x-x

_His gray-green eyes were cold, but Kane was used to them and could read them as no other could. They were set into the pale, stern, face of his brother who seemed to be able to melt supernaturally into and out from the darkness. He was a wraith, a shadow, a cold chill. Through the bleak years of childhood they had been both friends and enemies, but Kane had forgotten most of it until they had met later in life and a strange sense of having known him in some prior life had crept through him until long buried memories popcorned like gunfire from the back of his mind to the forefront, sending his already unstable life into one of chaos, and mostly anger. After all, his brother had tried to kill him. In a cool voice which seemed not to care The Phenom had informed his little brother that he was the one who had attempted to deal death. The subject seemed twisted in both of their memories_

"Damn it." Glenn sighed, and leaned back in his cushiony office chair. The short paragraph read back to him from the screen, the cursor still blinking at the end of 'memories' and waiting for more words to flow. Instead, Glenn deleted what he'd typed. Now the page stared back at him once more, black, like a rolled eyeball. It had been taunting him this way all night and he'd vowed to play gladiator with it until he came out victorious but that was looking bleak, and the night was breaking into dawn, and his eyes were beginning to feel the strain of pulling an all-nighter with that old nemesis Microsoft Word. His deadline for this next book in his series was coming up soon and of course this massive writers block had just stalled his progress. The story had become like a belligerent ass and sat stubbornly on its hindquarters refusing to budge.

Glenn shook his head at the blank screen, and reached for his favorite insulated cup which was always stocked with strong, black coffee for such occasions as this. However, when he brought it to his lips, he found that it was depleted. He placed it back on the mousepad, which boasted his own created characters faces: Kane and The Phenom. Kane was his first creation, and the first three books in his popular series were devoted to that brainchild. The Phenom was referenced but not introduced until the fourth. The book giving him so much trouble now was the fifth in the series. His brand of horror encompassed other tales, but the ones featuring Kane and The Phenom were the ones which generated the most notoriety. All four books had been made into movies and each had smashed the box offices. His two demons were as popular as horror icons Freddy Krueger, Jason Voorhees, and Michael Myers.

Glenn rolled his chair away from the computer, hoisted himself from it, and stretched with a crackle of his back. The knotty wood boards of the cabin floor creaked in a couple spot as he made his barefooted way to one of the big windows. He loved Knoxville, but when he was writing, he always came here. The cabin was far from the bustle of the city, situated in the mountains, and it gave him the serenity he needed to spew forth intricate tales of psychological twists and turns, and blood and gore, as contradictory as that seemed. Peace birthing violence, but hey, it was what worked for him. The smoky blue hue of the mountains helped him think, and the quietness allowed him to hear Kane and The Phenom as they spoke to him and told him their stories. It was them he was trying to hone in on at the moment, but they had decided to retreat into the shadows and make themselves mute. It was a strange sound, the insides of his mind, _quiet._ It seemed as if there was always some muse picking at his brain and whispering in his ear, some worthy of his time and research, and some worthy of being tossed into the trash.

The clouds hung thick around the mountains, showing off a nature painted portrait of how they had gotten their namesake. Maybe if it didn't rain again today, he would go for a little hike along one of the trails. If it did rain, it seemed like writing was shot. He would just refill his thermal cup, listen to the rain patter and pluck against the metal roof of his cabin, and crack open John Morrisons latest book which he had yet to tackle. He'd read all the others, and had just told himself he would put this newest one off until he finished his own writing. Glenn glanced back at the computer, and in his mind he called for Kane and The Phenom, but he got no answer. He was glad that number six was going to be the last in his series. He wanted to end the stories before the characters he loved became stale. They had given him so much, it was only proper that he respected them as such and didn't wear them out.

His next venture was already blooming in his head in the form of vague plots, scribbled notes, and a lot of research. He was going to write about some sort of twisted religious thing, maybe a cult, some sort of brainwashing, perhaps a seventies style leader feeding his followers bullshit and LSD, of course, the story would be more than that. Glenn would give it his own unique horror spin and make it something fresh and different. That's why his bed and the counter in the small kitchen of the cabin was stacked with books, dvds, and various research into such matters. He'd found one of his greatest fascinations to be this John Morrison guy whom he had seen just passingly on various talk shows and news programs over the years, but had not paid much attention to until this research had manifested itself.

