024 (your story vs mine) [SCW]

Friday, September 11, 2015 

Even though it was barely after midnight, the date resonated in his mind because he knew that today would be one of reflection - of remembrance (and perhaps sadness) - for most of the world. For Larry Gowan, it was a bit of both as he pulled a strip off the packing tape, sealing up the last box before shoving it out into the hallway with the others that would be bound for their storage locker downstairs come morning. Standing back, he looked at the now-barren bedroom, feeling a strange sort of euphoria bubble up from deep within him. In a few days, the bedroom set and mattress they'd ordered would arrive. Next week, the woman from the adoption agency would be coming by for a second home visit, one of the last evaluations before his dream could become a reality.

Reaching up, he loosened the bow tie he wore, tugging until it came untied and dangled around his neck. Tidying in a tuxedo wasn't his usual fare, but he'd already managed to spill some of the béarnaise sauce on his pants at the gala dinner so what was a little dust? Either way, it would need a good dry cleaning. Slowly, he started unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards the shelf on the wall that contained a single item: a snow globe. Giving it a shake, he stared into its contents, watching the iridescent white flakes swirl…

(the past: Toronto)

Saturday, December 20, 2014 

The stockings were hung by the gas fireplace with care, the electric blue elf bootie-shaped one on the left already shedding a light dusting of iridescent glitter on the polished hardwood floor. The stylized G that had been so painstakingly applied years ago was starting to give up the ghost but Larry Gowan didn't care. It was one of the first things that Chauncy had ever given him as a gift and it would continue to be used until it was completely destroyed - he still had ornaments that had been in the family since before he'd been born, after all. Most of those were already hanging from the real tree that stood in front of the window, the lights already twinkling warmly through the tinsel as the sun set outside. Nodding in satisfaction, Gowan stepped back and admired his handiwork.

"You forgot something." Of course, nothing had been forgotten; it was simply that Chauncy had invested in something new: a gift that was meant to add to the decoration, thus making Christmas Day far too late to give it. One hand extended, the gift bag dangled from his fingertips, and Chauncy raised his brows. "You're terribly forgetful at times."

At the sound of his voice, Gowan turned around, unable to contain the smile on his face. The sight of that gift bag made that little boy inside start jumping up and down with eager excitement although the only outward expression of that glee was the sparkle in his blue eyes. "Are you sure?" He continued to sell the little white lie, "I don't really remember packing anything away in a bag like that."

"Positive. It's certainly not mine. It has your name on the tag, if you care to look." He lightly lifted his fingers, let them drop, jiggling the bag. "Perhaps I ought to put it away…"

"It's a little early for gift exchange, isn't it?" Although the question was meant to be joking, Gowan inched closer, holding out his hand, "although I suppose I can make an exception to the rules since I'm already in the festive spirit."

"An error? Hm." He held it up to his face. "It's possible it's for another Lawrence. Welk, perhaps."

"Ah, yes. It could be," he nodded sagely, warming to the game as he realised that Chauncy was actually flirting, "one musician is easily confused with another. Although, since he's been dead since the early 90's, I suppose I can accept it in his stead." He closed the gap between them, almost greedily snatching at the string handles. "Give it here, then. Let's have a look at what's inside."

"All right, but do be careful. If it's been sitting around for twenty years, let's hope it's not chocolates," came the answer. "Open your gift, Lawrence."

Holding it almost gingerly, Gowan carried the bag over to the couch, sitting down before he started tearing into it. With one last puzzled glance up at Chauncy, he snapped the little piece of tape that was holding it shut. Inside was a plain black box and he slid this out with care, setting it on the cushion beside him. "It's not a time bomb - don't hear any ticking. So that's good. Too small for chocolates." The smile was still there, but it was in danger of growing watery. "I told you that you didn't have to get me anything this year. I actually meant it, you know. Us being here right now is far more than-"

"And I told you, you must have simply forgotten to pack it." There was a sort of indulgent affection in the smile. "You really need to open it, though, or I shall become impatient."

