Chapter Text
October 16, 2003
ROH: Tradition Continues
Glen Burnie, Maryland
Assuming a leadership position with Ring of Honor means doing responsible shit like arriving early for ring set-up and practice, and Punk thinks he’s early when he shows up twenty minutes after the venue opens. So he’s surprised to see two people already in the locker room when he enters it, and then more surprised to see it’s an unfamiliar face palling around with Joe. Unfamiliar because they haven’t been introduced, but he knows who he’s looking at.
Though they’d never met, John Cena already had a measure of Punk’s respect. He knew the guy had been future endeavored last December after failing to keep up the momentum from his debut. Punk had forgotten he existed until two weeks ago when BJ Whitmer dropped out of tonight’s show due to injury. Feinstein suggested replacing him with John, who he said had been reaching out since February for a chance to work. This was brand new information to Punk, and he had to give Mr. Ruthless Aggression some credit. Every meathead he ever trained who looked like John wound up being all ego, little talent, and no heart. He can appreciate John’s willingness to work his way back up the system like Eddie did.
Eddie. Fuck. He still can’t believe he got to wrestle Eddie fucking Guerrero. He should give him a call soon.
Punk has yet to set his bag down before John approaches him with an extended hand and a half-smile. “Hi, I’m John.”
“Don’t be shitty, Punker, he’s good people,” Joe shouts at them as he exits the room. Punk thinks it’s weird he’d leave without saying hi, but Joe calling him ‘shitty’ was normal enough.
“Don’t hate, appreciate!” Punk yells back, then redirects his attention to John and shakes his hand. “Punk. Welcome to Ring of Honor.”
John’s half smile turns into a full one that disappears his eyes. It tells the world he’s a beloved son, the best friend of at least five people. Nothing has ever gone wrong in his life, and even the setbacks have had their upsides. “Thanks. Big fan, by the way. You’re a fucking natural on the mic.” He adds, almost sheepish, “Not my best skill.”
“Hmm.” Punk no-sells the compliment, keeping his mouth in a straight line. He’s careful with flattery from his peers; it often feels transactional, given so he can return it. Not to mention it’s easy to praise his mic skills. It’s like praising water for being wet. “So you follow the indies, huh?”
“Hell yeah! Yo, when I got signed in ’01, I made my entire life WWE. I had no time to follow anything else. So when they let me go, I had to run out my no-compete clause, and I bought 40, maybe 50 tapes and DVDs of all the wrestling I missed that people said I needed to see. I’m talkin’ lucha libre, puro resu, Ring of Honor, all that good shit.” He tries, but Punk can’t fend off his own growing smile as John goes into his favorite spots from Mutoh vs. Tenryu in an accent straight out of Good Will Hunting. The guy’s an engaging storyteller. He can probably get over with the right gimmick. Whether he’s a good fit for ROH is a separate issue. His Field of Honor match against Colt tonight doubles as his tryout. The workers here hold themselves to a much higher standard, and Punk won’t be gentle with his words if John makes his best friend look like dogshit.
John then cuts himself off and looks at Punk like he remembers who he’s talking to. “And yo, your match with Rey and Eddie, I couldn’t believe that shit, you guys wrestled a fucking pay-per-view level match for 200 people. And that 90-minute match with Hero? That’s a fucking movie! How did you even have the cardio for that?”
The question catches Punk off-guard and he nearly laughs. It isn’t every day that a guy who looks like John asks him for workout advice. “I run a lot. Do you run?”
“No, but clearly I gotta start.” John hangs his gear inside an open locker, and Punk can’t help noticing he brought shorts—specifically, purple shorts with gold trim down the sides. Baltimore Ravens colors. How fucking corny. He needs to get rid of those. “So is Hero coming tonight? And shit, you don’t know when Colt’s getting here, do you? Feinstein said we got a match.”
Wrestling attracts the worst possible people, and somehow they always find Punk. The carnies, the narcissists, the criminals, the addicts, the marks. John isn’t giving off any of those vibes, and it helps that Joe vouches for him. It also helps that his eyes are a stormy shade of blue. Fuck. “Hero’s not here tonight. Colt got a late start and he’s on his way with AJ.”
