Title: One Word
Author: Lizzie
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating: PG-13. Drat, and I thought I was gonna get back up to an NC-17...
Content: Just a little angst and language, implied m/m.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and unless I wake up one morning having mysteriously become Vince McMahon, I doubt they ever will be. Damn, that's a scary thought.
Distribution: Not that you're likely to want it, but if you do, just tell me where.
Summary: A question Kurt can�t answer.
Notes: I blame my newly-acquired Jericho muse for this. Completely.

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One Word
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You know what I hate? Don�t answer that � it�s a rhetorical question and you�d be wrong anyway. You�d probably say working weekends, Xena or cheese or something. I�m not saying you�d be totally wrong, but you�d be missing the point �cause none of that�s what I�m talking about here.

You know what I hate? I hate interviews. Okay, that�s a dumb generalisation �cause I don�t hate all interviews. They�re a part of doing what we do and I accept that. And I guess in that ego-stroking kinda way I actually enjoy them. Y�know, knowing people out there might actually be interested in what I have to say. So what is it about them I hate? Oh, there�s definitely something to hate.

I hate specific questions. I hate �describe yourself/your profession/someone you know in three words�. I hate that. Word association too. That thing where someone says a word and you�re supposed to answer back with the first thing that comes to mind. I loathe that. Especially when WWF Magazine does it, because they seem to have this special gift for taking all the questions I hate and firing them at me all at once. Word association with names. Instead of three words you�ve got one to sum up an entire personality. And you�re not supposed to think about it �cause it�s supposed to be spontaneous in word association. Damn I hate that. Considering they own our characters you�d think they could just make it all up to fit and attribute it to us, but no. That�d be far too simple.

I�m pretty sure you won�t understand this. In fact, I know you won�t. You love interviews. You just slip effortlessly into character, assume the Jericho position and off you go. You�re blunt and witty and entertaining and you instinctively know exactly what to say. Its like you don�t even stop to think, your mouth just runs on autopilot. I really do envy you that. Everything�s just totally off the top of your head and still absolutely perfect. I can never believe how easy it is for you.

Because I have to work at it, sit down and figure out my answers beforehand, what I think the fans want to head me say. What Kurt Angle, WWF Superstar, is supposed to say. �Cause you know what? It�s easier to come up with an answer in character. Underneath it all, the real me has no answers.

Not that I�m saying I�m inept, �cause I can think on my feet when I have to. I just have to take a step back real quick and ask myself what Vince would want me to say. Or I think back over past interviews and come up with a version of something I�ve said before. It�s not that it�s really hard per se, it�s just that I hate it. I resent having to do it.

And I�m not saying this has anything to do with mic skills or promos, �cause I think I enjoy that stuff almost as much as you do. We get out there in front of a sold-out arena and suddenly I�m Kurt Angle, superhero, and you�re Chris Jericho. I love it, it�s a great feeling. Talking out there isn�t what bothers me. Spontaneity, improvisation, that�s not what bothers me.

Is this making sense yet? It should be. It should be pretty darn clear what I�m getting at. You only asked me maybe three days ago and I know you�re still wondering about it. It�s still right there, eating away at you in the back of your brain. I know you and I know the way you think � once you get something in your head you have to work it through before you can let it go. So you should really understand what this is about.

You�ve asked me some pretty dumb questions in the past now I think about it. And I put up with them. I answer them. Because I know you wouldn�t ask if it wasn�t important to you. When you ask if your new vinyl pants make your thighs look like Rhyno�s, I smile and reassure you. When you�re having a panic attack over what to do with your hair and you ask me whether I think you should keep the beard or shave it or have a goatee or just keep the sideburns or whatever, do I just laugh at you? No. When you ask if I loved �the other Chris� more than you, I could be so sarcastic. But I�m not. I just kiss you and tell you honestly that I�ve never loved anyone more than you. Because it�s true. Why else would I put up with you? You�re a whining, self-conscious neurotic. But I guess all that�s part of why I love you.

Except for some reason you don�t seem to understand that. You may be hyper-confident in Jericho mode, but sometimes you�re so insecure there�s nothing I can do to persuade you that I love you like I do. Telling you just isn�t enough. Making love to you doesn�t show you either. You�d think maybe both at the same time would do the trick, but nope. I could almost take that as an insult, don�t you think? If I didn�t understand you the way I do then I might take it that way. But I do understand you. And I love you. That�s why I put up with all your crap.

But you know, I almost wish I hadn�t. Maybe if I�d told you to stop being such a jackass� Not that I�m saying I would�ve left you over it, �cause I�m not that damn petty. I just wish I�d made it clear that sometimes there are questions that I can�t or won�t answer. That might have helped me now.