He'd since become very interested in the guy, and maybe harbored a small crush on him—hell the man was fucking gorgeous who wouldn't? Glenn had even gone to a few of Morrison's speaking events, and he had legitimately been touched by his charismatic presentations. Some of the things Morrison said had even made Glenn question things he was sure he had already found his own answers to. Truth be told, John's books and other conveyances of his teachings were becoming a bit more valuable to Glenn than just 'research' for his next book. There were times when that fact annoyed him, because he was an extremely rational man and would like to think himself above such fads and flock-followings…but Morrison _was_ convincing both live and on paper. So convincing in fact, that Glenn had dropped a ridiculous amount of money on a week-long retreat in New Mexico. That little stroke of genius had left him facepalming for weeks. It wasn't that he didn't have the means to afford such a thing, he was bigger than Stephen King, of course he had the means, but he still remained frugal and dumping _that_ kind of cash on _that_ kind of thing just gave his logic a migraine. Well, he was going…_for research purposes…_that's what he told himself.

x-x


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: The list of characters I put at the beginning—I had forgotten to put in one person. I had all intention of putting him in from the get go, I just accidently left his name out of the roster. There are still ten guys on the retreat, it's just that Truth who is on the cast list, is not one of the guys he has a different role. Therefore the tenth guy who was left out is JBL. Please don't groan, I like and miss JBL, and I enjoy writing him, so he's in the story. Don't fret too much over it. :-) Thanks for the reads and reviews, and enjoy this next chapter! We're getting closer to the beginning of the actual retreat. ;-)_

Shit, why was he always running late? Too many parties, too many benders, too many—where was the terminal? He lifted the silver frames of his aviators with the tinted pink lenses to reveal eyes that were tinted the same color. What was he thinking getting completely _smashed_ the night before he was set to leave on a week-long retreat? Well, he'd just been living in the moment. His mind flashed back to what he could remember of the night before. After the concert he was exhausted, throat trashed, eyes drooping, no one put on a show like Chris "Mongoose" Jericho, and his body felt it after every show, but even more so on the last leg of the tour. The constant traveling and partying often left him not knowing what day it was, or where he was, and sometimes it frightened him that that fact didn't bother him.

Sleep sounded like a good thing that night, but after all it was the last concert of the tour and he knew that was out of the question. There would be sleep on the off time, which would still not really be off time. There were still recordings, signings, t.v. appearances, that's what the big time was, non-stop, and that's what Chris Jericho was. That's why after the concert his drummer had passed him a small orange bottle, devoid of label, and he'd popped a few uppers to keep himself going for the after party. In the limo on the way to the club lines were snorted through rolled hundred dollar bills. Before he had reached the door to the club every bit of exhaustion and pain had been obliterated and he was going full tilt, funny eyes, twitchy, sweaty, but ready to take over the mother fucking world.

Then, he was inside the club. The thumping music drummed into his already ringing ears, male and female admirers alike clamored for his autograph and bought him drinks—he rarely had to actually spend his own money on alcohol. There was dancing, various hot bodies pressed against his, grabbing, rubbing, pinching, grinding, until he was sure he was going to blow in his pants. Before he could, the groaning, stumbling, drunken-horny mess that he had become was hefted up onto the karaoke stage and someone pushed a mic into his hand. The needles that had seemed to been stuck in his throat earlier after the concert had vanished and his voice found itself again as a song was started. He was basically giving a free concert, and a free show of the boner that stretched his leather pants into an impressive bulge. The colorful strobing lights seemed to beam down on him with the heat of a thousand suns. His body was soaked with sweat, his long bleached hair all but drenched and stuck to his face and neck.

After a number of songs were torn from his throat, complete with an overabundance of stomping, jumping, and running around on the stage until his heart seemed like it would just explode in his chest from the intense speed of its pounding. Someone in the front of the impromptu mosh pit handed him a pitcher of beer and cheers and chants erupted from the insane crowd as he gulped it, spilling about as much as he was drinking down the front of his shirt. When he couldn't down the rest of it he just dumped it over his head, the cold, foamy liquid doing little to cool his burning skin. He raised the emptied glass pitcher above his head and the cheers ramped up to a roar, and he slammed the glass onto the stage, shards spraying out at all directions, a few even bouncing up to nip at his cheek.