“True that, well if he gets here in the next few, I’m helping with the ring.” John closes his locker, turning to leave. “Great to meet you, Punk.”
“Likewise, and hey—” Punk offers his hand to John, waits until John meets his gaze. Later he can tell himself he’s doing this because he likes helping members of his fan club. It’s definitely not because he wants to touch John again. Nah. “If you ever need advice on anything, you can always ask me.”
In a mirror of his TV encounter with the Undertaker last year, John glances down at the hand, then back up at Punk, then takes Punk’s hand and shakes it, his voice hushed and humbled. “Thank you, I will.”
They maintain eye contact a second too long and Punk catches a hint, a question in John’s eyes. He can’t tell if John is starstruck or if there is something else there. Something spoken about only in rooms with rainbow flags and resistance posters and people with Manic Panic hair. Where it’s safe to be who you are and like who you like.
The rest of the day moves in quick scenes, too much happening at once and too many people needing his attention for his long-term memory to record anything for future nostalgia. But Punk makes the time to advise John and Colt on the physics of a high spot to the outside. It’s not a risk Colt usually takes in matches with new guys, but John says he’d gotten good at catching guys while in Japan, and when he lifts an impressed Colt above his head like he weighs as much as a skateboard, Punk thinks this could work and pop the crowd. He gives them his thumbs up and tells them not to die.
Later that night, Punk is behind the curtain watching that spot played out in front of 500 screaming wrestling fans. To say John’s strength is impressive would be an understatement; he can’t remember the last time Joe caught someone Colt’s size from a top-turnbuckle moonsault and shoulder pressed him above his head before slamming him to the ground. But John makes it look easy, and despite needing to pee, Punk ends up staying for the entire match. John needs to sell more, and better, but he’s hitting his spots, working safe, and protecting Colt. It’s hard not to be optimistic about his chances of joining the roster.
It’s also hard to ignore the way his stupid Ravens shorts ride up his thighs. Punk has never had a ‘type’; he just knows what he likes when he sees it. He doesn’t believe in God, either, but he thinks John’s perfect rounded ass would be a good reason to start. Not that he’s ignoring the rest of John. How could he? The man’s built like a silverback gorilla, wide chest and thick arms and hands as large as his face. On paper the guy is terrifying, yet he carries himself in such a non-threatening way, like he’s half the size he actually is, that it’s hard to believe he’s real. He’s so clean. So masculine. So all-American. So fucking bright. Why was he ever fired? Did he kill Vince’s dog?
By the time Colt pins John, the crowd is on its feet cheering for them both. John grins from ear to ear, offers a bow of his head as the fans chant, “Please Come Back!”
And Punk thinks, yes, absolutely.
***
The post-show party is a time-honored wrestling tradition, and tonight’s joint at the local watering hole occupies multiple booths and two high tops. Punk sips from a glass of a Diet Pepsi, trading barbs with fellow designated driver AJ as they watch their friends get trashed. All 90 lbs of Sonjay Dutt thinks he can outdrink Homicide. Fucking adorable.
And John. Poor John tries to stick to his Old Fashioned, but all professionalism around Very Important Wrestlers goes out the window once Joe challenges him to five shots of bourbon in ten seconds. In no time, John is slouched with Joe in a separate booth, both men giggling like middle school best friends.
“Hey Joey!” John yells as he tugs on Joe’s wrist, as if Joe weren’t already sitting beside him and giving him his full attention. “Yo, your mom’s so fat, when she went to school, she sat next to everybody!”
“Okay, well—” Joe snickers behind his hand. “Your mom’s so—she’s so broke, I sincerely worry for her financial health.”
That earns a laugh from everyone, but John’s laugh is all air and no sound, followed by a loud, Will Smith-like howl as he wraps his arms around Joe like he’d fall out of the booth if he didn’t. “I missed my boy Joey so much!” John plants a loud, sloppy kiss on the top of Joe’s head, and Punk can’t look away fast enough.
