A little Centon-something, because I need it and maybe you guys need some, too :)
Have fun!
He is sitting on the bed, legs stretched out and his hands resting on his thighs. His eyes are heavily lidded, his gaze fixed on a broad back.
John.
Although John hasn't been on the show, he obviously had business to do, has been backstage, too. And now they are here, sharing a hotel room. A puff of air passes his lips in not quite annoyance and not quite amusement because he is really going to spend the night in the same room as John Cena. Sharing a bed with this man.
His feet carry him from his car towards the elevator but only slowly and his steps are much too unsteady for his taste, but it's no wonder, is it, since his head feels like it'll burst any second after two fucking Curb Stomps in one night. He feels dizzy, too, and somehow his whole body aches. The duffel bag is heavy on his shoulder, pulls at tense muscles. It makes the pain in his head only worse. Lifting his free hand to the shoulder he's thrown the duffel bag over, he digs his fingers into the muscles there to ease the pain a little, but without success.
His steps falter and he stops walking, leaning against a pillar for support as a wave of exhaustion washes through him. There is a dull thud as the bag slips from his shoulder, dropping to the ground. With a silent sigh he closes his eyes and carefully rests his head against the pillar, wishing he was already in his room instead of the goddamn basement garage of a hotel.
"You okay?"
The low and familiar voice right beside him startles him, makes him whip his head around to look at its owner and he was being met by worried blue eyes. He can't stop a hiss from slipping past his lips as the pain in his head explodes at the jerking movement.
"None of your business, Cena," he wants to growl, but it sounds weak to his own ears.
He hates it, hates to give away so easily that he's not his usual self and he hates how John looks at him with those ridiculously bright blue eyes and that caring expression. Furrowing his brows slightly, the blond man tilts his head a bit to the side and looks him over, before he sighs and frowns… and bends down to pick Randy's duffel bag up.
"Drop the fucking bag," he mutters and scowls at John who is aparently not impressed.
"Grouchy, are we?" John says as he starts walking away from Randy and towards the elevator, still holding the bag in his hand. "Come on, Murky Dismal, you look like you badly need some sleep."
For a second he only stares after John.
"What the fuck, Cena? I don't need your fucking help!" he snaps loudly, regretting it immediately though as the pain increases again.
The fact that John simply does not react isn't surprising him. The doors of the elevator open, John steps in… and just as the doors close again, a big hand stops them, holding them open.
"Stop being a goddamn diva and move your ass, Orton," John calls.
Fuck this shit, Randy thinks as he wills his feet to move.
During the short ride to the first floor there is a thick silence between them but Randy actually has to bite back a smile because John strickly stares at the doors while Randy knows that it itches the other man to look over and check on him. He knows it because John just can't stop being the good guy. However… Randy is not sure what it is that makes him smile about it. Because he's amused that John is such a naïve idiot, worrying about someone who isn't even his friend? Or is it the fact that John does care?
His musing stops as the doors open again and John walks out. Randy follows two steps behind, squinting against the bright light in the lobby that seems to pierce right through is brain. John sets the bag to the floor as he reaches the front desk and asks for his key and Randy wishes he would have checked in before the show, too, but he hasn't and now he's standing here, waiting for the woman behind the desk to get the check in done.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we do not have a booking of a room on your name."
Randy blinks once. Frowns.
"What?" he asks incredulously.
"We don't have…"
"I heard what you said!" he snaps at her muttering a fuck right after."Whatever… what room is avaiable?"
At the moment he doesn't even care what kind of a room it is, as long as there is a bed he can hide in.
"I'm sorry, sir, we're fully booked," the lady apologizes quietly.
He hears the words. And barks one single, disbelieving laughter because, sure, things like this now can only happen to him, ending up feeling like he won't see the next morning because his head hurts that much and with no place for the night to lick his wounds. Bracing his elbows on the counter, he cradles his head in his hands and closes his eyes, groaning a quiet shit. That means either sleeping in his car or driving around to find a room in another hotel. Or maybe he could ask one of the guys if he can crash at their room for the night?
