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Shawn Michaels knew what the guys in the locker room thought of him.
Yeah, they admired his wrestling ability. Yeah, they thought he was good with the crowd. Yeah, they didn't mind being in the ring with him.
Yeah, they thought he was easy.
Rumors spread quick enough without truth being behind them. Unfortunately, in the Heartbreak Kid's situation, there was a whole lot of truth behind the rumors about him.
He and Marty had only split a few months prior and he was, to be as blunt as he always was, lonely. He had always attracted attention, had always been the best, had always felt eyes on him, but he'd never... thrown himself into it as he had been lately. Had never been so public about it. He was with someone new every night and didn't bother trying to hide his arrogance, and he wasn't ashamed of it, but the other guys didn't let it go. Leaving the Rockers blessed him with the ability to do what he wanted except gain concrete respect from the other guys.
Wasn't an issue, the teasing, because Shawn was always willing to go toe-to-toe with someone who was asking for it, but it still hurt in its own way. Most likely because the majority of them were just as bad but they weren't getting called names for it.
But it was hard to play innocent when he really was the Heartbreak Kid, and when he really was pretty easy.
The easiest thing about Shawn, by far, had to be his smile. Over anything. It always had been, even when he wasn't rising in the WWF as he was then. The nature of Shawn Michaels, the Heartbreak Kid, consisted of two bases: he felt lonely easily, but it was even easier to make him smile.
The cure, of course, as he had obviously found, was to keep company. That way he wasn't lonely and he was pretty much always smiling, unless he was in a match or something. His fans, that he had been pleased but unsurprised to have collected so quickly, were pretty helpful in the entire situation, especially since they had boomed since he left the Rockers. But leaving the Rockers meant he really didn't have any friends.
Now not to say that Shawn Michaels needed friends. He really, really didn't, and that's why he superkicked Marty the hell out of his life. Clearly, however, that made him have to work harder to not feel so damn lonely. If there was anyone else who could tolerate him, it would be great.
Double unfortunately, Shawn was realizing, Marty was one of a kind.
It wasn't as if the locker room hated him — he had his fair share of inside jokes and friendly teasing, and he got along fine with some of the less annoying quote-on-quote "good guys." Sure, he had to dodge a lot of people and hide out in closets but didn't everyone have to do that sometimes?
The point of it all was that Shawn knew everyone thought he was easy, and Shawn was easy but it still weighed on his mind sometimes. He usually just thought that maybe some people weren't easy enough.
He finished lacing his boots snug, and glanced up, briefly catching eye contact before the other set of eyes impassively moved away.
The perfect example.
Bret "The Hitman" Hart. Master of literally never smiling. If Shawn tried to think about it too much, he'd probably start frowning himself. He could not remember a single time that the Hitman was smiling to smile — not smirking, not an arrogant grin, or a scoffing laugh. Just a smile.
As Hart pushed his arms through the sleeves of one of his leather jackets, tassels glittering under the bright light, lips set into the usual limp line, Shawn's eyes narrowed. He felt the itch to be extremely irritating until he got his way rise up his chest, crawling to his throat.
Hart never got shit for taking things too seriously. He and Shawn were on two completely separate sides of the spectrum of 'easy', aside from both having the ability to make things way more complicated in the ring. Nearly everyone respected Hart, primarily Hart himself, even when Shawn could not ever remember the man cracking a genuine smile at any joke or tease or even a damn win.
As Hart turned to grab the pink shades he'd left on the bench, he caught Shawn's gaze. His eyes narrowed, curly hair falling over his mistrust.
Shawn gave his most shit eating grin, easy and genuine and only a little sharp. “Good luck out there, Hitman.”
Hart arched an eyebrow, briefly, before snorting and sliding his shades on. “Thanks, Michaels.”
Shawn was staring at Hart openly.
The Hitman had lost the Intercontinental Championship to Mountie, but he was never one to sulk — he usually complained to the crowd, who always cheered for him (must be nice), and then trained and worked harder so he could try and get another shot. Besides, the annual Royal Rumble just took place and Piper ended up snatching it from Mountie.
Shawn would challenge Piper for it but he wasn't quite insane enough to do that. He'd wait and see if Hart could get it, then go from there. It was always fun, being in the ring with Hart, and it electrified the HBK.
Even if Hart never smiled at him.
Or anyone, Shawn mentally corrected. Like Shawn, Hart had recently split with his tag team partner — still, before the split, Shawn had never seen the Canadian smile at even his big brother-in-law, or his younger brother, Owen.
It was infuriating.
It was so interesting.
After a Rumble, the guys always seemed out-of-sorts given that one of your friends usually dumped your ass out of the ring only for him to get dumped minutes later. Shawn wasn't a grudge-guy (even if he was sitting as far away from Tito Santana as he could) but the boss always had a good number of them eat out together so the locker room wouldn't have quite so many fights.
Hart was just across from Shawn at the table, but he was so enveloped in conversation with his newer big brother-in-law, the Bulldog, that Shawn had the chance to stare all he wanted.