Once the boys start chopping each other, Punk zips up his hoodie and makes his Irish exit for some fresh air outside. It’s brisk but nothing he can’t handle, his skin fortified from decades of Chicago winters. He walks a few paces until he finds an empty patch of wall, no cars parked in front, and leans against it. A chime goes off in his jeans pocket, and he pulls out his Sidekick. It’s Feinstein, who’s already in the process of editing tonight’s recordings. Earlier he requested a copy of his match with AJ, and Feinstein has just texted back u got it.
He and AJ had planned the more complicated spots, but they called the rest in the ring. As Punk replays it in his head, he considers it one of his best matches to date. The suits in Stamford may not be impressed by the tape of a scrawny, no-good punk kid from Chicago, but the WWE isn’t the only game in town, as hard as they’re trying to be. There are promotions around the world who will have him, and he will meet CM Punk fans in Germany and Mexico just like he did in Japan, and one way or another, he will leave this industry better than when he entered it.
Punk darts his head up when the door to the bar flings open and John staggers out before catching himself and standing upright. His head swivels in apparent search of something, and he stops once he sees Punk. “Hey, there you are! Were we too loud?”
Punk lowers his phone and takes a moment to really hear what John said. There you are. As if he’d left the bar to look for him. “Nah, I needed some air. You good?”
“Oh yeah, I metabolize fast.” John approaches Punk with more equilibrium, or at least tries to. “You and AJ were great, by the way. I watched from the back. Loved that spot where you turned his DDT into a backbreaker.” John’s sigh is almost quixotic, which is a word Punk has always known and definitely didn’t learn when he was trying to pick a Livejournal mood the other day. “I hope I get to come back.”
“The crowd was into the match,” Punk says, and he sidesteps as John joins him against the wall. “Hey, I’m already on the horn with Feinstein, I’ll vouch for you.” And because he’s thinking like a leader, he adds, “We need more big guys. It can’t always be just Joe.”
Punk has been wrestling since ‘97, and while that technically makes him a veteran, it’s weird when guys his age look at him like he’s Terry Funk. He’s nowhere near his prime and has so many stories left to tell. But then his simple comment leaves John wide-eyed, and he remembers, again, the weight of his approval. “Wow, I—thank you.” John bites the corner of his bottom lip, and Punk tríes not to stare. “Is there anything you think I could work on?”
Punk is never fond of this question, but he’s gotten better at answering it. “Well, what do you think you need to work on?”
John tips his head back so it touches the wall behind them. He’s quiet, eyes closed, then hums a note of lament. “I know my selling isn’t great.”
“Then work on that.”
John chuckles, tilting his hips to accommodate his clasped hands behind his back. “Okay, thanks, Coach.”
They could have been talking for eight minutes or two hours, really, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Their banter rolls forward, a steady surge of lively conversation, never cresting or dipping.
“What was your entrance theme again?”
“‘I Go to Work’ by Kool Moe Dee. You like hip hop?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard him. Except for when Bart wanted to name the new baby Kool Moe Dee Simpson.”
“Shit, remember when The Simpsons was good?”
“Right? I can’t believe it’s still fucking going.”
It never rages or slows to a stop. It simply flows, continuous, as if they were always meant to know each other.
“So what’s with the Pepsi tattoo?”
“I like Pepsi.”
“Easy enough. How about this one?”
”Barbiehead. That’s for my friend, Barbiehead. You got any?”
“Nah. And if I ever did, it wouldn't be where people could see.”
“Yawn.”
John laughs at his bluntness and greets every one of Punk’s incendiary opinions like a friend. He laughs at John’s dumb jokes and thinks, fuck, why wasn’t this the guy people saw when he was on TV. Their connection is history in the making, a meeting of two houses both alike in dignity, and Punk tries not to think about how it feels so natural between them.
Punk doesn’t notice they’ve been moving closer to each other until John’s arm ends up around his shoulders. He turns to comment on John’s sudden familiarity until he realizes he’s within inches of John’s face, John’s eyes, John’s mouth. “Uh.”
John slides his hand down Punk’s arm and pulls him by the waist, a warm anchor against his torso. They’re alone, Punk remembers, and his breath hitches in his throat as John strokes his thumb just under his hoodie, at the waistline of his jeans. If John moves his hand further up he’ll discover that Punk isn’t wearing a shirt underneath, which isn’t something he planned for, but he’ll call it a happy accident now that John’s hand is where it is. John smiles at him, his body radiating heat, and it’s devastating. “Hi.”