And while he thinks this and with whom he actually feels okay to share a bed with, he hears a rustling beside him and feels a hand settle on his shoulder. The touch is warm, very warm actually and that warmth seeps right into his tense muscles and he he doesn't need to look up to see who it is.
"What do you want, Cena?" he mumbles.
"You can stay at my room. I have one with a king sized bed."
Straightening up, Randy shrugs John's hand off and takes a step back as he gazes down warily at him, right into those still worried eyes. The duffel bag dangles from John's hand again.
And while his body says yes, he huffs instead: "The hell I'll be sharing a room with you, Cena."
Quirking an eyebrow at Randy, John shrugs and lets the bag drop, only to turn around and walk away. The funny thing is, there is a part of Randy that wants to call the other man back, to agree to sharing a room with him because it means that he could find sleep soon, but all that passes his lips is a silent sigh. He's hurt, probably has a concussion. And his fucking pride is hurt, too, leaves him standing here torn between pretending as if he doesn't need help and actually show that he does.
But John hasn't even reached the elevators as Randy sees him slow down and stop, sees him dip his head forward while taking his cap off. John runs a hand over his hair and for a brief moment it lingers in the back of his neck, before he shakes his head slightly.
Randy can only blink at the other man in silence as John comes back to him, grabs Randy's duffel bag for the third time tonight and mutters: "You're an idiot, Orton."
With that he turns around and starts to walk away again without another word…
Randy keeps staring in silence at John's back while he rummages through his own bag, standing there in only boxer briefs or rather finally at least in boxer briefs. He has heard that John has the habit of running around stark naked in his own private quarters, but that he also does it when someone else is around… well, on the other hand, he has seen John naked often enough in the past in the common shower area. From an aesthetical point of view it could be much worse than seeing John naked.
What the fuck am I thinking? he sighs in his aching head.
He needs to sleep so badly…
Eventually John turns around, throwing a tank top on as he comes walking over to the bed to slip under the duvet. They haven't talked a word ever since they have left the lobby, probably because John has an idea that he doesn't feel like talking right now. The mattress bounces a little as the man beside him gets comfortable. Then John reaches out to switch the light off but hesitates as his fingers touch the switch. From the corner of his eye he notices John gazing over to him and after a second Randy looks over to him.
"Wake me if you need something, okay?" John says, the expression on his face sincere and the one in his eyes worried.
There is this thought passing Randy's mind as their gazes stay locked for a second or two longer, the thought that those eyes have the power to rip any guard away from you. Just like that. Sometimes… sometimes it feels as if this man can look straight into his very soul and it leaves Randy wondering what the older man sees there if he does. If he sees something other people don't see or maybe even something Randy himself doesn't see…?
John gives him a small smile then and switches the light out, not waiting for him to say yes or no, and it dips the room into an silvery almost-darkness. The few light which is falling through the windows touches everything in here like careful fingers, creating a painted like image to the eye. For long moments Randy stays like this, half lying half sitting in the bed while his gaze wanders through the room.
Neither has he said a word of gratefulness to John for offering him to share his room with him, nor that he has swallowed his pride and came back, down there in the lobby… And still John is being this almost annoyingly nice guy. Scooting deeper under his own duvet, he turns his head a bit to the side and lets his eyes roam the smooth features, only a few seconds before he closes his eyes, too, trying to find sleep.
Minutes pass in which the throbbing in his head simply won't cease and sleep stays far away from him. Quiet minutes in which there is only John's breathing and the faint sounds from the world outside and eventually he reaches the point when his eyes just won't stay closed and he finds himself staring up at the ceiling. Ridiculous, isn't it? Being too tired to sleep?
Not much later he moves to sit on the edge of the mattress, bracing his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands, palms pressing against his temples to stop the pounding as he stares down at the floor. A defeated and pained little groan escapes his throat.
"Gimme a break…" he mumbles and he doesn't only mean his head but pretty much everything right now.
It's been too long since the last time he's been away for a few weeks from the job and the stress…
It's the sudden presence of the older man right in front of him that startles him out of his thoughts, makes him flinch slightly. When has John moved? A few seconds pass in which Randy just stares at the other man's feet and John… he just stands there. From the corner of his eye Randy notices how he runs the tip of his thumb of his left hand over the pad of his index finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly… pondering?