He remembered nearly falling off the stage at his attempt to dismount it, and stumbling towards the bathroom. Suddenly he wasn't feeling well at all, his chest was aching, his head pounding, and the guzzled alcohol was threatening to vacate via mouth. He made it to the mens room, the smell of vomit and stale liquor assaulting his senses. He barely had time to collapse into one of the stalls before the retching came. As much of the upheaval was on the toilet as was inside the bowl. He sat back against one wall of the stall, his hands trembling too much to be of any kind of use. The stabbing in his chest lessened, but refused to disappear completely. After sitting long enough to be sure he was done puking, he hoisted himself clumsily to his feet and left the stall. He ran some cold water into one of the dirty sinks and splashed his face with the quivering hands, hoping it would do something to help.

"Whoa, man you look fucked up." Someone said, and Chris tilted his head to the side. Some guy was talking to him while taking a piss. Wasn't that one of those unspoken guy rules that you _don't_ make small talk while whizzing? It was just…weird. The guy finished up and tucked his junk back into his pants, then reached into one of his pockets. "Try this, fix you up good. Real good." He grabbed Chris's wrist and opened his fingers, and dumped the offering onto his palm.

"Thanks." Chris mumbled, and stupidly popped the tablet into his mouth and swallowed dry. The 'good Samaritan' bellied up to the sink next to Chris's to wash his hands. Chris rubbed at the center of his chest, the pain dulled but still lingering. He decided it was time to round up his buddies and make them leave because _he_ needed to leave whether they felt like calling it a night or not. He merged back out into the thick crowd, the neon lights one again assaulting his eyes, the bass line to the music shuttering through his entire body. He went through the crowd attempting to find at least one of his band mates, and was doing a poor job of it. Some sexy wraith in full gothic garb latched onto him and tried to pull him into a corner, and that's when he started to hallucinate.

It was _horrible_ and he was convinced that he was going to die.

When Chris had awoken that morning he was lying face down on the floor. Of course, he didn't know it was the next morning, it could have been that he'd lain past out for days. All he knew immediately was that he felt like complete shit, and he didn't know where he was. The last thing he remembered in that first moments of blurry wakefulness was a demon from his bad trip and he quickly drew himself into a seat position, hugging his knees to his chest, and rocking until the vision left him. God, he was so fucking exhausted and pitiful. Tears were spilling over his cheeks, and he got up, and fished around in his pocket for his cell phone. He was surprised he hadn't lost it. He called each one of his band mates, barely able to make his quaking fingers work well enough to push the tiny buttons. He only felt more dejected each time no one picked up. He went through each name twice, before starting on a third round. The first person he called for try number three picked up.

"Jesus Christ Chris, what?" The voice snapped. More tears dripped down his cheeks.

"I dunno where I am…" Chris whined into the phone, drawing a hand through his hair and tangling it. There was an annoyed sigh.

"Chris, you're in your fucking room. I managed to get your wasted ass in there at least before you did a facedive. Listen, I'm feelin' like shit. Great tour, see ya in the studio." _Click._

Chris stared at the screen of his phone, and wiped the tears from his face. He felt so sick, so tired, so depressed and alone. He should have been dead from last night, he knew it, and yet his closest friends seemed not to care. No one had stayed with him to make sure he made it through the night, only one of them had answered his desperate phone calls, and then it was on the third try and he was clearly upset to have been bothered. He was going to be one of those rock stars who died young, alone, and miserable despite his millions of fans around the world and millions of dollars in his bank account. Sometimes he really didn't give a fuck, but most times when that awful possibility occurred to him, it scared the hell out of him. He decided he was glad the tour was over, because one more gig would have probably seen him collapsed on stage. He decided he was also glad that his brother had paid for him to go on what he had deemed to be a pointless trek into the desert.

His brother was into all kinds of 'weird' things and at the top of his list was this self-help guru who called himself just that The Guru. John Morrison. Chris knew who he was but had never paid him any attention at all. Chris was too busy with his crazy lifestyle to care about anything much deeper than a bottle of beer. His brother however, followed this guy like he was a saint. Chris knew it was a big sacrifice for his brother Jay to dump that kind of money on such a thing, and an even bigger sacrifice to give that chance to spend a week with a man Jay nearly worshipped to someone else. Even knowing those things, Chris had been cruel about the offer and blatantly refused to go. Jay had pleaded with him, telling Chris what Chris already knew—that he needed to slow down. He was going to end up dead if something didn't change, Jay said, and both of them knew Jay was correct. Jay had even bought Chris a plane ticket. Chris said he didn't care.