John’s warm breath meets the cold air between them and evaporates, but fuck, the stench of bourbon lingers. Punk reluctantly turns away, wrinkling his nose. “Hi. You need a mint.”
“Mmm.” John rests his forehead against the side of Punk’s head and starts to nuzzle his ear. The skin on his neck tingles every time John exhales. “You smell good.”
Punk bites back a laugh because he almost definitely does not smell good. He tries to keep the moment light as he moves John’s arm off of him. “Are you a college girl now? Do you turn gay when you drink?”
“No, I’m gay all the time.” John giggles at first, but when he sees Punk isn’t laughing, his face falls entirely. “Uhh, oh. Sorry, I… shit. Shit, sorry.” In an instant, John pushes off, hands to himself, and Punk’s heart fucking drops when the drunken sparkle in John’s eyes is replaced with an all too familiar fear. “I’m so sorry, sir. Please don’t tell anyone,” he says, his voice pitching everywhere. Suddenly John isn’t the guy who wrestled Kurt Angle or Colt, or even the guy he was talking to ten minutes ago. He’s a redwood crashing toward the ground, his giant shoulders sagging, shrinking him by an inch. With small steps, he starts a retreat like a nervous animal.
Oh, John.
“Hey!” Punk grabs John by the bicep and tugs before he can run away entirely. “First of all, don’t ever fucking call me ‘sir’ again, we’re the same goddamn age. Also, I’m the last person who’d care that you’re gay, and I’ll fucking kill anyone who does. But I care that you’ve had alcohol.” He crosses his wrists in front of his face to emphasize his point. “Remember?”
John’s flight-or-flight mode powers down and Punk watches him blink like an owl, his hand finding the back of his head. His expression says he’s assembling Punk’s words in his head, comprehension dawning as the seconds pass. “Oh.” And then. “Wait. So if I was sober, you would’ve been into it?”
An abrupt warmth floods Punk’s face, and he’s grateful that it’s too dark for John to notice. “What? I didn’t say that.”
“So you’re saying no?”
A fair question, not looking for affirmation but clarification. John looks at him expectantly, with eyes his favorite shade of blue, and Punk knows it would be easy to turn down John and continue the stupid games everyone plays when they’re young. Show someone you find them attractive by pointing out their flaws. Show someone you like them by saying you don’t. And he knows it would be easy to do these things because his relationship history is full of these choices. His favorite ex is right: he’s a much better friend than he is a boyfriend.
Except he’s not trying to be John’s boyfriend. He only knows that it would be a lie to tell John no, he isn’t interested in him. That he didn’t envy Joe when John kissed him, or that he couldn’t stop thinking about his ass in those shorts, or that their instant rapport didn’t scare him a little. But something unnamed also corks his mouth full stop. He can’t give John the answer he wants to hear, even though it’s the answer he wants to give him. And he’s fucking mystified. Since when has he ever been afraid of telling someone what he thinks of them. What is it about John, a fucking stranger, that dries his throat and stuffs his mouth with cotton.
John raises his brows and tucks his chin, a wordless Well? He squints, and Punk thinks he’s on the edge of asking again, so he offers him a clue: a smile, barely perceptible. What do you think? He doesn’t take his eyes off John for a second. The tension grows molasses thick, but neither of them speak, seemingly committed to using non-verbal communication. Nothing is existing except for the two of them, right now, outside of a Maryland dive bar, and nothing is happening except this moment.
Their stand-off comes to an end when, at last, a breathless joy moves across John’s expression like stop-motion photography. The corners of his mouth curl up, his lips parting until he’s one big toothy grin. Until he’s the fucking sunrise. “Holy shit! CM Punk is into guys and I’m one of ’em!”
Nothing prepares Punk for the sight of John performing the worst cartwheel imaginable, a graceless, frog-legged tumble that nearly causes John to fall on his ass. What an idiot. “I didn’t say any of that,” Punk replies through his laughter. Every leftover teenage impulse warns that he should play it cool, but John reacts with the sincerity of a soldier returning from the Great War to the gal he left behind, and he doesn’t have the heart to put that fire out. And his ego thanks him for it, too. He’s straight-edge, not blind, and he can’t mince words at this point: John is hot as fuck.