We were lying in bed one night, nothing unusual about that. I was playing with the ends of your hair, looking down at you as you stared off into space. You�re cute when you�re like that, all your defences down, all your pretences dropped. Sometimes with me it�s like you check them at the door. Sometimes not and just by looking at you I can tell. That night you had. It was just you and me with nothing between us.

You looked up at me suddenly, a frown forming on your face, and I let go of your hair. You sat up and pulled yourself back, making the bed squeak as you leant back against the headboard.

�Kurt, can I ask you something?� you asked. I just managed to catch myself before I could sigh. With you that�s a huge no-no. When you get that serious you like to know you�re being taken seriously.

�Sure. Shoot�.

�How do you feel about me?� I frowned. �I mean, in one word. You�ve got one word. Say you�ve been in a car wreck and you�re lying there dying on a gurney and you�ve only got the strength to say one word to me. What would you say?� I opened my mouth but snapped it shut again as I saw the look on your face. �And I don�t mean love. My word�s love, that�s taken already. So you�re dying and you need to tell me how you feel in just one word. What is it?�

I couldn�t answer. I just plain couldn�t answer. I sat there and I stared at you and I couldn�t say a word. I couldn�t even tell you it wasn�t a fair question. You sat there looking at me expectantly for a moment, then your eyes narrowed and I knew that wasn�t a good sign.

�Well?� you said. All I could do was stare at you some more. And all I could do was stare as you left the bed, dressed and left the room.

I know exactly what must�ve been going through your head. You know I know you so there�s no way you can tell me truthfully that I don�t know what you were thinking. That wasn�t a simple spur-of-the-moment type questions. I bet you�d spent all day thinking about how to phrase it, worrying you�d screw it up, wondering what my reaction would be. Now you�d finally asked and I�d said nothing. Absolutely nothing. And of course you knew exactly what that meant. I had nothing to say. I couldn�t tell you how I felt so of course that meant I felt nothing. I couldn�t even come up with one lousy word. If I was dying I wouldn�t care enough about you to say one lousy word. Maybe I didn�t feel anything for you at all. If I couldn�t tell you that must be right, right?

So you left. What point was there in staying if I didn�t love you? I found out the next day you�d spent the night in Adam and Jay�s room, you�d left me alone.

You came back the next night and tried to act like nothing had happened. We were okay again. But I know it�s still on your mind. You�re just not dumb enough to leave me over this. But you�re still thinking about it, wondering why. You just wanted me to say one word, one lousy word out of millions, anything, I don�t think you�d even really care what it was as long as it was in the right general direction. But I could even give you one word. All I have to do was pick one. Any one. Any one of a million.

But what you don�t see it that that�s exactly the problem. For you there is no problem. Ask you and question and you�ll answer back completely unfazed. But Chris, even after all the questions I�ve answered for you, there are still some things I just can�t do. This is one of them.

Because how could I put this into words? Even �I love you� doesn�t do this justice, so how do I take it down to one word? I just can�t. I just keep thinking. I come up with word after word after word and none of them seem quite right. Just when I settle on a word I think of another and another. Or I decide it�s the wrong word. And I�m terrified of that. I don�t want to choose the wrong word and say it and have you hear it then it�s too late and it�s hanging between us. I love you, Chris. I want every moment to be perfect. I don�t� want to screw this up by saying the wrong thing. And you should know, right now, that there�s a good reason why I didn�t answer you. There�s just not a word I know in any language that means everything you mean to me. I�d need a million words and even then I don�t think I could get it right. Giving me one word and ten seconds just isn�t fair. It�s not a fair question.

Besides, if I was dying, if you were there with me, I wouldn�t need words. All you�d have to do it look into my eyes because I know you�d see it. As I looked at you you�d see, because I�d know exactly what was being taken away from me. Not just my life, but my reason for living. You.

But I can�t tell you that. That neurosis of yours wouldn�t let you believe me if I did. You�re insecure, anxious and paranoid, no matter how much you pretend you�re not, so no matter how much you may want to believe me, I doubt you ever would. And I can�t answer your question. Maybe eventually you�ll forget about it, but I wouldn�t want to bet. I know this is important to you. You�ll just never understand my reasons, just like I�ll never find the perfect word.

But I can tell you one thing. Right now as we lie here, as I toy with the ends of your hair and watch you sleep, there�s one word that springs to mind. Tomorrow I�ll have changed my mind again, but right now this is it. I look down at you, beautiful, perfect. I love you so much my heart swells. And the only word I can think of is �forever�.

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End
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