Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, Slash, Profanity.

The date of his return looms over you, for all you are focused on it, want it to come, want to sit him down and just talk this over, you dread it. There is a tiny, ever-growing part of you that dwells on his note, that picks at it and has concluded that it is not as hopeful as you first thought. He can't do this anymore, he needs you but in what capacity. You need him too, you know this, it's been miserably confirmed to you so very many times and yet, you know that nothing you have tried to be to each other works. Being his lover, whilst you might hate the word, you suppose you were his boyfriend back when he was first signed, that worked for a little while, at least until you were distracted and busy. Then it fell apart so you came to the arrangement and it's destroying you, breaking you into little pieces every time you have to leave him. It's harder and harder to not hold him, to not kiss him, smother him in your arms and keep him safe. Now, you're not sure where you stand, it's in his hands, as it always is, you think perhaps, you should take the reins from him sometimes, you should wrest control of your situation from him and govern your relationship more, yet the thought of being the one to make the decision scares you. What if you make the decision and things break again? What if third time's a charm? It may be but what if this both of you trying and trying the same thing over and over and over again, hoping for different results? What if this really is madness and you should both just call it quits, try something else, try the one thing you've never tried. You think that perhaps all of the times he's asserted that if you had met earlier in your lives, you would have hated each other might be true. It might have been easier to hate him. If when you'd first laid eyes on him, your thoughts that he was nothing but a dirty kid who got hot chicks was as far as your relationship went, your lives would have been easier if nothing else. Easy, the very idea makes you laugh, nothing about him is easy, nothing about your life with him in it has been easy but the sex. Even if it was awkward as hell the first time, it had been easy to kiss him, easy to hold him, easy to bury yourself inside his body. Your mind has been waltzing in circles since he left, round and around like a dervish and you know you're getting nowhere.

FUCKING FIX THIS MESS IT'S FUCKING RIDICULOUS! - Ace 11:05

Ace was right, this mess and mess it is, is ridiculous but brooding, you're capable of admitting that is what you're doing, isn't going to help it any. You need to wait for him, to hear what he has to say and then go from there. Knowing what you need to do and actually being able to do it, though, those are two different things.

The day of his arrival home, you feel buzzed, like being drunk without the alcohol, you start walking to his place a dozen times, each time getting a little closer, only to turn back to your own apartment. You think that if anyone was watching you, they'd think you were crazy, almost pacing on the sidewalk. All day you manage to stretch out this stupidity. When you finally make it to his door, you stand staring at it, his key in your pocket, feeling like you might throw up. Instead of brooding like a teenager, you should have been planning like the adult you supposedly are. You turn back and head home again. It's too early to be here, it's only just gone seven, he won't be back for hours. You make it all the way home and sit on the sofa, staring at the wall, trying very hard not to think of anything. Thinking hasn't been working out so well for you. You can't help but wonder if he's agonising over this as much as you are. The thought of him trying to sort the mess of his feelings out, his pain, it only makes you want to wrap him up and that's the crux of your problem really. For so long you've wanted to keep him safe, safe from the World, safe from himself, safe from yourself, even and for so long he's relied on you to offer that safety. What if he's decided he doesn't want that anymore?

You get to his place a little after ten and consider where would be the best place to meet him. The living room, too confrontational, the bedroom, too intimate, the hall, too desperate, you staunchly ignore the part of you that screams you are desperate and settle on the kitchen, the only room in this cavernous place that feels like it has any personality. You leave the ugly blanket, neatly folded, on the table in his longue and head to the kitchen, sitting on one of the stools, staring at the calendar. July seventeenth and its rings, like the Saturn of dates.

"My WWE contract, it expires in July."

You remember him saying, remember how he had looked at you with something odd in his eyes, how you had no idea what he'd wanted from you, had no idea how to answer him and now, well his D-Day is close. July seventeenth is when his contract is up, you suppose. You try to imagine how he feels about it but keep drawing blanks.