“As soon as I realized I lost track of Flair,” Davey Boy was saying, “I realized I was fooked."
Fooked, Shawn mouthed, incredulous laughter bubbling inside him. Then he glanced at Hart.
Who just nodded. “You were going strong though. You got Sags then Haku like it was nothing."
Bulldog grinned. “What, you didn't like my power press?”
Shawn's lips quirked up at the memory of Flair's body going up and down, up and down, but the Hitman just gave his friend a Look. “Your best move is always playing dead.”
Bulldog grinned. “Why don't you try and get up from a pile driver by Haku?”
“Why don't you try to avoid getting crotch hit by Flair?” Hitman snarked back, and Smith barked out a laugh— Shawn snorted before he could help it.
Hart looked over at him, and Shawn sent an easy grin his way before pretending he wasn't eavesdropping by leaning into Hennig's side next to him and inserting himself into that conversation.
It took longer than he thought it would, but the Hitman eventually looked away and started up again with Smith.
The whole time, he didn't smile once.
Shawn felt his own smile falter, his mind revolved around Hart, even as Hulk Hogan walked in and Sid Justice leaped at him from the other side of the room.
It's not half a month or so later that Shawn realized he was developing a bit of a problem.
He can't seem to stop staring at Hart whenever they're within two feet of each other. And it's bad. Hitman would be in a match and Shawn would purposefully stick around, even at times he knew it'd be better if he left, just to see if he could catch a glimpse of a smile. Victory or loss, fan support or no... Hart remained deadly sober, fleeting smirks when the mic was near, but otherwise utter seriousness.
While Shawn was sending real smiles at every attractive person he met.
He didn't quite understand why it was bothering him so much but it was. He could hardly see the damned color pink without his thoughts veering back to Hart. He wasn't sure if he was just curious or if he really wanted to see Hart smile for whatever reason. He couldn't wrap his head around it.
It was another night of matches, but he, Hart, and the Nasty Boys were all waiting for a go at the mic so they could straighten out the reason why they were fighting tonight.
As soon as Macho Man was wrapping up, the Ultimate Warrior came running in from God knows where, hair flowing behind him like a damn horse as he shoved past them.
Instantly, they heard it.
“IF I KNEW THE MAN, SID JUSTICE, THAT RULED THE WORLD— NO, SID JUSTICE, NOT THE MAN WHO CLAIMED TO RULE THE WORLD BUT THE MAN WHO STOOD AND RULED THE ENTIRE WORLD... THEN MAYBE I WOULD KNOW THAT EMOTION OF FEAR — ”
Shawn shared a look with Hart and each Nasty boy as Warrior continued.
He cleared his throat. “Does he remind anyone of that one uncle who you just... cannot fucking understand?”
The Nasty boys laughed as obnoxiously as they always do, similar laughter bubbling out of Shawn. Hart snorted, leaning back against the wall.
Even when Hart got called to the camera, Shawn remained gazing at where he stood.
Shawn couldn't even imagine the damn smile.
It was rapidly taking over his thoughts, but the more infuriating fact was that he couldn't picture it. He could see the smirk, had it directed at him more than once, and he could see the arrogant grin, thought it was too distracting for its own good, but an actual smile? No, it was out of the question. A smile, a real one, where the skin next to his eyes creased, his cheeks bunched, his eyebrows more expressive. His eyes bright with cheer or joy or amusement or glee or—
Shawn shot back a drink, giving a short scan of the room around him. Majority wanted him (the rest probably uninterested in men period). Contenders: long legs in the corner, broad shoulders at the bar, or...
Solitary curly-haired brunette with a 'fuck-or-leave' energy at a booth to the side.
In response to his stare, she glanced up at him, gave him a once-over, then shrugged. He perked up.
The group of them watched the screen at the head of the room with rapt attention.
Jerry Lawler screamed as he was chased around the ring by Razor Ramon before Ramon finally caught up and finished him with the Razor's Edge.
The entire crowd of them erupted in cheers and guffaws, Shawn being pushed around as he giggled and snorted as much as anyone else.
As usual, he felt his eyes shifting, searching for a set of brown eyes.
Hart was watching the screen avidly, evidently relishing the sight like the rest of them, but still, only a satisfied gleam lingered in his eyes. No ring or bark or shout of laughter.
Hart's shoulders abruptly tensed before he turned, and he caught Shawn out.
Shawn, helplessly, couldn't seem to look away.
Hart glared at him.
Shawn thinned his own smile, and forced his gaze away.
Not long after that, Shawn slowly began to realize that he seemed to lack the subtlety needed to semi-stalk someone. Apparently, Hart had noticed Shawn's attentions.
Because nearly every time Shawn looked up to watch him, Hart's eyes would fly to his, narrowed with indecipherable emotion.
Shawn always just stared back.
At WrestleMania, Shawn watched as Hart proved himself as he pinned Piper's shoulders to the mat. He won the Intercontinental belt back.