He had planned on simply brushing it off and not going. He'd just pay Jay back twice the money once the bands next album hit it as big as all the others prior, and everything would be fine. Chris sat on the bed in his hotel room, staring down at his phone, watching the date and time blur in and out of focus. He flung the phone onto his bed. He forced himself up and found his suitcase and pulled a small bottle from the bottom, underneath his folded clothes. He knew he didn't need to put anything else into his body, but he was barely functionable as it was. His body and mind were both threatening to shut down on him because of the come-down from the stew of things he had ingested last night. He couldn't let that happen, because today he had something important to do. He popped a few of the capsules, knowing that they would pick him up again, and headed for the bathroom to shower. Last night had changed his mind about that retreat, he was going. That was at least, if he didn't miss his flight.

That's why Chris was late, and was perhaps missing his flight as he stood searching for the terminal.

x-x

John Layfield had already found his flight, leaving out of San Antonio, TX, and was boarding his plane. He was born a Texan but lived in New York. One of his many business ventures had brought him back to his home state to meet up with partners Charlie and Jackie Haas. Things had gone very well, the business was booming, health and fitness was a good niche to get into. The week spent with the Haas's had passed him by too quickly. They were good business partners and good friends, but John had to move on. The next week would see him in New Mexico, for a much needed break from his life in business and finance. He was an ambitious man, and that was mostly a good thing. However, that ambition usually saw him trying to do too many things at once, and now and then he needed to step back and take a breather from all of it. Usually that entailed golfing in some beautiful, relaxing, location. This time he'd gone another route.

His wife—whom he rarely saw (not that he was much excited to spend time with her) had given him a set of books for his birthday last year. For most of that year they had remained at home collecting dust on the bookshelf. He had barely been able to stop himself from rolling his eyes when he'd opened the gift wrap and seen that familiar face staring up at him. His wife was in love with that John Morrison fellow. Layfield knew who Morrison was—who didn't? He found the man ridiculous—or at least he had until he'd actually read his books. It had started on a flight to Spain. John was going to run with the bulls when he got there, but in the meantime, he was bored on his flight and needed something to read. He'd gone to pull out the book he had stuffed into his bag, but instead found that it had been replaced by book one in Morrison's best-selling series. John begrudgingly cracked the book, and to his surprise he kept reading it through the whole flight. Pretty soon, every John Morrison book his wife had given him had been read and even more shocking, an educated, intelligent business man such as himself had been swept away by this man. Soon many of his much loved golfing get-aways were changed to trips to Morrison's speaking events. John had nearly lost his mind when he'd heard about the week-retreat—he _had_ to go there was no question.

John moved down the row in first class, searching for his seat. His eye caught it, and then caught a glimpse of the man sitting in the one next to his, staring out the window. _Really?_ Excited, John moved closer, wondering if this man was who he thought he was. John handed his bag to the attendant who had been following him, so she could put it away for him, and he ducked into the seat grinning at the man next to him.

"Say, you're Shawn Michaels, aren't ya?"

His fellow Texan turned away from the window, a proud smile gracing his handsome features.

"The one, the only."

"The Heartbreak Kid!" Layfield clapped his hands together, amused.

"That would be me." Shawn confirmed, extending a hand. John shook it heartily.

"John Layfield." He answered. He was uneager to end the handshake, but Shawn slipped his hand free. John took his white cowboy hat from his head, and sat it on his knees, and combed his fingers through his chestnut hair. "I'm a big fan a'yers."

"Thank you, I'm a big fan of myself too." Shawn winked, gaining a bigger grin from John. "Layfield…" Shawn mused, repeating the name over again. "John Layfield, oh I've seen you on Fox News before. You do that uh, what is it…something about finances, right?"

"Business analyst." John corrected. "One a'my many titles."

"Right!" Shawn flicked a strand of golden hair away from his face. John really couldn't believe he was sitting next to _the_ Shawn Michaels.

Shawn Michaels only owned one of the top adult magazines in the country. It was up there with Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler in its notoriety. However _Sexy Boy_ was specifically targeted towards the gay community. Shawn Michaels was hailed the Hugh Hefner of the homosexual world, and like Hef, Shawn had his own mansion complete with his select _Sexy Boy_ models under the roof, whom he called 'Boy Toys'. Every gay man in America either wanted Shawn, or wanted to be Shawn. And here he was, and John Layfield was sitting next to him, close enough to smell his cologne and feel almost intoxicated by it. John blushed, and tried not to be too obvious about looking Shawn over.