"Of course. Sorry." Gowan nodded, turning back to fiddle with the box, turning it over in his hands until he found the flap to open the top. Inside was a cube of Styrofoam and he frowned for a second, trying to pull it free without damaging the box. Running his thumbnail down the seam, he broke another tape barrier before parting the halves to reveal a snow globe. The base of it was black, polished and glittery as though it was made from some precious stone. He turned it over and found himself looking down at a familiar setting reproduced in miniature. He bit his lip, feeling tears threatening to fall as he stared at Times Square in New York. A date was etched in silver on the base along with the location and the numbers swam as he tried not to blink and fall apart at the simple gesture - 2010. "You're right," he said softly, gently giving the globe a shake to make the little iridescent snowflakes start whirling through the water, "I forgot this."

Chauncy eased himself down on the arm of the couch, and rested a hand on Larry's shoulder. "I thought a reminder, at this time of year… and now, obviously… well, I thought-" He never had been as good at articulating the positive.

"It was a good thought," Gowan closed his eyes for a moment, remembering that night - it seemed at least a thousand years ago and a snippet of that song flitted through his head. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?" He sang them softly, tears overflowing and spilling down his cheeks. "It was a good thought, love," his heart on his sleeve as he met his partner's gaze, "definitely one of your best."

(the present: Toronto)

Friday, September 11, 2015 

The globe was clutched in his hands still as he sat down on the couch next to where Chauncy was dozing with the television remote in his hand. The words of that familiar New Year's tune ran through his head as he thought back to that awkward proposal of his and how he'd been so sure that Chauncy was going to turn him down because he'd been so reserved, quieter than usual. Missed cues had plagued them for years and it was finally comforting to find that they were on the same page (in the same book, no less).

Gently, he set it down and leaned forward, unsnapping the latches on the antique footlocker that served as their makeshift coffee table. Inside, he found that plain black box and pulled it out before liberating the Styrofoam from inside. Slowly and with great care, he packed it away before setting it back in its place. There was a wistful smile on his face as he stared at the rest of the things inside. This was his collection, all of the most important mementos of his career, lovingly and painstakingly packed into this fire-proof container - he'd started collecting reminders right about the time he'd gotten the head injury that had begun to affect his short term memory. There was a Ziploc freezer baggie full of matchbooks, for example, collected from various cities, mostly from hotel bars and restaurants he'd eaten at back in the late 90's and early 2000's before smoking had been abolished. Every one of them triggered a snippet of memory, a little story that went with it. He lifted that out of the way, picking up a plain white washcloth that lay underneath before letting out a soft sigh of contentment.

His eyes went to Chauncy's dozing form before he lifted it to his face, smelling the faint scent of bleach that always seemed to define hotel linens, letting his mind cast back to that moment. His last actual singles match on August 31, 2014 against Matt Stone in Tennessee. He'd lost, been trounced, really, blasted in the face with a pair of brass knuckles and Stone would have continued the assault if Chauncy hasn't stormed the ring out of absolutely nowhere and made the save. Afterwards, they'd shared a hotel room and like a sentimental fool he'd stolen the little while square of terrycloth as a reminder of the night his beloved Chauncy had come back. It seemed strange to even think that it had already been a year but the proof was right next to him, snoring softly. Every time he looked over to see the man at his side, he felt the butterflies deep in his stomach. That would never grow old, would never go out of style.

Feeling his emotions swimming dangerously close to the surface, he reached out, resting his hand gently on his husband's ankle. His voice held a slight hitch that evened out when those gorgeous blue eyes opened. "Perhaps we should call it a night, hm?"

Chauncy lifted his head, and gave Larry a sleepy smile before rubbing at his eyes. "Mmm, probably a good idea. I was going to help with the bedroom and all, but we might need to do it tomorrow, the way I feel. You look like you've still got another match or so in you, though. Have you been playing Energizer Bunny?"

