1:24AM

Everyone had left thirty or so minutes ago. And he was supposed to be celebrating his birthday like a birthday boy should. Instead, he sat, alone with his thoughts, wondering the worst, instead of focusing on the here-and-now and enjoying himself. But with Brock on Sunday, Edge's words—

"What're you still doing here?"

John startled. He turned to the dressing room door and found Punk, dressed in the same clothes he wore earlier in the day, poking his grey-hoodied head in.

He shrugged from where he sat hunched over in his cubby, rollaway and duffle bag at his feet.

Punk frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be eating cake right now?"

"It's not my birthday anymore."

"Happy Un-Birthday, then." The door swung open. Punk marched right in and headed towards him. "Come on, John Boy. Let's go."

"Where?"

"The hotel, genius."

John gave him a look. "You're escorting me to the hotel."

"I can drag you there too."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm fine, Punk."

"And I'm the Duchess of Canterbury." He snatched John's duffle bag up from the floor. "I know a sniveling moper when I see one, and you're definitely the mopiest."

"Mopiest?"

"Most mopey, same thing."

"Mopey." John leaned back into the cubby, running a hand over his face. "Man. Of all the words…"

"Calling you 'the saddest bastard in the world wallowing in his own shit' was too much of a mouthful. So. Come on." Punk kicked his roll away. "Stop stalling."

"Okay, okay, don't dent my case." He pushed himself up to his feet, reaching for the handle bar. "Thanks Punk."

"Yeah, yeah." He held the door open for John as they left. "Consider my concern a belated birthday gift."

John flashed him a smile. "I appreciate it."

2:38AM

Two minutes. He slept for two minutes before he woke up again to the darkness of his room.

John sighed, dumping his phone onto his belly.

Shit.

The bed squeaked as he rolled over onto his side, pulling the pillow over his head. No matter what he did — warm milk, hot shower, some exercise in the room like push ups and sit ups — he couldn't get to sleep. His body was too tense to relax, his mind too wired to shut down.

He flipped the switch on to the bedside lamp.

On his cell, the time read: 2:39AM.

John checked Twitter first to see if there were any updates. When he found a couple on his home page, he went through his contacts and found the one person who would be up at this hour guaranteed.

Sure enough. "What is it Cena?"

"I can't sleep."

"Hogan yourself and eat your vitamins, drink your milk."

"Milk didn't help, and I got no vitamins."

"Porn could work."

"Punk!"

"What, you got none of that too? Sucks to be you."

"And you do?"

"I'm not sharing. Why the hell did you call me anyway?"

"Because I knew you'd be up at this hour."

"Why do people always assume that? What if I actually slept and someone woke me up from my rarely gotten but heavily needed beauty sleep, hm?"

"I checked Twitter."

"Damn internets. So what did you want?"

"Uh. I dunno." He smoothed his free hand over the blankets covering him. "Just… to talk to someone, I guess."

"About?"

"Good question." Maybe why you went with me back to the hotel? "Anything, really."

"Hm." He heard some shifting over the line. "How awake are you right now?"

"Pretty damn awake, I have to say. I only got two minutes of sleep so far."

"Wuss. Come on over, I'm down the hall."

John froze. "Uh?"

"Yes, Mr. Cena, I am inviting you into my humble abode. Just, please, for the love of Jeebus, do not come in wearing one of your Skittle t-shirts, or I'm kicking you right out. See you in a bit."

He pulled the phone away from his ear. On the screen, it read: "CALL ENDED."

John smirked. "Well. This should be interesting."

3:09AM

Laying side by side on the bed, game controllers, comic books and soda cans littering around them, John asked, "How long has it been?"

"Hell if I know."

He picked up his cell from the bedspread and glanced at the time. "Man, it's almost been forty minutes."

"Really? Dammit. They're not getting a tip at this—" Loud knocks stopped Punk mid-sentence. "Finally!" He jumped up, comics falling to the floor. "I'm starving."

John picked up after him as Punk answered the door and paid the delivery boy. Pizza wafted into the room, his stomach growling enough to hurt.

"And here we are," Punk said, coming to the bed with the extra large half cheese, half pepperoni. He laid it between the two of them. "Want another soda?"

"Nah, water please. If I have another Coke, I might pop."

