Warnings:7 Sins Continuity 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin, brief mentions of AJ Lee and implied het.

"Hey." He flops on the sofa beside you, a grin on his face and rests his head on your shoulder, without thought your arms wraps around him and pull him tighter to you.

"Hi." You say, as he snuggles against you, making himself more comfortable and sits watching TV in silence. You're not really sure what he's here for, but you aren't really in the mood to question him. His sabbatical has made him a curiously boisterous creature and if he's going to sit quietly, let you watch this documentary in peace, you're not going to complain. He's so quiet, you actually think he's fallen asleep, but when you glance at him, he's awake, watching the show with rapt attention until the commercials.

"I've asked April to move in with me." He grins up at you and you shrug vaguely, you can't say you're surprised. O'Neil is definitely either The One or very close to it, moving in is something you'd been expecting.

"That's nice? What'd she say?" You ask him, loosening your hold on him slightly, and he twists to face you, that grin still in place,

"Yes!" He crows and you find a smile on your face, more at his happiness that your own, because really you're not feeling overly happy right now, something sullen has settled in your stomach, which makes no real sense, but there's something forebodingly happy about his expression. There's been a subtle dynamic shift between you both as of late, something is different, something has changed and it's not just that you're no longer in the same business.

"That's good, Punkers. You gonna help her move." He nods and turns back to the TV, snuggling up once more, taking your hand in his own.

"Yup, she's coming up next week." He squeezes your hand, and raises it to his lips. "I need you to do me a favour, Cabana." He kisses the back of your hand, and you hold back a sigh. You don't want to get roped into doing more D.I.Y. for him, you hate putting up shelves, and he's fucking useless when it comes to power tools, nothing good or fun will come of it. "Need you to come shopping with me."

"Oh fuck." You mutter, you might dislike D.I.Y. but you hate shopping, especially hate shopping with him. It's an exciting game of avoiding fans and autograph hunters that's only gotten worse since he and the WWE parted ways.

"Aww... C'mon, Cabana! It'll be fun!" He turns to you with that fucking dorky grin on his face. You're growing to hate that grin. He might look happy, but it's resulted in all manner of minor irritations, little niggling things that are grating on your nerves, things that you don't really think are his fault, more like your own frustrations at your prolonged stint in singledom and rapidly advancing years. Your age is becoming increasingly high, it's not going to be too long before you need to use both feet and hands to count it on, and it's got you worried in a stupid pensive way. Your annoyances, your grievances aren't caused by him, and you more than know that, but he's an easy target. He's so very happy, and whilst you're not exactly miserable, you're nowhere near his level of happiness.

"No, no it won't be, Punkers." You mutter, scowling at the screen, avoiding looking at him, ducking his inquisitive stare. You're being unfair, cruel almost. He's happy, you're not, and that isn't his fault.

"Might be... It's an important shopping spree, and I need your sage advice." He squirms over you, straddling your lap, his eyes bright with excitement, a happy little smile on his face. His hand catches your chin and forces you to look at him. Something in his eyes hardens as he stares at you, and you feel hopelessly small. You can hear the beginning of the string of questions forming in his mind.

"When?" You sigh, knowing that fighting him on this is only going to delay your inevitable conceding to his request, you've never quite mastered the art of turning your best friend down, and the bastard knows that painfully well. Asking after the time clarifies when you have to endure shopping, and the added bonus of distracting him from questioning you.

"Tomorrow." He grins and pecks you on the nose. "I need to get it done before I head down to Florida, so it has to be tomorrow." He seems easily, and willingly distracted from his questioning, and you're grateful for that.

He stays with you for a while but eventually goes back to his place, sleeps in his own bed for a change, but the strange off feeling you have lingers. You can't put your finger on the why or the what, and it annoys you. You like to think you know yourself, like to think that you understand your motivations and reasoning pretty well, yet this odd feeling has you stumped, you've no reason to feel this way, at least no good reasons anyway.

The next morning you're woken up by him pinching your nose, his overly bright, overly awake smile greeting you. You hide your head under the blankets and hope he'll go away.

"Morning, Cabana. C'mon, rise and shine, busy day ahead of us!" For all his enthusiasm, he's burrowing under the blankets with you, snuggling up, wrapping your arms around himself, settling mostly on top of you. You grope around for your cell, checking the time, and feeling more than unimpressed with it being so early in the morning. You hold him fast, and kiss his hair, your eyes drifting closed once more.

