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The bar is a pretext neither of them needs. Punk can just as easily knock on Cena's door, and off they go, clandestine. But doing that means missing out on the furtive glances across the room, the challenge of keeping track of a distant desired body and a prosaic conversation. Punk likes the dance of tension, the good kind, anticipation and thrill in his stomach like five seconds before his music hits and he strolls down the ramp to the cheer and jeer of ten thousand fans. John is only one man, but it's six of one, half dozen of the other.
It's electric, the focus of Cena's blue eyes. Punk can feel it on his skin. Sparks and a half-second from ignition, but not just yet. Not in the bar, not in the elevator, not on the stretch of hallway to room that feels a half mile long. They bump shoulders, exchange words, jovial banter, but the main event is behind closed doors.
They don't make it to the bed. Not yet. Punk pushes Cena against the wall, just inside the doorway, where it's narrow and cramped and the world feels three inches too tight. He crushes Cena, holds him in place with arms and body, and, most importantly, with his mouth. There's that split second where Cena doesn't do a thing but feel, be smothered, be kissed, be wanted like fire wants oxygen. It turns Punk on, inexplicable, or maybe it's the knowledge that Cena wants this so much that sometimes he can't be brought to action, made passive, receptive. No smart words and no smarter action.
It's not long, of course, before Cena's grabbing at Punk's hair. Punk's not much for hairpulling, too much stress on his roots already from inside the ring, but he always makes an exception, because it's John, because whenever Cena yanks like so, the spark goes straight to his dick.
It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. But Punk doesn't think on that, not now, not when Cena pushes forward from the wall and flips them around, knocks his breath out of him. Punk's shoulders meet the wall in a hard press, and there's John, all over him, mouth on the side of his neck, fingers curling under the collar of his t-shirt like he wants to yank it open, who cares if seams fly. It won't be the first time Cena's done damage to his wardrobe, and Punk's ceased to care, because Cena makes up for it. A hard grind, a harder press of hand and fingertips, then John's falling to his knees, mouth on Punk's belly, nuzzles and kisses all in one as Cena undoes his belt and fly.
Punk never realized hips can be an erogenous zone until Cena. John Cena, who licks the curve like a dessert, no shame and all relish, slow and measured. He tugs Punk's jeans down, boxers and all, efficient like a punch, and already Punk's breathing hard, through his mouth, aching for more. Cena doesn't need directions or a roadmap to reach his destination, mouth hot and wet around Punk's cock, and all Punk can do is slump and groan, fists clutched tight over Cena's t-shirt.
When it gets really good, Punk hisses, strokes his thumb all gentle-like along Cena's hairline before he jerks Cena forward. Not a hard yank, not enough to make him choke. John makes a noise, soft, practically yielding, and that's Punk's cue to push Cena back and get him back on his feet. He likes Cena's mouth -- loves it, in fact -- but he presses Cena into the opposite wall and buries his face into Cena's neck. And like that, he gets Cena out of his jeans, too, and he grips them both in hand. John makes another one of those soft noises in his ear, wraps his arms around Punk, and Punk breathes him in, sweat and musk and aftershave. Cena humps his hand, pushes against his cock, and sweetness sings operatic in Punk's veins.
No reason, no logic, can compare with this.
After, once they've cleaned up, Punk sprawls on the queen-sized, fresh t-shirt from Cena and his own boxers, as Cena lays on his side next to him, shirtless, jean-shorts and sport socks. Punk finds the combination a little ridiculous, but it's endearing and a secret amusement, like an old joke that never fails to bring a smile to his face.
Punk likes this part, too, the lying around. Cena's close enough that Punk can feel the heat radiating off him. Cena can touch if he wants, but he's just looking. Not staring, just looking. It should be awkward, but Punk likes it somehow. There are a lot of somehow's with John. Somehow, he likes the guy. Somehow, they make sense together.
Maybe it's because Cena is like a slice of all of Punk's friends put together. A little of Joe's boisterous swagger, a dash of Daniels' acerbic wit. Even the occasional hint of AJ's sweetness and a lot of his boyish charm, tempered with Cena's own brand of macho presumption. Not quite like Cabana though, but then again, Colt's in a category all his own. John Cena is like a placebo capsule of Punk's indy days, but Cena's never run the road like Punk and all the rest of them. And Punk's never fucked any of his friends either.
This is perhaps the biggest irony of Punk's life, that he's with this guy who's the epitome of everything he dislikes about the business. Cena is a jock. The quarterback with the fawning girls and all that gleaming in the sun. Punk doesn't like jocks, and he's no cheerleader. He busted tail and head to land himself here, the big league, the big times, and sometimes it feels like Cena is a product of having the right body at the right time. No backwater hick towns for John Cena. No piling five into a compact, no getting stiffed by shitty promoters, no shoddy rings and shoddier opponents.
But it's unfair to say Cena's saving grace is that he's the Frankenstein of all the people Punk doesn't get to see much anymore. It's unfair because John's more than just a patchwork of familiar personality traits. And he knows Cena's worked damn hard, and it's not his fault he caught the breaks.
Punk likes John. Somehow. He still can't find the how or why. He just does. When he turns his head and meets Cena's eyes, he finds fondness. Not like Cabana or Daniels or AJ. A separate kind, all in its own category. They don't have the bond that comes from staying together in Bates motels or being co-conspirators of wacky hijinks at two in the morning in Nowheresville, USA, but that doesn't make this any less real.
Content with that, for now, Punk settles, relaxes, not enough to sleep, because he'll have to pop back over to his room soon enough. But he can rest here for now, and he closes his eyes to the rhythm of John's warm breath on his shoulder.