"Cool, more for me."

He watched Punk cross the room to ice bucket sitting on the table in the corner, full of soda cans Punk bought from the vending machine. Alongside the bucket was the WWE title belt, some tickets, cash, and—John frowned—a brown bag. One that Punk picked up and was bringing over to him.

"Here." Punk handed it over.

"Uh." John took it. "What is it?"

"Open it."

When he did, he found three plastic cases inside. "What the…" John brought out the first, turning it in his hand. "Carrot cake?"

"Yep."

He dug out the other two. "Chocolate… and cheesecake."

"That one is mine. You get the cakes, I get the one that's technically pie." Punk settled down back beside him on the bed, stealing the cheesecake case away.

"And I get the cakes because…?"

"Birthday, duh. You know." He tapped the chocolate cake case and smiled. "Since there wasn't any birthday cake to smear your face with tonight."

John smiled back. "Thanks Punk."

Beside him, Punk folded a slice of cheese. His loud chews made John's stomach growl again. But John stared at the carrot cake case in his hands, galvanized by what was happening tonight. It all finally caught up to him. Punk saw he was depressed. Punk escorted him from the building. He called Punk on a hope, a fluke, and not only did Punk answer, but Punk actually invited him into his own room, where they played video games, drank soda, watched Batman cartoons, talked about everything but work, bought pizza and now this. Cake. A cheap version of birthday cake.

Does he just feel sorry for me? John frowned. No, that's not Punk's style. He doesn't do pity. He placed the two cake cases onto the nightstand. So what gives? Why is he doing this? He reached for a slice of his own, watching Punk eat from the corner of his eyes. And why am I not asking him why?

4:45AM

"Oh man." John slumped down the pillows, patting his belly. "I am stuffed."

"Ugh, same." Punk slumped down the pillows too, rubbing his own belly. Between them sat the empty pizza box, with crumpled greasy napkins, empty soda cans and empty cake cases on top. "I'm so going to pay for this later." He poked at his hip dents underneath his pajama pants. "Already I'm getting fat again."

"Pft. You look good."

Punk eyed him for a long while, and then rolled his eyes. "Liar."

"You do! Besides, you can put off the weight easy."

"Says Wonderboy 3000 with rippling pecs and abs."

"Alright, I'm not going to argue."

"Good." Punk scratched his chest, the other arm coming up to rest over his head. Credits for the last Justice League episode played on the TV, the theme song low in volume. "So."

John turned his head toward him. After a good, long silence, where the next episode started up, he said, "So… what?"

"Why did you stay so late?"

The title card for the episode came up on screen when John said, "I could ask you the same thing."

"I asked first."

John sighed. "You know why."

"Brock?"

"Yeah."

"So Edge's Apollo Creed speech didn't work. I knew it." Punk shook his head, his lips curling up into a smirk. "He should've been all Lex Luther instead."

"Heh." John looked away, where said Lex Luther was on the television screen now, riling up Superman to attack. "Maybe."

"He was right though. Brock is a self-centered dick. He doesn't care about the business."

"I know."

"So what gives?" The bed shifted. John heard Punk's voice louder. "Why are you scared?"

On the screen, Batman confronted Superman. John watched the two superheroes go head-to-head, until Clark gave into Bruce's persistent demands. "I'm not scared of him," he said. "I'm not even scared of what I do to him and me on Sunday. I'm going to give it my all and then some." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "I'm just afraid it won't be enough. That I'm not enough."

His eyes flew open when a hand touched his cheek, turning his head. They met stares, Punk's nose brushing his. In the glow of the TV, Punk's colorless eyes shined.

"You are."

John's throat tightened. Punk… His lips moved as he searched Punk's face for the next joke, the sarcastic quip, and he found nothing there but sincerity. What are you…

The episode came to a close when Punk smiled, sliding his hand up into John's hair.

"Win or lose, you won't fail yourself, John." He watched Punk's eyes close. "I believe in you."

His own eyes fell shut as their lips finally touched.

The pizza box ended up on the floor, along with the cartons, cans, and comic books.

5:19AM

Staring up at the ceiling, with the muted Justice League DVD menu glowing on the TV screen, and shirtless Punk in his arms, John licked his swollen lips and said, "I can't believe I'm still awake."