“There it is again! He ain’t saying no, folks! That means there’s a chance!” John whoops and jumps into a shadowboxing shuffle, nailing a left hook, a right cross, and a final uppercut to his invisible opponent before walking with purpose toward Punk. Any trace of insecurity he had before has since vanished, replaced with a confident swagger. “Oh, you don’t know what you’ve unleashed.” Punk never breaks eye contact as John claps a hand on his shoulder. He thinks John will lean in and is disappointed when he doesn’t. “The next time you see me, I’ll be sober, my breath will be fresh, and I’m getting a kiss.”
John winks and releases Punk just as AJ emerges from the bar with Jimmy Rave, Allison, and Sabin in tow. Punk is on the edge of a retort when John turns away and jogs after AJ, waving him down. He can hear John asking for a ride back to the motel to “sober up”, to which AJ agrees.
Once AJ’s wrestler mobile is out of sight, Punk hurriedly sends Feinstein a text.
Book Cena for the next show.
***
Joe and Colt don’t settle their tab until an hour later, during which Colt cut the promo of his life to persuade Punk to hang out in Joe’s room so he can hook up with a fangirl meeting them at the motel. Punk grumbles his permission, annoyed that he’ll end up asleep on Joe’s floor more than anything. The things he does for friends.
His car’s dashboard reads 2:47 A.M. when he arrives at their motel, a three-star roadside stop that could use better outdoor lighting but is good enough for a night. He parks in front of the room closest to the lobby, and in the distance, Punk can see a busty brunette in a halter top and jeans waiting in front of his room. He elbows Colt, who’s seated shotgun. “Hey, your lady awaits.”
Colt blasts a laugh and slaps his hand on Punk’s forearm with a fond shake and squeeze. “You’re a mensch, I ever tell you that?”
“All the time. Don’t forget to wrap it up, buddy.”
“All the time.”
As the three of them climb out of the car, Punk hears the loud creak of a heavy door opening. He glances up, nearly startled as he realizes the room closest to the lobby belongs to John, who emerges barefoot and wearing only basketball shorts. Punk stays where he is as John leans against the door frame and crosses his arms in front of his chest, tsking. “Do you boys know what time it is?”
“Eat shit, Johnny,” Joe answers, greeting John with a Cool Guy handshake before continuing to his room. “You coming, Punker?”
Colt has already dashed off toward his gal. Joe is walking further away. John is standing ten feet in front of him, waiting to see what Punk will do.
“Gimme a bit, I gotta talk to John.”
“All right, later,” Joe says, unsuspecting of any weird vibes between his two friends, and Punk prefers it that way. Not that he keeps secrets from Joe, but whatever this is between him and John, he has to figure it out before sharing any details.
Once they’re alone, John smiles, but he makes no move toward Punk. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Punk begins his approach, stepping closer until they’re within arm’s reach of each other. Even under a flickering fluorescent motel light, John’s half-naked body inspires awe. ”So you still reek or what?”
John studies him, taking in deep breaths that expand his bare chest. “You tell me.” It’s a challenge. Does Punk want to know what he smells like? He has to lean in and see for himself.
So that’s what he does.
Punk grabs John’s face with both hands and surges forward, catching John’s mouth with his own. The taste of spearmint is welcome, but it’s the faint scent of cedarwood on John’s neck that nearly makes his knees buckle—did John get ready for him? He moans and gropes his way down John’s sides and back as John winds an arm around his waist and pulls him inside, shutting the door.
John’s lips are deceptively soft, and his kiss turns Punk’s blood into lava, a fire igniting under his skin, over his entire body. He bites John’s lower lip and empties a guttural cry into his mouth as their tongues meet, sliding against each other, tasing the other. John traps Punk between himself and the door, though Punk isn’t sure he could tear himself from John’s mouth if he tried, John kissing him with the devotion and ferocity of a zealous fan. They pause to inhale every few seconds but never fully separate. When the seal between their lips breaks, they simply find each other, again and again, a magnet drawn to metal.
