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Title: Cenotaph
Author: Lizzie
E-Mail: [email protected] / [email protected]
Rating: PG-13
Content: Kinda angst and a little bad language, not that it actually matters �cos I�m sure no one reads my content warnings anyway�
Disclaimer: Don't own them, and unless I suddenly become Vince McMahon, I never will. Not saying this happened in any way, shape or form.
Distribution: I have a very simple philosophy - want, take, have. Just let me know where it is.
Summary: Hunter, Kurt and a photograph collection.
Notes: In case you don�t know what �cenotaph� means, I�ve included the dictionary definition at the end. If you don�t know (and I�m not assuming you don�t � I�m just dumb and didn�t know this word �til about a month or so ago) then please, please read the fic first and the definition after�

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Cenotaph
by Lizzie
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Do you know how weird it is to see a poster of yourself? It�s like, I�ll be walking down the street and suddenly I�ll turn and see myself in a shop window, a picture of me, larger than life, staring back. It�s freaky. Kinda reminds you a little that you�re on public display.

I�m never pleased with how I look on posters. Except maybe in a way I am, �cause at least I look like the character people see on TV. So in a way I�m not seeing posters of me but posters of the guy I play. It�s sure as hell not like I walk around every day of my life in leather shorts and wrestling boots, so yeah, it�s more like I�m seeing posters of someone else, someone removed from me but who has my face. Someone I know, but someone who�s just not quite me.

It�s not like seeing a photograph. Photographs I can deal with �cause usually they�re me, no questions asked. Me in a pair of old jeans and a shirt I should�ve thrown out years ago, hair tied back and a smile on my face. Sitting in someone�s back yard or at a party or even backstage at a show. They�re me. Sometimes I�ll be sitting with other people, standing around with the guys, drink in hand, grinning like a lunatic. Sometimes I�ll be with you, my arm around your waist, our heads resting together. I like photographs. Okay so I don�t like how I look in them either, but no one likes how they look in photographs. I just like they �cause they�re memories, a moment of my life frozen in time so I can never forget.

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There�s one in a frame on the dresser that was taken three days after we got together. We�re standing shoulder to shoulder, trying to look like we don�t feel awkward having someone take our picture together.

You�re wearing this shirt that looks like you borrowed it from Jericho � it�s black and almost see-through and kinda glittery and you spent all night tugging at the collar like it was the most uncomfortable thing you�d ever worn. I remember spending most of the night staring at you �cause under the light in the restaurant I could see straight through that shirt, and the light was picking out the definition on your chest something amazing.

I�m wearing the ugliest DX shirt in existence, and my hair�s hanging around my shoulders in what looks like some kinda vain attempt to hide from the camera. But that�s not how it was at all � about three minutes before you�d told me you liked the way my hair looked when it was down, not in-the-ring down when it�s soaked through but when it�s dry and kinda feathery. So I took it down and shook it out and you looked over the table at me with this incredible smile on your face.

If you went by that photo alone we look unbelievably uncomfortable with each other. It could�ve been taken anywhere. It could�ve been taken for any reason. We could even be complete strangers. But we were there and I know that night was technically our first date, we were just outside a restaurant in Pittsburgh and your mom took the picture. I also know that later on that night you told me you loved me and we made love for the first time. I remember that night every time I look at that photograph. It was one of the happiest of my life. No one would be able to tell that just looking at it.

***

There�s one of Benoit and Jericho sitting in the bottom drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed. It�s on top of a huge stack of photos and I know it wasn�t the first one on the film so you must�ve left it at the top. You were probably meaning to give it to them and forgot or something. Now it�s just sitting there at the top of a huge stack, looking a little strange in a drawer in our room. After all, it�s a photo of them. Most of the photographs under it are of us.

I remember the day it was taken. We were all in Canada somewhere and it must�ve been ten below freezing outside; we walked into the arena that night and we could still see our breath in the locker room �til we complained like hell and eventually someone took the hit and turned the heating up. But the two of them didn�t seem to feel it � they were sitting there opposite each other at a table, holding hands, smiling and whispering. You tossed me the camera and yelled something their names, then as they turned around I took a picture.