"Too early." He chuckles at your plaintive whining, but the way he's snuggling against you, the way his head is tucked under your chin, suggests that he's more than happy with the idea of having a nap.

"You get like an hour, maybe two... Then we're going out." His voice is softly mumbled, his breath warm against your neck. "Didn't sleep too well, was too excited." He nuzzles against you again, his lips brushing your skin, a slightly more deliberate kiss is pressed to your throat, and you grumble at him. As tempting as sex with Punkers always is, you're tired, and he makes a very good, if octopus like, teddy bear.

"Shower?" You wake up some time later, feeling more alive, and more willing to indulge him and his well rested madness, especially after waking to find him all warm and snuggling against you. It's depressing, but the one person you snuggle more than any other is your fundamentally heterosexual best friend. You really need to find a woman, or get a dog, something that stops you from actually enjoying having him, and him alone, to cuddle. For a start, it's weird, and all kinds of depressing really. He blinks up at you, sleep clouding his eyes. In that moment he looks so painfully like himself, so much like the man who was is your best friend, and your heart clenches slightly.

"Showered before I got here." He sits up, rubbing at his eyes, and yawning. "Go shower, I'll make food, then we can get going."

"You could come get clean..." You grin at him, and he genuinely looks torn. You're more than hopeful that this offer will distract him from dragging you out shopping. You're not in the mood to be subjected to adventures in retail with CM Punk.

"You're trying to distract me..." He mutters, getting off the bed, a wry smile on his lips.

"It working?" You grin, and stand close behind him, pressing tiny little kisses over the back of his neck, hearing his breath catch in his throat.

"No..." His head tilts to the side, giving you more access to his skin, and your arms wrap around his waist, sneaking under his shirt to caress his stomach. "Stop it... This is an important mission." He moans quietly, his head falling back onto your shoulder. "I need to get this done today." You kiss the tattoo just behind his ear and he shivers, his eyes drifting closed. "No fair."

"C'mon... Whatever it is, just order it online. It'll be cheaper." You lap at the tattoo behind his ear again, and more of his weight rests against you as he slumps slightly. "It'll take like five minutes, and then the rest of the day, I'm all free to entertain you." You hand running along the top of his pants, and he moans softly.

"No... This is something that has to be purchased live and in person." He steps away from you, his eyes narrowed. "Stop trying to distract me." You shrug at him and grab some clothes, tossing them on the bed, and head to the shower. He follows along behind you, and perches on the toilet lid, watching you wash.

"What is it you're buying anyways?" You rinse the shampoo from your hair, eyes clamped closed, but you can hear him fidgeting and cursing quietly.

"Ha... Well... Uh..." He stalls, and you turn to look at him, an eyebrow raised. He looks away from you, fidgeting and looks uncomfortably embarrassed+. The urge to wrap your arms around him and make him feel better is painfully strong. You're his best friend, it's your job to make him feel better. "I'm gonna ask her to marry me." He says very quietly, and your blood runs cold. You've no idea what to say to that, no idea how to respond, your brain shuts down, and you nod absently, unable to focus on anything but his words. I'm gonna ask her to marry me. It's not a sentence you'd ever expected him to say, and you don't know how to process it.

"I knew we'd end up back here." It sounds brutally petulant, and honestly, that's exactly how you feel. You've been feeling that way all day, out of sorts and mildly unwell. You've been dragged round every jewellery store in the city, only to come back to the first one you went into. You'd been absolutely certain that the first ring he'd looked at would be the one he'd end up buying, and as he pays for it, the urge to be smug about it is all but irresistible.

"Do you think she'll like it?" He keeps glancing at you; he seems fidgety, like he has too much energy, his fingers twitching nervously. "I think she'll like it... I want her to like it... Do you think she'll say yes? Man... I might be making a fucking huge mistake... I don't think I am, but what do you think, Cabana? Cabana? Colt! You listening?" The store clerk looks at you, eyebrows raised as Punk babbles, and you smack the back of his head.