Fuck. What great fucking thing did he do in his life to be kissed like this. Punk almost feels greedy, like everyone should experience being this desired, except the idea of sharing John makes him sick. He wants him all to himself. Punk thinks this is what addiction must be like, and fuck, he is not telling himself he’s addicted to a guy he just met. Except what else could explain this inferno between them.
John slides his hands down Punk’s back, and Punk gasps into John’s mouth, throws his arms around his neck as he’s lifted off the ground. He’s done this to girls before, and they always liked it, and now that he’s the girl, with his size 11 feet dangling in mid-air, he thinks he gets it. He’s been 6’2” since high school, and only a guy like John can make him feel small and light as a bubble. Punk’s legs find John’s waist and wrap around it as the hottest kiss of his life gets even hotter.
Punk imagines what it’d be like to fuck John, and for John to fuck him. John had already showered and dressed before Punk’s match started, so even if he was the kind of weirdo who makes it a point to check out dicks in the locker room, he doesn’t know what John is working with. But he can imagine it, because John’s pushing his hard-on against the one in his own jeans, and his hips rise to meet John’s in response. They start a slow grind, and the rhythm of John’s hips syncs with his own like they’ve done this before, like they already know what the other likes. The movement suggests John would take him in deep, long strokes, taking his time to wring every ounce of pleasure out of him, and Punk whimpers at the thought. Fuck, John is so fucking hot.
And strong. John is strong as a fucking forklift with the way he cradles Punk to his body, then easily, so easily carries him to the bed. Punk pulls John toward him as he’s laid on the mattress, a soft mmph as John settles between his unfurled legs and rests his full weight on top. They haven’t stopped kissing once, and Punk thinks his lips might be going numb, but he doesn’t care, his fingers clutching the short strands of John’s hair to stop him from pulling back. Damn, he needs to grow this shit out for next time, and fuck, there it is again, why is he thinking about a next time.
He’s not imagining a future with this flat-faced townie. No fucking way. Any second now, they’re gonna pull from each other, and he will tell John that this was fun but he’s not going further than this, John will say some dumb shit about the straight edge lifestyle, and he and John can be professionals and work together, but they’ll never be friends and they’ll never speak of this moment again. In a year, John will go back to WWE to rot away in the midcard, and he’ll still be in ROH reaching for the stars, and they’ll never see each other again.
Punk isn’t sure who separates first. One minute, John’s mouth is covering his, and the next minute, it isn’t. John seems just as surprised they’re not kissing anymore, but his confusion melts into a chuckle as he brushes a strand of Punk’s blond hair from his forehead. He gazes down at Punk, smiling open-mouthed as he chases his breath. The bedside lamp casts a warm orange glow on his face, and even his lashes are shining. “Holy shit.”
Punk swallows a sudden compulsion to giggle, and he replies, just as breathless, “Yeah.” This can’t work. It shouldn’t. Yet he feels hot all over, his body pliant and his inhibitions lowered. If John wants to fuck him, would it be so bad? Because John’s mouth on his neck sizzles his skin like a brand, and Punk closes his eyes and arches needily into each kiss. Every part of his body wants this so much.
And then, all too soon, the fantasy crashes when he hears the zipper of his hoodie opening, followed by a whispered “fuck yes.” The moment Punk feels John’s teeth close around his right nipple ring, an angry red STOP sign flashes behind his eyelids.
“Wait—” John kisses him again before he can continue, and he has to turn away from the next kiss so he can look at John and remind him, “I’m straight edge.”
John pulls back, blinking, uncomprehending. “I know, that’s okay.”
“But you know what that means, right?”
“Yeah, you don’t smoke or drink, no drugs or—” John snaps back further, the math adding up in his head. “Wait, really? Oh c’mon, after how hot that was?”
Punk frowns at the whiny entitlement in John’s voice. How fucking predictable. “They’re my beliefs, John.”
He doesn’t know whether the look on John’s face could be called good-faith ignorance or bewildered judgment. Jocks always have the hardest time understanding what straight edge means. God forbid their dicks stay dry for one fucking night. “Beliefs have nothing to do with this, man, you’re in your 20s! You should be fucking mailboxes!”