They look so happy. There�s this weird sort of glow on their faces, like they�re looking at the camera the exact same way they were just looking at each other. Jericho looks about five years younger than he actually is, and Benoit actually looks handsome. They look like they�ve been that way forever, like they�re just so happy it hurts and like they�re not freezing their collective ass off backstage in an arena before a show. I can see why you�d want to give it to them � I don�t think I�ve ever seen them look quite like that around each other before that or after.

Because what the photograph can�t tell you is that they hadn�t been talking for over three weeks before that, all because Benoit walked in and found his lover in bed with a couple of other blonde Canadians. Or that a week later Jericho left him for Lance Storm. Of course they�re back together again now, just like they always are, but in that one photo they look like nothing could ever come between them. Just goes to show that sometimes a picture doesn�t tell you the whole story.

***

And there�s one sitting on my nightstand, probably the biggest picture we�ve ever had, in this heavy wrought-iron frame. It�s black and white, like all of them we had taken that day are for some reason. I think it was your idea, but I�m not sure why you wanted them black and white. Something to do with timelessness, I think. Except of course I know exactly when it was taken.

It was a beautiful day, in the spring, and we�d been half expecting it to rain just to spite us and the incredible happy mood we were in. But it stayed fine and sunny all day, not a hint of wind or rain. And in the photo we�re standing in our back garden, out on the grass, with all these white roses around us. We�re standing close and we�ve got our arms around each other�s waists, not even facing the camera, just looking at each other, our foreheads resting together as you reach up to brush a strand of my hair back from my face. We�ve never looked more contented.

You look so handsome in your tux, one I chose out for you a couple of weeks before when you were having a panic attack about the clothes you were going to wear. I think mine looks a little shabby in comparison but that�s only because I can remember how it looked that day after I�d pulled the thread out of the jacket lapel and made a mess of tying my tie. You can see that in the picture, though. All you can see is us standing together, gazing into each other�s eyes, rings shining on our fingers.

That�s my happiest memory, that moment, standing there knowing I had you completely and you were never going to love anyone else. And in that instant just before the photograph was taken, I knew I would never love anyone else the way I loved you. I can remember that feeling every time I see the look on my face in that picture, the look that�s reflected in yours. It was a perfect moment. One of many in our lives but better than them all because right then any doubts I may have had were laid to rest. I knew that I would never want to be with anyone but you for the rest of my life, and you felt exactly the same way.

***

It�s weird seeing posters of myself. I was walking past a store today and I saw this giant print of me in the window. Y�know, one of those supposedly life-size standing cardboard cut-out things that are never the right height and are usually just plain ugly. And sometimes when I see things like that in a store window I just get this weird urge to go inside just to see if anyone notices who I am. Childish, yeah, but it can be fun.

So I went inside. I strolled around for a couple of minutes getting odd little looks from some of the people in there, trying not to grin to myself. Then before I knew it I was standing in front of a poster rack and without thinking I started to flick through it.

It�s amazing how many posters that store had of Eminem or Britney Spears or the cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But then I got into the sports section and found a couple of Jericho, one of the Hardys, one of Lita, an old one I could�ve sworn they�d discontinued of Shawn and then one of me. It�s an ugly thing, but for some reason it seems right. I mean, there I am standing there in those leather shorts, flexing and doing that damn stupid-ass �I am the Game� type pose with my face all screwed up like I�m trying to scare small children or something. I swear they must�ve had it touched up �cause I looked like hell that day. You know, like they do with models. Not that I�m comparing myself with models or anything but, well, you know what I mean.

And you know, I think I might�ve been wrong about posters in a way. Because I can remember the day those pictures were taken, too. Except they�re not really personal memories, but work memories. Standing in a studio having some photographer trying to make me look Game-like. It was all about getting the character right for the photos, not about candid shots. It�s a weird kind of impersonal memory I have about that poster. And it�s not the way I remember it really, �cause they�ve flipped it and airbrushed it and stuck in fake background and this huge-ass HHH thing in the top. Sometimes I wonder if anyone�d buy a poster without all of that cosmetic magic worked on it. Probably not.

