John Layfield sighed heavily, his head down as he watched the tree lined side walk as he walked toward his building under the street lamps, an idea he was deeming to not be the best one he had ever had. A smile spread across his face when his chocolate eyes settled on the ring on his finger for a moment, the gold band shimmering in his irises. He looked back up with new found happiness, his mind drifting away to three years ago; everything was too perfect to be true – but it was true, and luckily, it still was.
Life really was too good to be true, and he had absolutely nothing to complain about every time he drifted away to seeing himself hand in hand with Phil Brooks, being pulled down the street to their building as everyone else and everything else disappeared. The sound of his laughter, his bright smile as he ran toward the elevator, dragging John behind him and laughing more as he tried to hold onto his ever present cowboy hat that he just loved to steal.
John's manicured finger just barely poked against their private floor's number, the key left in the slot as his body was shoved up against the opposite wall. A heat rush crashed through his body as tattooed fingers unbuttoned his blazer, an arm slipping around his curvaceous waist line, his own arms settling on his love's hips as those tattooed fingers clasped around the back of his neck and pulled him down into warm impassioned kisses. Those chaste, pierced lips never failed to cause him to fall for the young superstar every time.
Layfield smiled to himself, wishing he had his darling wrapped up tight in his arms as he stepped onto the elevator and turned the key. He folded his arms across his chest, staring down at his ring and repeating aloud to himself that he was indeed the luckiest man alive.
In moments he hardly realized his cowboy boots had led him into his penthouse, took him on the couch, flipping through the channels and seeking out the station to see his states-away love; getting traveling schedules in sync had been so hard, and this week it just wasn't going to co-operate. He cursed his early morning flight half way across the country, but at least being up so high could give him another moment to thank God for Phillip Brooks-Layfield.
He changed out of his suit, throwing them into the hamper and getting into the thoughtfully purchased pajama pants and top from no real special occasion other than getting to be with each other – at least that had been the reason John used when he had random gifts... every day; and even now, he had a pile of things sitting in their living room for when Phil came home.
His eyes widened slightly, darting down from the bedroom to the larger television downstairs just as fast as a girl with faux-love for John Cena. He grinned brightly, cuddling onto the ever present Straight Edge merchandise pillow until he was sitting up on the couch in actual curiosity as Killswitch-whatever -it-was music hit the arena and CM Punk was strutting his seemingly pantsless self down the ramp. Freshly shaved in the same pattern the way John liked, and his hair in his favorite style... and the rare appearance of eyeliner.
He melted into the couch, as Mr. Money In The Bank held up his brief case, that he even toted around their home, and winked at the camera – just for him.
John breathed in the scent on the fabric of his Layfield Energy shirt that Phil always stole to wear, his scent still lingering on it because his clothes never really quite made it into the laundry basket, even when they hadn't been in a rush to get close to one another.
He knew Punk had stolen a different one to pack with him, as his Mamajuana Extreme shirt had gone missing from it's usual spot, and he'd receive a dirty picture of Punk wearing – or not-so-much-wearing it on his cell phone... and he would have to call a friend to ask how to open it, because technology just wasn't ever on his side.
After the match commercial faded over a victorious Punk, who was calling him within seconds, and John scrambled for his phone dropping it to the floor and sitting down on the carpet instead of wasting a moment to tell him to hold on a second – they didn't have time for seconds.
Hanging up had always been a bitch – because no one wanted to be first, and someone beside Phil would almost always take the phone and say goodbye and shut it off. John sighed, roaming into the kitchen and loitering around with the container of ice cream, and making sure to smooth out the sides he'd been scooping out of because it was Phil's favorite ice cream, but he secretly wanted to get woken in the middle of the night to a complaining bitch of a spouse, because when he got mad it was always the cutest thing in the world, and he would always just get dressed and go get more... somewhere.
Upstairs he quietly watched over his city, swirling a glass of scotch in his hand as he waited for the last phone call of the night – as he had already received his dirty photo, and successfully was instructed on how to open it. He crawled into bed, saving sheets, and room for Phil, even if he wouldn't be there tonight, and picked up the phone the minute it vibrated on the night stand, and the first greeting had been a reminder that he should stop drinking – that kid always knew.
John smiled, closing his eyes and relishing in their love that made them completely blind to anything else in the world. Nothing else beside that gorgeous smile mattered.