The Heartbreaker was wearing a white cowboy hat similar to John's, with the logo of his company on front of it. The _Sexy Boy_ logo was a broken heart which was usually colored in red, or rainbow. The one on Shawn's hat however was colored powder blue, specifically to match his button-down shirt which was the same pastel hue. The top couple of buttons were popped, revealing a simple silver chain glistening against a peek of tanned skin. A pair of tight jeans encased Shawn's slender legs, and his shoes were a pair of beautiful white-alligator skin cowboy boots.

"Like 'em?" Shawn asked, lifting one of his feet and pulling up the cuff of his jeans to reveal the upper part of the boot. "Custom made by the best boot maker in Texas. These babies cost a real pretty penny. I have another pair in black." Shawn fixed the leg of his jeans, and dropped his foot back to the floor, as John whistled lowly.

"They're gorgeous. I can sure appreciate a good pair a'boots."

"Not just good, John, _the best._" Shawn reminded him. His fingers moved down his chest, to play with that glittering silver chain.

"So Shawn, what's bringing you out to New Mexico?" John asked, watching the silver wink.

"John Morrison, you heard of him? The Guru? I'm headed out to Santa Fe for a retreat of his. Can't say I really believe all that malarkey of his, but he's gorgeous. I'd love for him to model in my magazine…do a spread…_you know._" Shawn smirked mischievously, and his double meaning was not lost on Layfield.

"What a small world it is, even in Texas." John laughed. "I'm goin' on that retreat myself."

"Small world." Shawn repeated.

After a few moments of silence, the plane made its lift off. Shawn went to staring out the window again, watching the sky. John reached up and around for his bag, and brought the small carry-on into his lap with his hat. He grumbled. He was sure he'd tucked a handful of The Guru's tracts in there to give him some reading material—even though the flight from San Antonio to Santa Fe would only be a bit over an hour.

"What's wrong?" Shawn asked, hearing the grunt from his flight partner.

"Oh, thought I had somethin' to read to pass the time, but seems like I forgot to pack it." John answered, reaching back around to the top compartment, fiddling with it to try and tuck his carry-on back inside. He finally got it, and turned back to Shawn feeling a finger tapping his shoulder.

"Try this." Shawn gave a little chuckle, and handed John the newest issue of _Sexy Boy._

x-x


	4. Chapter 4

_**Out of all the characters in this story, AJ is the most AU. Even though the others are also, I still tried to keep various aspects of their personalities/gimmicks/etc involved but just twisted a little into other-than-wrestling type things. So…I hope no ones too upset about this b/c I do realize this AJ is really not much like real AJ. But again, it's AU. The Ric Flair father reference comes from this almost crack!theory that some of my lovely friends and myself came to the strange conclusion of. So anyway, thank you all for reading/reviewing. Here's the next chapter. We get closer to our destination.**_

Leaving North Carolina had never looked so damn good. AJ sighed as he fixed his sunglasses, for the moment ignoring the non-stop chatter of the silver haired man sitting next to him in the back seat of the cab. Right now AJ was focused on the scenery. He leaned on his elbow and watched the dusty, pink-and-gray toned land rush by. Here and there dark green shrubs dotted the landscape, clinging low to the ground. As the hills rolled steadily upwards, the greenery became more abundant, crowning the gentle peeks, back dropped by a sky that seemed brighter than any AJ had ever seen before. Maybe it was just because he was away from his father, than things suddenly seemed brighter, and that now suddenly he could stop and take in these details.

"AJ, are you listening to me?"

AJ turned his head a little and looked over the tops of his designer shades at Shane, his boss, his friend, and a lot of other complicated somethings. AJ worked for one of the top wrestling promotions in the world and Shane McMahon was its owner. Not only did AJ work for the company, but he _was _the company. AJ was top dog, and Shane's biggest draw. That fact allowed AJ to get away with a lot of things backstage that would send most other employees packing. He was known for his temper tantrums, stemmed mainly from dealing with his father: Ric Flair.