Usually he would have told him now to please leave him alone, but he is too tired to even talk and speaking will only aggravate the pounding in his head and maybe, with a bit of luck, John simply goes back to his bed and leaves him be. But this is John and instead of leaving him sitting here, lost in his misery, John hunches down in front of him and tilts his head a little to catch his gaze and Randy can't help but look at the other man.
Funny, isn't it? They have been working side by side for years now, never really being friends but sometimes being the most relentless rivals, yet all the time he's been respecting John more than anyone else in this goddamn business. John… in a strange way John is special to him. In this weird and twisted way he admires this man. Likes him. A fact he would never admit aloud though. A fact that has taken him long enough to admit it to himself.
John looks at him with an expression so very gentle and… affectionate… and it is so much visible in his gaze that Randy is not sure if his eyes are playing tricks on him. Those cerulean eyes seem to be somewhat silvery in the dull light that falls through the windows. Soulful eyes… which unintentionally peel a lid off of usually safely hidden parts of him, those which are not all that pretty and if John sees them… well, there is no hint that he's put off by them…
"It's okay to be weak sometimes, you know?" John says quietly.
"I'm not weak," Randy growls immediately but it lacks so much of any kind of anmosity and conviction that he himself doesn't buy it.
Why is it so hard for him just to be nice to John for once…?
"Okay, then… it's okay not to be strong for once?" John tries again.
"That's the same, Cena," he mutters, dropping his hands so they are dangling between his knees.
His head is still bowed forward and his eyes stay tightly closed. He's tired, too goddamn tired of all of this and exhausted. His body aches and his head hurts and the flood of his emotions and thoughts which surges through him is washing all energy out of him… and all he wants is some peace and sleep. Things he's not allowed to have obviously and he can't even blame John for it. It's not his fault…
"Does it really matter?" John asks softly, his voice warm.
Does it? He's sitting here in a dark room with a man who he's been feuding with longer than other people manage to be married and maybe he shouldn't be here, yet there's no other place he wants to be at the moment because this room with John in it, it is probably the safest place he can be now. This man has been his rival for so long… and he's probably the only person he can risk to let his guard down in front of without having to regret it in the end.
His thoughts are still tumbling around in his aching skull as he feels a big palm settle on the back of his neck, pulling him very carefully towards the big frame in front of him while John leans in and Randy's thoughts ground to a halt in surprise and confusion. There is a quiet voice whispering from somewhere within him that he should pull back… but he's just too…too… huh… he can't. And actually… he doesn't want to. His head finds a place on a broad shoulder, while the hand on his neck brushes up a bit to cradle his head safely. A strong arm circles his back in a quite firm yet gentle hold.
Warmth…
Randy's hands go into their own business as they find John's shirt, his fingers twisting into the fabric, not to pull him away but to tug him closer while he sags a bit against him. A shuddering breath passes his lips.
"It's okay, Randy. I'm not gonna tell anyone," John whispers and Randy believes him.
John will never use it against him. He knows it, because John isn't enough of a bastard to do it. The pounding in his head lessens under the tender touch… and having John close like this is unfamiliar but good and it breaks the last bit of resistance down. John only holds him a bit tighter as Randy leans against him heavily, lets the older man take a weight he himself can't bear at the moment and the way John holds him is like an unspoken I've got you. Peace floods him, fills the space the fading pain leaves behind and if possible the tiredness becomes even more leaden. And John keeps holding him… seconds… a minute maybe… and all the time every fiber in Randy's body whispers to stay like this a little longer, just a little bit longer…
… and suddenly something has changed…
Randy notices it but it takes him a confused moment to understand what it is. He is lying and the duvet is drawn up to his chin. The realization makes him frown even before he has opened his eyes, because shouldn't he be sitting on the edge of the mattress with John hunching in front of him?
The next thing he notices is that one of his hands is holding tightly on to something and still frowning he opens his eyes. It's John's shirt. And John is lying there beside him. Close. He blinks. They are lying face to face, close, and he has his hand tangled in John's shirt and… John is looking at him. Softly. So softly that for a moment Randy can neither move nor speak.