Punk mumbled against his bare chest, "Welcome to my world."

"How long did we make out for?"

"Lemme check." Punk's arm stretched over his belly, slapping around the bed for a wayward cell phone. He watched Punk's fingers clutch around his own, drag it up and lift it over their heads. "Ten, twenty minutes." He flopped off to the side. "Give or take a few needed breaks."

"Nice."

"My hard-on says otherwise."

"I could take care of that."

"I don't do one night stands."

"I know." John weaved his fingers through Punk's ungelled hair. "So let's be official."

"Official…?"

"Yeah." He slid his fingers down to Punk's neck. "I like you, you like me, we're together, one night only."

Punk slowly lifted his head up to glare at John. "Okay," he said slowly. "If there was ever an appropriate time to use this stupid catchphrase: what in the blue hell are you talking about?"

John chuckled. "What I'm saying, is this." He pointed to him. "You." Then himself. "And me." His arms hugged Punk's shoulders, bringing him close until they were nose to nose again. "In the shortest relationship the world has ever seen." He grinned. "Until you and I both get off."

"You're an idiot."

"All you have to do is say 'yes John I like you too,' and I'll blow you."

"You're an idiot and you're easy. Not a great impression, John Boy."

His grin waned. "So why did you kiss me?"

"Because your idiocy rubbed off on me." A beat. "Wrong choice of words, I know."

"I'm not laughing." He squeezed Punk in his hold. "Give me an answer."

"John…" Punk sighed, closing his eyes and turning his head away. "I don't want this night to end on a bad note."

"So why did you kiss me?" He cut Punk off with a hand slipping into Punk's hair, yanking his head back to him and looking him in the eye. "Why did you invite me here? Why did you go with me to the hotel? Why were you even still in the arena to begin with?"

"It's none of…" All of the spit and fire that arrived on Punk's face quickly disappeared when he shut his mouth and his eyes. A loud sigh escaped through his nose, and then, he whispered, "It's because I like you, dammit, and I really don't want to, and I really wanted to do something nice for you on your birthday, when I've been a real jerk in the past. Okay? I don't even know when I started to like you. I wish I didn't. You're too nice, too kind, too damn gullible, too trusting, and fuck, I was really stupid and kissed you when I shouldn't have, because now the night is ruined, and now I—"

He ate up Punk's next three words in a rough kiss. Soon, moans vibrated against his chest. A whimper bled into his mouth. Punk's arms slid around his neck, and John rolled them over until he was on top, holding Punk's face in his meaty hands.

When they pulled away, John groaned over Punk's parted lips, "I like you too."

Punk answered back with a rough kiss of his own.

6:27AM

"Oh God." Punk's fingers dug into his back, legs tightening around his waist. "John. John. Oh fuck." He threw his head to the side, whimpering out between his heavy breaths, "Fuck me."

His hips moved in a slow rhythm, his arms flanking Punk's head. In the dim lamp light and the TV light, Punk's body shined from sweat. His upper lip, his brow, his chest. He could still taste Punk in his mouth, when he blew him—tasted himself when he kissed him, like now, muffling those moans.

Just handjobs, Punk said. Later, with their hands and stomachs dirty, Punk said: Just a blowjob. Nothing else. Got it?

But now. "Fuck. John." Punk's glossy, heavy-lidded eyes begged up at him. "Please. Faster."

Fuck.

John leaned down to kiss him again, eating up more moans and more whines. His hips pumped faster as he slid a hand down Punk's sweaty face, cupping his neck and tilting his head up to deepen the kiss. He lost some control when Punk pressed more bruises to his back, scratched nails down his skin, bit his upper lip, twisted their tongues, pulled the flesh of his ass cheeks—but he regained it all back with a powerful, hard thrust, a yank to his hair, and a bite and a suck to his bottom lip.

He reached behind him for Punk's hands, yanking them away from his back to pin them to the bed. His hips stilled inside Punk, and he grinned at his whine, followed by the thrashing his head back and forth.

"Dammit John." Punk breathed hard, glaring up at him, his cheeks red like his chest. "Move."

"I will." He pressed a soft kiss to Punk's wet lips, easing his hold on Punk's hands. "I just want this to last."