Punk pushes up to sit, hands propping him up from behind, legs bent in a sloppy number four. The dresser in front of them has no mirror, but Punk doesn’t need one to see that he looks as disappointed as he feels. “You know, you’re not as hot as you were five minutes ago.”
John tips his head back and groans. ”I’m just sayin’, dude, you’re never getting your 20s back. You gotta live them to the fullest. Don’t say no ’cause of some rulebook.” He turns to face Punk, and he raises an eyebrow. “This a religious thing?”
Punk sputters at the utter audacity. “No! You fucking kidding me?”
Too many people over the course of his life have abused his trust, so Punk can’t tell if John’s confusion is real or if he’s trying to troll him. All he knows is what’s in front of him, and in front of him is John, his eyebrows drawing down toward the bridge of his nose in a bid to organize his thoughts. “So if it’s not a God thing, then… it’s just principle?”
Punk clenches his jaw. He’s never known himself to have patience with someone who Doesn’t Get It, and he’s not sure why he’s starting now. At any second, John will turn into a jackass about straight edge, and he’ll tell John to kill himself because his parents will never be proud of him, and he’ll walk back to Joe’s room for some corn chips and hot salsa and All Japan DVDs. Another great end to another great wrestling weekend.
“Do you hear yourself? If you’re such an expert on my work, then guess the fuck what? All that shit I said in the past during my feud with Raven was 100% true. My dad was an alcoholic. And my mom wasn’t much better. My childhood sucked, and straight edge saved me. Call it principle, call it whatever the fuck you want, it gave my life meaning when I needed it. It gave me a family and a sense of community. So no, I'm not gonna smoke or drink or stick my dick in a hole because it’s easy, or fun, or it’s what other dumb assholes do. I’m taking over the world, and I’m doing it my way.”
The AC/heating unit shuts off as Punk ends his sentence, forcing them to sit in an extended heavy silence so awkward it might as well have food in its teeth. The last time this happened was with a guy he picked up at a Minor Threat tribute show, of all places. They waxed poetic about punk music and the Cubs and gay rights, but he had to kick him out of his car once he called Punk a ‘fucking child’ for not wanting to go further than an above-the-waist gropefest. Fucking saggy pantsed loser. At least John can do a pull-up.
John is cross legged now, eyes downcast, appearing serious, thoughtful, or quietly pissed. It isn’t easy to read the face of a guy he met twelve hours ago. But his voice is softer, lower, when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought it was—” John scrubs his face with a short, frustrated grunt, and Punk tries not to smirk. He did say he has trouble with promos. “Okay, you know how they always say the best guys are themselves with the dial turned up to 11? I figured the straight edge thing wasn’t that serious, that maybe you blended some fiction with reality. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Punk hears the hidden praise, but he isn’t fishing for it. “I love fucking, John. Who the hell doesn’t? But I don’t do hook-ups.”
“Yeah, I think I get it now.” John slides his hand back over his hair, which Punk can’t help but notice he does a lot. He looks chagrined as he continues, “Sorry again. For real. I won’t give you shit about it again.”
Punk analyzes John’s hangdog expression. Usually this is where his anger morphs into a lifetime grudge, and John becomes another name in a list of bridges burned. He was preparing to reject John. Ready for it. But John says he’s sorry. He sounds like he means it. His eyes are blue and his lips are soft and full. And every inch of his body, from the top of his head to the tip of his dick, is begging, begging, don’t be such a fucking martyr to principle. For once in his miserable life, don’t be such an asshole.
Punk shrugs and tries his best to look casual doing it. “Water under the bridge.”
John’s smile widens and he nods in agreement. “Good.” A trace of guilt then lines John’s face, and Punk wonders why until John asks, “That was still pretty hot, right?”
Punk huffs a laugh and shakes his head. He thinks he’ll be doing this a lot with John. “Yeah, it was.”
John sits upright and scoots away, distancing himself from Punk. “God I’m hard,” he says, his legs in a butterfly pose to accommodate his discomfort. “I don’t know how you do this, man. Saying no to your dick. You got a fucking iron will.”