"She'll love it, and she'll say yes. Now, take the damn thing so we can leave." You walk out the store, and slump against the wall, something bitter and sullen churning in the pit of your stomach. This is stupid, completely and utterly stupid. You've no right to feel like this, no reason to have this odd bile creeping up your throat. Years of friendship won't change overnight, years of friendship won't be eliminated by him signing a piece of paper and putting a ring on his finger. At the end of the day, he'll still be your best friend; he'll still be the same old Punkers. Even if certain aspects of your friendship will be different, even if certain activities will have to cease.

"You okay?" He comes out the store, an awkward expression on his face, his eyes narrowed, and you nod, tugging your cap lower, hiding your eyes from him. He huffs, the exhalation tinged with doubt. He doesn't believe you for a second, he knows you as well as you know him, so he knows that there's something wrong. He might not know what it is, but he knows there's something up with you and you wish you weren't in the same boat. You wish you knew what was wrong with you, but you don't, not really at least. You an inkling, but it's petty, selfish and so very stupid.

"We done here?" You're certain that the question came out wrong, that it sounded far harsher than it should have, and you glance at him, watch something dark pass over his face, feeling briefly but utterly guilt-ridden. He's done nothing wrong, he's happy, and you need to be happy for him, instead of in this odd bitter black mood, snapping at him for no reason.

"Yeah." His voice is rough, and he clears his throat, looking at you with an oddly searching, slightly desperate expression on his face. He wants to ask you questions, he wants to get to the bottom of what's the matter, but he's clearly not sure how to go about it. "Yeah, all done." It shouldn't but that statement feels final, it feels wrong. You're not telling him that though. You're not sharing this avenue of thought with him, without having walked down it yourself first. It's not going to be a pleasant journey, and you're already putting an dampener on his buoyant mood, you want away from him, away to sulk and brood in peace and quiet.

"Look, some thing's come up... I gotta go." You glance away from him, unable to take the blatant hurt in his eyes at your words.

"Yeah... I'll see you later?" His voice is clipped, his tone coolly harsh, but there's an odd undercurrent something strangely fragile under the frost. He stares at you for a few seconds, then ignores you in favour of dealing with a text he just received. You're grateful for the crowds of people cluttering the street, grateful that they make it easy to slip away whilst he's distracted. It's a cowardly thing to do, but you're not feeling brave, you're feeling off, wrong, and you don't want to have to explain why to him, especially when you've only half an idea of why yourself.

When you get back home, you flop onto the couch, lying on your back and stare up at the ceiling. One and I'm done, that's what he's always said. When he gets married, it's for keeps and O'Neil, she's The One. You can't resent her that, certainly can't hold it against her. You like her well enough and she makes him happy, deliriously happy. That's a hell of a lot more than anyone else, you included, can say. Since he quit the WWE, he's been so much more contented, so much happier, and that's all down to her. This happiness with April, this marriage to her, it's the next chapter of his life. The lovely Miss O'Neil, she's his next chapter, and you need to be happy for him. Your best friend, unlike you, has finally grown up and it's time for him to put away childish things, time to stop playing at being an adult, and to actually be one. This is why the sex between you has been so soft, so very gentle lately; it's been a tiny little whisper of goodbye each time, each time it's been letting go, moving on from this part of his life, getting ready for the next. He's moving on, as he always does, and you know he doesn't keep the things he doesn't need; he doesn't keep what isn't necessary to him. You're a part of his life before April, you're part of his wrestling life, part of something he neither wants, nor needs anymore. Whether you want it or not, you're certain he's going to leave you behind. Years ago, the Christmas after the dungeon room, you remember swearing to yourself that you wouldn't be another person who turned their back on him, that you were in this for the long haul, that no matter what you'd be there for him. It never once occurred to you that he might grow tired of you, that he might move on, that in his typically myopic point of view, he would turn his back on you. You're going to be consigned to the past, you can tell. You're going to be nothing more than a set of uncomfortable memories to him. Every time you've had sex with him, every time you've held him, kissed him, it's going to be nothing more than a dark little stain on your friendship, so the best thing to do, for him at least, is to cut you out, to remove you from his life so that his marriage is spotless. You understand that, you don't like it but it makes sense in a some stupid, selfish, Punk logic way. You've always defended his habit of cutting out what he considers unnecessary, but that's because you've always been confident that you'd always be necessary to him, and the fact that you're not is a bitter pill to swallow.

Consider this a direct sequel to Going Home - In terms of the Continuity it is at least. :3

As ever:

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