"The bedroom's all cleared. I finished packing the last box while you had your little nap. Don't worry about that," Larry replied with a gentle smile, "I still had energy to burn. You know how I get when I perform. I'll probably need to have a hot tea with milk before I can switch off."

The remote safely tucked amongst the cushions, Chauncy sat up, pillow-rumpled and bleary as he took in what his husband was doing. "Especially true if you're going to rummage in the box, love. You'll have the oddest dreams even if you do sleep, after you've tiptoed down memory lane there."

"Maybe it's time to get rid of some of these things. I mean, if we're moving forward, I'm doing no favours keeping myself mired in the past." Reaching inside the box, he pulled out a framed snapshot: an old publicity photo of a grinning, baby-faced Gowan standing beside a taller fellow with the same piercing blue eyes, identical gold belts over their shoulders - the WCWF Tag Team titles. "Shawn… goodness, we've far surpassed that old record now - you and I. We must have, even if…" a dark look passed over his features, "dropping the ball still stings in the worst way. Sherry and Marissa expected more from us, I'm sure. Even if they haven't said anything, I'm sure they're disappointed."

"Sherry and Marissa are individually two of the toughest wrestlers I've ever seen, and collectively even more so," answered Chauncy, always the voice of reason. "And I doubt they'd let that happen to a division they've made synonymous with their name. As for us, we dropped the ball together, and we can pick it up together."

Mollified, Larry nodded, "you're right, of course. I think I'm more irritated than anything else over the slight. They made such a racket about the belts as if they were going to talk back in our stead and… I'm just so furious. I can't believe those… those two… they didn't utter a word about it last week. I can understand being otherwise occupied on show day but there was no acknowledgement of what we said on social media that I could find… nothing. I'm just feeling a bit like they collected OUR raison d'être and tossed them right in the trash." Larry's voice belied his frustration. "I feel as though this booking is directly related to that, as though I'm being punished for being just a little cheeky when we're the only ones who seem to care about those belts… that division… it's just… I don't want a repeat of Phoenix, where we're stuck in a loop, facing Redneck Rampage over and over again and that's what it feels like we're spiralling-"

"Lawrence, take a breath. You're spiralling. Remember, we can only control our own actions, not those of others, and that their silence reflects badly on them, not on us." He reached out and ruffled Larry's hair. "And it doesn't negate either of our records, simply gives us a goal to work toward. We've done it before, remember?"

He let the picture fall back into the box, atop the memorabilia. The WCWF Cruiserweight belt glimmered, catching his attention. He withdrew this with a shaking hand. "Funny you mention the goal. This was mine. My… the first gold. You never forget your first… and… four months I held this, uncontested. That was…" he counted on his fingers, his lips moving before he looked back up into the sleepy face of his husband, "my goodness… it's been almost fourteen years. When they retired the belt, they gave it to me. This is the original. The replica hangs on the wall in Texas... or maybe it's packed in a storage locker somewhere since they went under. Maybe it was liquidated or pawned off after the PWE merger - I'm not really sure." He sighed, shaking his head. "I gave my heart and soul for this, beating guys like Zero and Berserker. Guys you never really heard of because they were already ghosts by the time I met you. They've vanished off the face of the Earth. They were never significant enough to get on that 'Whatever Happened To...?' show. And now, it's…" he dropped it back into the box, "now it's just meaningless junk-"

"No, never meaningless. They're steps on the path that brought us here," argued Chauncy gently, watching his husband's face with a hint of concern. "None of this is meaningless. Not if you're here with me."