When AJ wasn't busting his ass for Shane's company, he was at home not catching the rest and relaxation his overtaxed body and mind needed, but instead taking care of his senile old man. He wouldn't have minded after all, as Ric's son it might have seemed only right for AJ take up the mantel of responsibility, had his father actually been a father. Ric was gone so much of AJ's life, the road taking up most of the time that could have been spent between father and son. AJ saw his father more on television than he did in his own home. His mother had left before AJ was even old enough to know her, and his parenting and guardianship was left to various nannies that Ric hired, fired, and slept with on the rare occasion that he was home—and who usually allowed AJ his way in everything, simply because so many of them felt sorry for him. It was odd to be raised by strangers, without any sort of connection. Growing up AJ had often felt like some space traveler whose ties to his ship had been severed, and he was left weightlessly floating in some dark, vast, cosmos that gave no answers as to why it was so cold.

The most AJ had ever spent with his father was when Ric declared his various retirements—only to break them again and again. Ric's son grew up angry, and only continued to spiral deeper into that pit. When he was old enough, he left to train for a life of wrestling. He was expected too after all, having half of that legends blood running through his own veins. On some deeper level he had also hoped that the venture into his father's world would gain that mans attention-finally. He was right in that thought, but it wasn't the love and affection he had so long craved. He found himself embarking onto a path into another nightmare. This was Ric's passion, Ric's life, and Ric appointed himself as the best to ever step foot into a ring. Thus, nothing that AJ did was _ever_ good enough. No matter how hard he trained, how much he strived for perfection, there was always something for Ric find wrong with what he was doing. When AJ worked his ass off to further his career, began to win gold, and finally became one of the biggest names in the industry—it still wasn't good enough for the one man that really mattered, out of the millions of people that watched him perform each week. The stacks of fanmail, art, e-mail, Tweets, and everything else did nothing to fill the void in his heart because of one man. AJ found himself being crushed under the gargantuan burdens of being at the top, wearing his family name, and dealing with a man who called himself 'God' and slipped further and further into his own distorted mind.

AJ's tantrums and binges were out of control and spilling over like a running faucet into the work place. His ring work and promos were getting sloppy because he was to the point of not caring anymore. Breaking his body and pushing himself to the excellence that had got him where he was today wasn't enough to gain a simple pat on the back from his father, or God forbid—'I'm proud of you, son'. AJ had decided there was nothing he could ever do to be of worth in that man's eyes, and that revelation had left him broken in a luxury hotel room. Bottles littered all over the plush carpet, and endless tears stained his pillow, broken only by periodic screaming and punching at the unoffending object. He'd no-showed the next two events and left his phone unanswered when it rang and rang, Shane's name flashing against the screen. Shane had been the last person he'd wanted to talk to, as if he could offer any help. Shane was not much different from AJ's father, it was all rejection, it was all the same. Just like Ric—Shane was never going to love him, either.

x-x

Shane gave up trying to talk to AJ. Instead, he turned to his Blackberry, checking some dates and messages. He groaned at the first message in his inbox, coming from his 'second in command' basically, who he'd left in charge while he was gone with AJ on this retreat. Shane was informed that another of his top talents had came into his office, informing the staff that Stephanie had offered him twice what Shane was paying him—as if said employee wasn't already one of the highest paid in Shane's company anyway—and that if he couldn't reach a better agreement with Shane's company, he was going to be leaving for the rival team when his contract expired in a few short months.

"Fuck." Shane mumbled under his breath. It was both the best and worst of times for him to take this break. If not for AJ, he'd still be back in his office tugging his hair out in attempts to keep his company on top where it belonged. He'd never even planned to go this far into the business. Infact, he'd left WWE because of disagreements between he and his sister, and decided it was time to pursue other venues. All of those other avenues had proven to lead him to less than successful ends. He'd finally been able to find his place in the grand scheme of things when he bought out TNA, kicked out most of the old stock Hogan and Bischoff had brought in, and loaded the vacancies with fresh, vibrant, new stars who by rights should have been under the spotlights. Matches were improved, less shenanigans, overly gimmicked-gimmicks were trimmed, and fans were given something that was able to take them back to attitude and actual wrestling without having to give them recycled, out of date, product. The promotion was now called 'Total Nonstop Wrestling' and that was what Shane strived to deliver.