He sees Hart as the Hitman's family cheers him backstage. Hart sees him back.
He's glistening with sweat, he's shining with pride, and he's as somber as ever.
Shawn felt desperation crawl into his throat, and, for once, Hart looked away quicker than Shawn could.
The Undertaker wasn't exactly easy conversation, especially not when the Bearer was with him, but Shawn felt like he was making considerable work done on making the man come out of his... Casket, a little bit. Even if it's just to get eye whites and an evil smile.
More than he's ever gotten from the Hitman.
Shawn waved off the Undertaker, who looked vaguely discomfited at the ease in which Shawn spoke to him, before he heard a loud laugh.
It was Owen Hart. He and the Hitman were watching the Bulldog, who had a sticky note between his enormous shoulders, and could not seem to get it off given the breadth of his biceps. Shawn knew the younger Hart liked to play those types of practical jokes, and generally kept his eyes peeled open around the kid as most of the jokes were funnier to see from afar than up close.
Owen was guffawing as the Bulldog cursed him out, Shawn snorting himself, until Davey Boy finally swiped it off and then Owen paled, Davey soon after giving chase.
But, at that point, Shawn's gaze was elsewhere.
Hitman watched his brother get ran off, and Shawn watched him, and then Hart was turning, shoulders tense, and his gaze zeroed in on Shawn, and Shawn realized with harsh clarity that they were completely alone, and then he realized that his back had hit the wall behind him with a smack, Hart pushing up against him, eyes on fire, lips stretched in a snarl, forearm right under Shawn's neck.
Shawn gasped, rearing his head back, the wall colliding with it solidly. “What the hell, Hart?” he panted out.
“No, Michaels, what the hell is up with you?” growled the other man. “Do you seriously think I don't see you every fucking day, staring? Glaring? Challenging? Do you want a fight? Because I always thought we were cool but if you don't, I'd be more than happy to make us real cool right here, right now.”
Shawn pushed against him, but Hart just pushed right back, this time pressing his shoulders deeper into the wall.
“I don't want to fucking fight you,” Shawn hissed through his teeth. “Lay off!”
“Then what do you want?” demanded Hart.
“I don't want — ”
“Stop lying!”
“I'm not — ”
“I see you frowning at me every fucking day like I ran over your cat!”
“I just — ”
“What do you fucking want from me?”
“I want you to fucking smile!” Shawn abruptly shouted.
Hart had gotten so far into his face that their noses were brushing, and when he exhaled in surprise, Shawn felt the cool air against his chin. Unwillingly, his eyes fell down to those haunting lips.
Hart pressed away from him. Shawn shrunk back.
“You — ” Hart shoved his brown curls from his face. “You, what?”
Shawn swallowed.
Hart blinked at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“You— you don't smile,” stammered Shawn, feeling like he was gutted wide open and left bare and utterly vulnerable. “Like. At all. I just— I couldn't help but stare at you, see if you ever actually— ” He weakly gestured to the air. “You know.”
Hart stared at him.
Shawn stared back, terror gripping his chest, but not in fear of physical assault. No, of something far more harmful.
It was a long, drawn-out silence.
Until Hart started laughing.
Shawn gaped. It came from the man's chest — it was almost visible, how it traveled from his sternum to his throat, coming out rough and low, his head tilting back a little, hair swaying, and— And a wide smile on his lips, teeth on full display, eyes squinting with merry, tongue peeking out just a bit, one hand coming up to catch his breath, and—
It was everything Shawn had hoped to see.
And it was... At his dispense.
Both thunderstruck by the sight and twisted at the deeper meaning, Shawn grit his teeth, pushing himself off the wall to push past Hart and leave all of this embarrassing, damningly hard shit behind. It was time to go back to easy. Easy and uncomplicated. Back to no Hart. Just heartbreak.
He moved forward, as quickly as he could, but Hart was always just as quick as he was. The Hitman caught his wrist before he could flee entirely, but as soon as Shawn tried to wrench it free, Hart quickly let it go.
“Michaels, wait,” he said breathlessly, brown eyes losing their humor for a second to reveal sincerity.
Shawn stilled, lips sealed unhappily.
Hart reached down and gently picked up Shawn's hand. He clasped it in his own.
“Would you— ” Hart wet his lips, a quick, nervous, movement “ — would you like to get dinner with me?”
“Yes,” Shawn's lips were saying, before he could even register the question.
But then Hart's lips stretched on again, this time in a soft but still brilliant smile, and then Shawn was pretty smug with his own immediate reply.
In fact, he thought, it was further proof that he never failed himself.
He easily smiled back at Bret, satisfied and pleased at the reflected expression.
If you watched the Hitman thereafter, he still doesn't smile. He smirks, and grins like a true arrogant (albeit rightfully) ass does, but there's never a genuine smile on his face.
But the Heartbreak Kid knows better.
Sometimes, Bret will catch gazes with Shawn, and Shawn will watch as those eyes brighten up like a star, warm over just as much, filled with glee, and it is, blissfully, enough.