Story Title: What Matters
Story Type: Slash
Characters: CM Punk, Colt Cabana
Pairings: Punk/Cabana
Rating: PG-13/NC-17
Series: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were I can almost guarantee I wouldn't be writing this since I would be a very busy fangirl *evil grin* But since I very obviously wrote this, it should be just as obvious that they belong to themselves and ROH/WWE. And, after so many years of friendship, I'd say it's a safe bet to say they belong to each other, as well.
Warnings: Slash, language
A/N: The idea for this came up when I heard that Punk's not renewing his contract when it's up later this year. It just made me think why he would give up a job in the WWE. And, of course, because I'm convinced that their bff love is just the surface of what's between them, I had to have Colt here, too. I'm still not online very often, but I'll post what I can when I can. Enjoy, peeps.
He lay there, listening to Colt breathing; the same way he had for years. And after almost thirteen and a half years, it was hard for him to remember a time when he hadn't heard Cabana while he was trying to sleep.
Usually, Colt would drift in and out, talking to Punk for a few minutes before falling asleep again, only to wake up once more in twenty minutes. If he woke up and he didn't know if Punk was sleeping yet, he would rub his nose across Punk's neck and if Punk was up and felt like talking, he would say something to him.
It was a habit that Punk took comfort from; one that started when they were first doing shows with Ace and Danny. They were always sharing a double, it helped save them money -an idea that a Jewish kid and one as poor as he had been would never argue with.
They would split a double -Danny and Ace in one bed, him and Cabana in the other. Usually Danny and Ace would toss back a few drinks after the show and then pass out -something that he had been wary of but he soon realized that they never acted like his father, no matter how much they drank. Leaving Punk and Colt to either talk or go to sleep.
After months of talking and sleeping and then talking again, Punk realized that he was closer to Colt then he had ever been to anyone else. It scared him but not as much as not talking to Colt did. One night, he had woken up and Colt's arm was around his waist. He had froze, unsure what to do but when Colt had also gotten up and said his name Punk noticed that even though Colt sounded scared, he didn't move his arm. In that moment Punk had made up his mind.
"Yeah?" He had asked, making sure his voice sounded even and unconcerned. "Nothing," Colt had answered and Punk could hear the relief in his voice. "Just checking to see if you were still awake." His arm had tightened around Punk's waist and they had gone back to whatever they were talking about.
After that, it was a nightly ritual when they were on the road, and when he had woken up a few months later, and found himself face to face with Cabana, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world when he leaned forward a few inches and pressed his mouth to Punk's. He pulled back after a second, and they had stared at each other for a minute before Punk had lunged across the small space and greedily attacked Colt's mouth.
It had quickly become another ritual; fooling around while trying to keep quiet enough so that Ace and Danny didn't hear and then, always, back to talking and falling asleep and talking again.
Punk had never been one to be very affectionate, even when he had still been dating girls, and he was relieved when Colt understood and didn't expect him to change who he was. As long as they kept to the same ritual at night, Colt was more then happy.
Even now, after all this time, Colt was perfectly happy as long as he got to hold Punk when they were sleeping and happened to be in the same city.
Punk felt Colt move slightly, his leg working in between Punk's and he wasn't surprised when he felt a nose across the back of his neck not even a second later. He was still struggling with whether he wanted to say anything when his subconscious made the decision for him.
"I'm not renewing my contract," he blurted out, tensing a little despite himself.
There was a pause and then a rustle; Punk didn't need to look to know that Colt was trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain before he said anything.
"OK," Colt said slowly, trying to figure out what had brought this on. "Why, Punkers?"
Punk tried to think of a way to say it without sounding like a pussy, but after a minute he just sighed. "I'm getting burned out, Cabana," he said quietly. "I can feel it. I can barely stand to get in the ring lately.
"I did what I wanted to, what I wanted to accomplish. Now, I miss having a day off more then once every two months -if I'm lucky. I still love it, but I don't like it very much any more.
"I miss fucking around on road trips and being able to say whatever the hell I want, and not having to worry about getting fined and lectured for it. I miss being able to act completely ridiculous in the ring if I wanted to, and I miss actually looking forward to matches.
"I miss...the indies." Punk finished softly, the words 'I miss you' hanging in the air, unsaid. Even after all this time, he still couldn't say it out loud. He knew Colt understood when his arm tightened around his waist and he dropped a kiss on his shoulder.
"Punkers," Colt hesitated, moving his arm and letting his fingers trace the tattoos that decorated Punk's shoulders and arms. "Punkers, you're not doing this because of what happened, right?"
Punk opened his mouth to snap at him, but he closed it and sighed again. If he said 'no' it would be a lie, and Colt had always been able to catch him when he was lying. Of course, if he said 'yes', that would be a lie, too.
"Not entirely. I mean, maybe if you were still there, I'd be able to deal with it for a little longer and I'd be sleeping better, but it wouldn't be enough to keep me there for good."
Colt nodded, relieved that Punk wasn't doing it out some misguided sense of loyalty. "Wait; you're still not sleeping? You told me it was getting better."
"Come on, Cabana, don't overreact," Punk said, rolling his eyes. "You know I never sleep much, anyway."
Colt narrowed his eyes, but let it go; he knew by the tone of his voice, Punk didn't even want to talk about it, but Colt decided to keep an eye on him, just in case.
He settled back down, resting his head next to Punk's and putting his arm around his waist again.
"Did you tell Vince yet?"
"Yeah," Punks answered, relaxing back against Colt once he realized that Colt wasn't going to fight him on this. "He keeps offering me more money every time he calls me in for a meeting."
"How much money?" Colt asked, and Punk had to chuckle at the interest he heard there and he could just imagine the gleam in his eyes. Once a Jew, always a Jew, he thought fondly.
"Ah, $650,000, plus a bigger percentage on all my merch and more creative control," Punk told him, grinning when he heard Colt's appreciative hum. "Of course, it's nothing compared to what Cena makes, but it wasn't bad."
"Please, Cena wishes he could wrestle as good as you." Colt scoffed. And Punk knew it was nothing but the truth as far as he was concerned. And if his wrestling had suffered, Colt would have told him that, too.
Colt slid his hand up Punk's chest to gently tug at one of his nipple rings, a silent invitation that made Punk smirk even as the small moan left his lips.
Later on, as Colt curled up behind him again and whispered, "The indies missed you, too," before he kissed his neck and fell asleep again, Punk smiled.
Maybe he was as crazy as everyone thought, for leaving WWE but then he had never really cared what everyone else thought about him. The only person who mattered had already told him that he would support him no matter what he decided, and for the first time in years, Punk wouldn't mind leaving in the morning.
He would be back here soon, and to stay, and that's what mattered.