Meanwhile, Stephanie was working her own sort of magic on her father's company and killing the A show with her idea of sports entertainment. Shane's following grew rapidly, as so many fans were disenchanted and bored with the thing Stephanie had twisted their entertainment into. Some of Stephanies talent even showed up at Shane's door, wanting to get back to something that WWE was now delivering less and less of. Most of the big names however, stayed loyal to the company that had put them on top—but things had came out just right enough that everything hung on by a thread. Shane was able to give his sister fit competition now. The arguments they used to have behind closed doors in WWE offices spilled out onto t.v. screens and was now waged between two battling empires, not just two battling siblings. The popularity of wrestling had spiked again and it was an amazing time for the business all around and for fans.

Along with all of that however, came an amount of stress that would have turned every hair on Shane's head silver had it not already been there and done that. The constant rivalry, and attempts by both McMahons to woo talent away from the other, took a heavy toll. The new schedules for TNW athletes pushed them far beyond their previous one. There were now three taped shows a week to compete properly with WWE's Raw, Smackdown, and Superstars. The tension backstage due to overworked and frazzled employees was sometimes so thick Shane felt as if he couldn't breathe when he weaved through the corridors.

Then, there was AJ.

Shane's top star was ready to implode in on himself. Shane had offered him time to go home and relax on multiple occasions, when he'd seen AJ clearly hanging on at the end of his rope. An injury would account for his absence, or some creative twist in a storyline, and Shane would send AJ packing for a few weeks or even months to get things together. Those leaves seemed to be helping less and less however, and AJ would often call Shane early begging to let him come back in work, sometimes in tears, sometimes in enraged shouting. Home meant Ric, and AJ couldn't handle long doses of Ric, but it was getting to the point that he couldn't handle the gold either. Shane had to take care of his top talent, too much was riding on all of this for any of them to fall apart right now, until he could find the right budding talent to follow in AJ's footsteps, he had to keep the gold pinned on him as much as possible. Despite AJ's low self esteem and his insistence that he wasn't good enough—he was a damn fine wrestler, one of the finest. Shane knew that even if Aj didn't and he needed that man in his ring. There was no way around it. So, AJ got what he wanted, the rules were bent for him, and Shane ran around in circles trying to please him and keep some sort of piece backstage with the rest of the talent who were more than tired of such things. It was a must, just like this retreat was a must.

AJ had come to Shane's office after no-showing two shows, and returning none of Shane's calls, and had a meltdown that was nearly worthy of a free pass to the nearest mental hospital. Shane let AJ wreck his office, scream, cry, and at last collapse onto him sobbing. For the longest time Shane just held him awkwardly, stroking his back, until AJ quieted a little. His tearful eyes had looked at Shane in a way that seemed pleading. They white parts were red and pink, the pupils clearly distorted by lack of sleep, and the kinds of perils that this business often drove sane men to—popping anything just to try and deal with it all. The alcohol was strong on his skin and breath, and even more apparent in the shouted words and curses AJ had just earlier slurred as he'd taken his frustration and anger out on everything in Shane's office. After he'd quieted down, Shane walked him to the overstuffed leather couch in his office, and lowered him onto it. The throw draped over the back had the TNW logo on it, along with AJ posed in a mean looking fighting stance, his mouth open in a silent, threatening roar. Shane had dropped the blanket over AJ's curled body, and used the corner to wipe the tear stains from his reddened cheeks. AJ had sniffled, and asked in his emotionally and chemically impaired state:

"When's Daddy comin' home?"

After some hesitation, Shane answered:

"Soon." And left it at that.

He'd left AJ on the couch and found his cell in a corner, the screen busted and the back missing. AJ had thrown it in his rage, and it was now useless. With a small sigh, Shane stuck the small device into his pocket, and picked up his desk phone. It too had suffered the abuse, but when he plugged it back in, it still worked. He dialed one of his assistants and told her to get order an extra ticket for that retreat Shane was going on. If they were already sold out, then she was demanded to get a hold of Morrison himself and offer him ridiculous amounts of money to make an extra spot for Shane's top star. AJ needed to be away from all of it, or he was going to break so badly that there would be nothing left to fix. Shane hung up the phone, and pulled the newest John Morrison book from one of the drawers. This was just what AJ needed, Shane hoped, to straighten out his mind.

x-x

So now here they were, their taxi ferrying them from the airport, to the restaurant they were all instructed to meet at. Someone from the Guru's team was due to meet the select retreat members there, and take them to the location where they'd spend their week. Shane reached over, and patted AJ's thigh. He just hoped a week was enough time.


End file.