"Hi," John says just above a whisper. "How are you feeling?"
The timbre of the low voice is thick and rich like honey and just like those eyes it is disarming… and soothing. Its sound washes over the still lingering headache that is by far not as bad as it has been though.
"I… uhm… better I guess," Randy mumbles as his voice finally decides to work again. "How…?"
… comes we're lying here?
John laughs softly and gosh, what about this man is not softly tonight?
"You fell asleep after a minute or so. Thought I should bundle you into bed," the older man replies, his eyes roaming Randy's face.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"About an hour."
Randy hears the words and thinks that John doesn't look as if he's been sleeping, what would mean… that he has been…
"Have you been watching me?" Randy asks slowly.
John's reply comes without hesitation.
"Yeah."
"That's creepy, Cena."
A quiet snort.
"Your sleep wasn't what I would call peaceful, so I thought I should have an eye on you."
There is quietness as Randy keeps gazing at him, trying to figure out why John is doing all this, the being nice to him, the worrying and caring but the sincerity that is written all over the other man's face makes it impossible to believe even for the briefest of moments that he isn't serious about all this.
"John… why are you doing this?" he asks hushed because he has to.
John purses his lips, a grin lying underneath.
"Because you won't let go of my shirt?"
It is now that Randy realizes that he is still holding John's shirt in an almost death-grip and with a silent curse he wants to pull his hand back but before he can, John lays a hand on it. The reluctance with which John lets him draw his hand back as he tries again is subtle… yet it is there and it causes a funny tingle in his belly.
"You know what I mean, Cena. Carrying my bag, letting me sleep here and…" Randy hesitates for a brief moment, because he just can't bring it over his lips. Comfort me, watching over my sleep... Instead he says: "So? Why?"
"Charity," John shrugs with the grin now showing freely on his lips.
With a huff Randy moves to turn his back on the other man… because in a way he's disappointed. Instead of a dump joke he would have wanted to hear something else from John, something he irrationally enough can't really expect him to say yet wants him to say, something like…
"I'm doing this because you're my favorite foe and although you're doing a pretty good job on being an ass, I actually like you." It stops Randy dead before he can actually turn away from John. "There, I said it. I like you, Orton, although most of the time you annoy me enough to make me wanting to put your head through the next wall." Soft amusement swings with the words but it dies away as John speaks again. "That's how I feel about it. But if you…" He falls silent for a second. Then: "But if you dislike or even hate me…"
"I don't dislike or hate you, John," Randy cuts him off without hesitation. Somehow he can't… yet… say aloud that he actually likes him, but maybe John gets the hint. "But I admit that you being a constantly good-humored Fruity Pebble can be annoying."
A smile spreads on John's lips and it makes Randy smile, too. Even though John's high spirits can really be annoying at times, a smile suits him much better than being a sad little puppy.
"So you'll be on my team?" John murmurs, causing Randy to raise an eyebrow.
"On your team?"
"Survivor Series, Orton. Remember?"
Randy puffs a chuckle.
"Don't know if that's a good idea."
"Why not? I remember a few times we worked together pretty good."
His mind jumps back to those times John means and he has a point there, they have worked good as a team. Very good in fact.
"True," he admits.
"So?"
Finally wrenching his eyes away from John's eyes, his gaze sweeps over to the window, fixing on the nightly outside world there. The idea of joining John's team has been on his mind, too, and Hunter has told him that John has asked to script the storyline this way, but Randy also knows that although Survivor Series is coming up soon, Hunter hasn't made his final decision about how the storyline will continue.
And his own request for a few weeks off and thus not being part of Survivor Series is also still in the orbit. He needs the time off, badly, and Hunter knows it. The thing is, Hunter wants him on the pay-per-view…
"We'll see," he sighs. "Actually I wanted a bit of time off, including not being at Survivor Series."
He hears John hum, sees him nod slightly.
Then: "Hunter?"
Another sigh passes Randy's lips.
"Talk to him, Randy. Tell him what has happened tonight."
"Huh, no, I'm not a crybaby."