The sound of the front door closing surprises you. You turn to face the kitchen door and wait for him to appear. You hear what sounds like him shuffling through the house; hear a thud of what you suppose is his bag, hitting the floor in the lounge and him swearing softly.

"Fuck." You push the kitchen door open, his back is to you; even from behind, he looks tired, the ugly blanket is clutched to his chest, his reflection, in the big window, shows that his face is buried against it, his shoulders shaking slightly. Wrong idea, wrong message, you almost sigh; instead, you step closer and wrap your arms around him.

"Hey." Colt Cabana, last of the great romantics, you think, staring at the reflection of you both, you plastered against his back, him with his face still buried against the ugly blanket.

"Hi." He shakes his head and doesn't say anything else, just turns in your arms, hiding his face against your neck, his shoulders still shaking but you don't feel anything like tears, he's just shaking. The mildly insane creature from the airport bathroom, is gone for now it would seem. You stand holding him for what seems like an age, the weight he's leaning on you, increasing as time passes. He makes an odd snuffling noise, like he's asleep and jerks in your arms. "Tired." He mutters softly, you smile against his hair and squeeze him tightly.

"Bed?" He shakes his head.

"Shower, won't be long." You'd like for him to look at you, you'd like to see his eyes, his face, something other than his still slightly shaking body and the back of his head. "You staying?" There's more than a hint of pleading in his tone, something desperate and needy that calls to you, the urge to keep him safe swells again.

"Not sure it would be responsible to let you shower alone. Did you sleep at all?" He chuckles softly and nods against your neck.

"Course." He steps away from you, catching your hands; his face still turned from you and leads you upstairs. "What you think of the place?" He asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"It's." You sigh and pull him close to you, turning his head so he has to look at you. "It's big, expensive, nice." You tell him, his eyes focus on your own, murky and soft, ringed with red. "You didn't sleep a wink." It's not a question and he doesn't treat it as such, offering no answers, just collapsing against you slightly. "Shower in the morning." You keep him moving, his bedroom is one of these doors, you're sure.

"Dirty." He grumbles, walking backwards, not moving from where he's slumped at against your chest. "This one." He grabs at a doorknob and you open it for him, guiding him backwards to his bed. You spare a quick glance for the lemon on the table and watch as he slumps over on the bed, the ugly blanket clutched to his chest, his eyes trained on that little dried out fruit. You kneel down in front of him.

"You want me to stay or go home? We need to talk but you're in no shape for it." His hand cups your cheek, stroking your sideburn.

"Stay with me." His voice is so soft it alarms you, you sure you've never seen him quite this tired and soft. "Please."

"I'm not going anywhere." You tell him softly. "Move over." He scoots over to rest his head on the pillows of the other side of the bed. You think you should probably strip down, at least get under the comforter but instead you take the ugly blanket from him, spread it over him and slip under the other side of it, gathering him to you. "I'll be right here in the morning." You tell him, stroking his lank hair. He sighs softly, happily and nuzzles against your chest.

"G'night Colt." You think you'll never get tired of hearing him say that to you, as simple as it is, it makes your heart feel lighter. You squeeze him gently and listen to his soft breathing for a few seconds before replying.

"G'night Punkers."

So this is the first chapter of the third and final part of the Tail of a Comet trilogy. (If you've not read the other two, I'd recommend taking a look, especially if you got all the way down to the author notes at the bottom, it'll explain the more odd comments in the story but mostly the lemons, the ugly blanket and anything else that seems random or odd.)

Naming scheme for the Colt chapters is as complicated as it is convoluted: Cenozoic Age being the one we currently live in, divides into three eras and seven epochs. This is the first epoch of the first era. Punk will be sticking with wrestling terms, cause he's a traditionalist like that.

Update speeds, I am hoping once a week, my new timetable is a bit all over the place so writing time may be down, this may or may not be a good thing, depending on your point of view.

As we're just getting started your words mean a great deal so as ever: Please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck, tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D First time reviewer? Don't be shy! I'm nice, honest(!), not matter what you think your thoughts are important to me. :3