Punk full-on laughs now. Every past conversation like this escalated into a nasty argument, yet John somehow knows how to defuse the bomb that is CM Punk. It’s… refreshing to find humor in these moments and not stew in resentment, and maybe it’s a sign that he’s misjudged John, like he does to everyone. He doesn’t actually like being angry; it’s just the way the world made him. “This isn’t easy for me either, trust me. But no promiscuous sex.”
It takes him a second to realize his mistake, to understand what he just revealed to John. But John picks up on it right away, and before Punk can salvage what’s left of his mystique, John turns to him and leans forward, hand firmly on Punk’s knee. “When can I see you again? Where are you booked next?”
The question catches him off-guard and, flustered, Punk finds himself answering with the truth. “Well, I train at the ROH school Monday and Tuesday, on Wednesday I’m in Nashville for TNA, Thursday I’m at the school again, Fridays—” He pauses when John’s eyes start to focus, the wheels in his head clearly turning. “What?”
“Just thinking.” John nods at some invisible, inaudible conversation with himself. “If I lived in Philly, could I come by the school and practice?”
Not the first time he’s been asked that, and Punk says, “I don’t see why not, guys come around all the—” It hits him in that moment, what John is really asking, and no. No way. What the fuck. Seriously, what the fuck. “Hold on, you’re moving here now? I just fucking met you!”
“Yeah, and now that we met, we gotta get to know each other better,” John says, like the two of them making out and possibly hooking up wasn’t going to build up to this eventually. “So I gotta see you more than twice a month, if that.”
Fucking hell. Just because John’s answer is reasonable doesn’t mean it’s not batcrap crazy. The hesitation in his chest starts to swell, and Punk throws out another obstacle in John’s path. “You’re saying you’re moving here because you think I’ll fuck you faster.”
“Oh my g—” John’s eyes and head roll in the same direction, away from him but managing to see through him just the same. “C’mon, do you really think I meant it that way? How ’bout giving me the benefit of the doubt, dude? Is it so fucking hard to believe I like you?”
John’s admission leaves him too stunned to think of another excuse. Fuck. It’s hopeless. Everything he flings at John boomerangs its way back to him. John is so insistent on taking the two of them further than a 3AM make-out session in Glen Burnie. What the fuck is wrong with him. “This is gonna be a mess.”
He recognizes the lilting note in John’s sigh as tested patience. It’s a sound he’s heard before from anyone who tries to reason with him when he’s cranky or paranoid. But his friends are obligated to put up with his bullshit. John isn’t a friend. John isn’t anything. He’s just a guy. A really hot, really nice guy.
“Okay, let me rephrase all-a that.” John pushes himself up and closer to Punk, his entire body turning toward him. He gestures as he speaks, fingers mapping out his logic in the air between them. “I’m a pro wrestler with a dream. I just got back from Japan a week ago, and I have zero commitments. If I moved to Philly, I’d be back on East Coast time with my family and friends. I got money saved so I don’t need to look for a 9-to-5 job yet, and in Philly there’s a ring I can train at, and I’m within driving distance from a bunch of feds, definitely closer to the North Shore than fucking Louisville—” He cringes as if recalling some odious memory, one that disappears when his eyes reconnect with Punk’s. “There are a lotta reasons to move out to Philly, and you just happen to be one of ’em. If you wanna be.” He grins, and oh fuck, he has dimples. “So whaddya say? Can I have your number?”
Punk has a talent for reading people, and he thinks he can find fault with John. Yet, looking at him, Punk is reminded most of one of his mentors, Harley Race. He and Ace were once invited out to Harley’s lake house for boating and barbecueing and a fuckton of great stories. At dinner time, he observed Harley pull out the chair for his wife, who kissed his cheek as she sat down. She called him a “big ol’ sack of sugar” and Punk thinks that’s a good description of John, too.
A big sack of sugar. A sweet, lumpy giant.
Punk beckons with his hand. “Gimme your phone.” John picks up his cheapass Nokia from the nightstand and offers it to Punk, who performs the annoying, laborious task of programming his number into a phone with an alphanumeric keypad. Punk returns the phone to John once he’s done, and when their fingertips touch, there’s a jolt, like a bolt of static. Punk smiles at John, who hasn’t stopped smiling back. “Okay. We’ll see where this goes.”