A hand is lifted, crossing his view and it makes his eyes snap back to John, who gently lays the pad of his index finger in the middle of Randy's forehead. It's almost funny how this simple touch can dim the remaining ache in his head. Almost. If it wouldn't be somewhat confusing at the same time that having John touching him can do that.
"Needing time off has nothing to do with being a crybaby," John points out. "You're only human after all, Randy."
The hand drops to the mattress and comes to lie between them, close to Randy's chest and Randy's fingers itch to put his hands closer to John's, maybe even inch a little closer to the warmth the other man provides. He hates to be… weak… but John makes it easy to let go and not be strong.
"It could work. I mean us being friends," John murmurs after a while, shaking Randy out of his thoughts.
"Us being friends," he parrots, shooting the other man a frown.
Leave it to John to turn a makeshift sleep-over like this into a get-to-know-each-other-become-friends-thing.
"Yeah, why not?" John says lowly. "It's funny, you know? Every match against you or with you being my partner is somehow…" A brief pause, as if John tries to come up with the right word. "… special."
Well…
Special, huh? Randy thinks. Yeah, special…
"Discussing if we can be friends… Huh, something like this can only happen with you, Cena. Usually two persons are friends or not. And we couldn't be more different. How can that be a basis for a friendship? We'd piss each other off constantly."
"Usually, yeah, but sometimes it needs a bit of work to build a friendship and, you know, often enough those are the best friendships. And being different is a very good basis in fact. What could happen at worst?"
Randy hesitates because he is far from being prepared for the conversation they have right now, let alone that he has nothing he can put up against John being John in a way he hasn't come to know him yet. It's tempting though, the idea of them being friends. His eyes wander over the familiar face while he thinks about it. Huh, familiar… but it is exactly that because he spends too much time at work with John around. There have been and still are so many people in his life, most of them guests only, coming and going, some of them not. But there is something about John that makes him an unwavering constant in his life and Randy doesn't have enough constants to give even one of them up.
"We could start to hate each other," he replies just above a whisper, his gaze breaking away again only to drop to their hands.
John is silent and he's probably surprised by Randy's words. Words he might not have expected to hear from him… or rather the message lying underneath.
"Not gonna happen," he hears John murmur as if it's the most certain thing in the world that Randy Orton and John Cena could never ever hate each other.
And this time it's John's words which surprise Randy, because they, too, carry a message.
No way I'm gonna let it happen.
And once again… Randy believes it. Often enough what people say and what they do is two different things. The man who lies beside him though… it is different with him and it is as amazing that someone sticks so a hundred and twenty percent to what they say as it is almost scary.
"We have a great chemistry in the ring, you know that as good as I do, so why not give it a try if we have it outside the ring, too?"
"Cena…" Randy sighs, but John cuts him off.
"Look, all I ask for is that you think about it, okay?" Ask for? Almost as if John has really thought about all this before… And Randy wants to say something, maybe admit defeat because there is no real reason not to give it a try, as John hushes him. "Just think about it. Take your time. And now we should sleep 'cause we gotta get up early."
With that the older man closes his eyes and turns onto his back, leaving Randy staring at him and as he does, he notices that the headache is only a faint memory of the pain he's had and the peace he's been missing all the time, it is here now, has settled over him like a blanket. In the past he has heard people say that John, the real John, is addictive. It's the truth.
How do you feel? Not a second he has thought about to ask how John feels. Not even the tiniest word of gratefulness has left his mouth to thank him and Randy is not sure if he should feel even more like an ass because John seems not to expect a thank you from him, whether he's just okay with doing nice things without getting thanked for or… or because he simply thinks that Randy won't thank him anyway...
"John?" he whispers after a few more seconds.
John doesn't look over to him, but mumbles: "… yeah?"
"Thank you."
In the dim light he watches as John turns his face towards him, the blue eyes wearing a soft gleam as he locks gazes with Randy. John doesn't say anything, but the fond smile that plays on his lips is answer enough.
It is this last image that accompanies Randy as he slips into a restful sleep not much later and the echoe of an unspoken message that washes over him like a soft breeze…
… I'm there for you…
- End -