I was going to leave then, except just by chance I flipped forward and suddenly I couldn�t stop staring. I didn�t know they�d got a poster like that. I didn�t know the Federation was tasteless enough to do it. It seriously felt like someone had just reached into my chest and wrapped an icy hand around my heart, �cause there you were, larger than life on an ugly blue background in that damned singlet, grinning that dumb Olympic Hero grin.

Except when I saw it all I could think was that wasn�t your gimmick, that was you. It *was* you. Because the smile wasn�t quite so Olympic Hero bright, the expression not quite so forced. It was in the way you were standing, the way you weren�t even looking at the camera. I know where you were looking. I was there that day. You were looking at me. And the photographer caught that, that private look that was meant only for me, so happy because you�d just caught sight of me. You hadn�t even known I was going to be there that day.

I can remember standing behind the camera and grinning at you, watching you do the rest of the shoot then whisking you home as fast as humanly possible, spending the rest of the night making love and catching up. I hadn�t seen you for weeks because of that stupid fucking rehab schedule and we had a lot to catch up on. I remember the next morning, pulling you into the shower and feeling you inside me for the first time in months. That�s what I saw when I looked at that stupid fucking poster.

I guess someone in the merchandising department decided it was a good idea to put out a poster of you that was just a little off the norm, where you looked like an actual person and not like the living embodiment of your fucking gimmick. In that respect it was a good idea. But it still hurt, still brought tears to my eyes. They�d changed little details, airbrushed out a scar and a mole, made your eyes a little bluer. And there in the corner printed over your thigh in bright white lettering was the dedication �Kurt Angle: 19-2001�.

I bought a copy with tears in my eyes from an awed clerk and made my way back to the hotel.

***

So here I am, sitting in this room just staring at a poster of you. It keeps curling up at the edges so I�ve laid it out on the bed and put the Gideon Bible on one end and my wallet and cell phone on the corners so it stays rolled out. I can�t stop looking at it. I�m sitting here staring at it with tears in my eyes so I can�t actually see much more than a red and blue blur, but I know what it looks like. I was there that day and I remember everything about the way you looked. I can remember seeing it in the store earlier and I remember all the little seemingly insignificant changes they�d made to the way you looked. Insignificant to them maybe but not to me. You were perfect just the way you were and they�ve tried to change you, make you better, but it�s just made you look false somehow. Like it�s you but not you. I hate them for doing that.

And I know that if I went to Vince then I could probably get the line discontinued and there�d be no more of these achingly false images of you printed anywhere. Except I�m not going to do that.

You see, it hurts like hell to see this poster, to see how you look, but there�s more to it. Anyone can see how happy you look in it. Anyone can see that that�s the real you and not you pretending to be someone you weren�t. Anyone can look at it and get a glimpse into your life, into our life, into how perfect we were together. And I like that. I like that everyone who sees it�s going to know you were happy. I want that to be the way you�re remembered.

And when someone puts one of those posters on a wall, looks at you and remembers the way you were, it�s a little like a cenotaph. It�s a little like a memorial to you. Each one, you�re remembered a little bit more, remembered a little better, remembered more as you were and not as Kurt Angle, Olympic Hero, WWF Superstar. And I know it won�t just be me who remembers you as you really were.

But most of all, looking at that poster, even if it makes me sad, even if it reminds me you�re gone and I�m never going to see your face or hear your voice or feel you in my arms, even if it makes me ache inside and curse the driver of the car that killed you� it makes me remember how much you loved me. And how much I loved you. In the end that�s what really matters.

Okay, so we didn�t have a lifetime. But what we did have was happiness.

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End
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Cenotaph: n. monument honouring a dead person or persons not buried there. Yeah so I�ve used it a little out of context, but you get what I mean :)