Another photograph emerged from the box. Five men, striking classic poses. The Knights of Anarchy, one of the most prestigious stables in WCWF history. Raymond Chandler with his hand resting on Gowan's shoulder. Dane Rennier and Brad Jackson on either sides, because to put them together would have resulted in the picture not being taken before everything in the room was broken in the scuffle. Stan Stone stalwart in the background, not looking at the camera. It was an early photo, and every man in it had made the Hall of Fame. Gowan's finger traced his unlined smiling face, captured forever in time on the edge of a laugh. "Dreams fade over time. All you get are memories and snapshots. Things you can remember it by. The night Brad and I wrestled Stan and Dane, only to be given KoA tees after losing the match - I thought that was the pinnacle of my career. Being taken seriously by Ray was a huge deal and to be a part of that group was phenomenal. It was the beginning of the end for me. The taste of the big time. The huge pops coming out that tunnel from the gorilla position. People clamoring for my autograph, waiting in those long lines. For a while I even stopped drinking, stopped doing anything but living for that moment when everyone would scream my name. Belts came. The win column filled up. I was untouchable for a while and I really started to believe it would never end." His blue eyes were dark, piercing as a strand of hair fell over them. He made no move to clear his vision. Wasn't really looking at the picture now. Instead he was focused on what Chauncy had said, about the moments that had brought them here.

Chauncy shifted, moving around to place a light hand on Larry's shoulder. "Is tonight the best night to be waxing nostalgic? You really oughtn't do that when you're this tired."

He sighed, "I suppose you're right. I was looking for… oh." Setting the picture aside gently, he pulled out a black shirt with a white anarchy symbol on it, unfolding it. The collar was worn, dotted with frayed holes. The seams under the arms had given way, sprouting holes and he was thinking that he could mend those easily enough. It might be something cool to pass on to that potential son. "This was that shirt - the first one they gave me. I wore it for the better part of the next year, until they forced me to stop because I looked a little more Lex Collins-esque than White Knight. They gave me a new one, laughed because I didn't want to wear it. This one had become more than a shirt at that point. It was a symbol, and a way for me to try and hold on to that hopeful optimism because a year later, I wasn't the same. I was angry. I was bitter. I was paranoid. The world of corporate screwjobs had reared its ugly head. Asking me to be a team player and put over the little guy came back to haunt me." He sighed, shaking his head, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem.

"Once a jobber, always a jobber, you see. They figured I'd be willing to let them put the International Television title on me, so that I could lose it three days later to put over some faceless rookie - their next big thing and I would have done it with a smile but I didn't want to give up that gold so I went out there and I kicked the kid's keister. I gave him the invisible treatment, made him look like a fool. I was stripped of the belt, suspended for three weeks, and relegated to the airtime segments that opened the show. Everyone knows that the first twenty minutes of the two hour broadcast is where you put the recap filler that nobody cares about. They sandwiched me there. Told me to talk about the feuds they'd planned out for me. KoA versus the rest of the locker room. White Knights against the evil and when Brad turned on me, it made things worse. He cost me that cruiserweight belt and then they… they retired it and I was nothing once again." He shook his head, "I turned back to the bottle, and stopped caring. That… was about eight months before we met, give or take. I guess… maybe I never told you any of this because you held me in such high regard."

"I still do, you know. I always will. And this is what we're working against, isn't it? We need to be that force for hopeful optimism for everybody who makes a Knights sign, or cheers when we enter, or just needs a signpost to doing the right thing. I know it's frustrating; I know you're kicking yourself for that loss, but we lost it together, and we'll have other wins, and other losses, because that's the game."

He set the shirt aside on the arm of the couch and dragged in a slow breath, pressing his palms against his thighs as he tried to rein in his emotions. "I just can't help but feel like I've been here before, love. I suppose that's why I'm waxing nostalgic tonight, besides the obvious. You know how I am… there's always a comparison. I'm talking myself into a loss already, I know, but Dom Harter reminds me far too much of Brad Jackson in the worst ways imaginable."

"Well, they're both certainly men on their own mission, aren't they? Just don't forget ours, Lawrence."

He closed the lid, snapping the latches home before realising he still had the washcloth on his lap. "No," he said softly, running his hand over that soft cotton as he looked up at his husband, gratitude written all over his face, "I could never when I have you here to remind me."