"Dork." But the sincere smile on Punk's face belied his snide tone. "You really like me, uh?"

John kissed him open-mouthed again, slower than before, his hips moving once more. "Yeah, Punk." Their lips brushed as he whispered, "I really do."

7:31AM

Curled up naked together under the covers, with the TV finally off and the room a complete disaster of soda cans, boxes and rumpled clothes, Punk said, "We are so royally screwed." A beat. "Shut up, John."

"Hm?"

"Okay good, I'm the only one who got it. Yay."

John chuckled. "Whatever." He let go of a loud yawn, hugging Punk closer to his chest.

"Sleepy?"

"Yes."

"Fina-fucking-ly. I thought after the handjob you'd have passed out."

"Heh." He kissed Punk's forehead. "Like I said… I wanted it to last." His nose pressed to Punk's hairline, his lips curled in a lazy smile. "Thank you."

"Mm."

Punk's hand rested on his chest. John dozed off to the sensation of fingers making circles over his sternum, pecs and collarbones. And he was inches away from deep sleep when: "So, we're broken up now, yeah?"

Ugh. So close. "Mm. That was the deal."

"Right, right."

John tightened his hold around Punk. "Sleep."

"Yeah, I know."

"Night."

The last thing he heard and felt was Punk's soft whisper against his neck. "Night John…"

8:50AM

He felt surprisingly good for someone who only got twenty minutes of sleep. Then again. John glanced at the venti Starbucks mocha frap in hand, halfway done. Thank God for coffee.

There were a fair amount of people at the airport when he arrived. Some recognized him and approached for the usual pics and autographs. Even with such low amounts of sleep in him, John was still in too good of a mood from last night to act mean.

With half an hour still before his flight to Chicago, he indulged in getting some breakfast at McDonald's: pancake platter with three extra hash browns. But when he returned to his seat in the far corner, facing the window, there was something sitting in his spot.

Punk smiled at him, luggage at his feet, a Starbucks venti in hand too.

John smiled back. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You get any sleep?" He sat next to him, parking his rollaway next to Punk's.

"Plenty. You?"

John lifted his Starbucks cup. "My lifesaver."

"I hear that. I mean, whenever bleed in the ring, I'm actually seeping coffee beans."

He laughed along with Punk. They didn't look away, even as their laughter petered out, and their smiles disappeared away.

John cleared his throat. "Well. Um."

"Why'd you do that?"

He frowned. "Do what?"

"That deal. Was it just to get in my pants?"

"No, God no. Far from it."

"Then why?"

John sighed, placing his Starbucks cup onto the floor, beside his rollaway. "Look, Punk." He clasped his hands between his thighs. "I like you. I made the deal so it wouldn't be like a technical one-night stand, but a really, really short relationship, because I refuse to hurt your way of life. No way was I going to push you into it. I respect you being straightedge. I respect you. So, no, it wasn't for sex. And no, I'm not going to parade around that you broke your own code. Because, again, it wasn't a one-night stand. I mean…" He took a deep breath. "Fuck it, I'd like for it to be more, but—I dunno. I just…" He shrugged. "I dunno."

A hand rested on his forearm. John looked up finally, and he froze when he saw Punk's small smile, and the way his eyes gleamed in the morning sunlight.

"Dork." Punk squeezed his arm. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

His heartbeat sped up. "What?" His lips curled into a grin as Punk leaned in. "You mean…"

"Yes, John Boy, it's exactly what you think." He nudged John's forehead with his. "But if you call me boyfriend, I'm whipping your ass worse than I did last June."

"Got it."

"And no petnames either." Punk leaned back, sliding his hand away. "Punkers is fine though."

"Okay. Punkers. Got that too."

"Great. Now gimme your hash browns, I'm starving."

He brought the McDonald's bag between them—only for Punk to snatch it away and put it on his own lap. "Hey!"

"Your birthday's over with, I don't need to share." He dugged a hash brown and stuffed half into his mouth. "Mmm." Punk chewed it right in front of John, obnoxiously loud and drawn out, mumbling around mouthfuls, "Yummy."

John chuckled, throwing his hands up in the air. "Alright, you win. I'll get another one."

"Oh stop it." Punk dumped the bag back onto John's lap. "Eat. Skinny fat ass here doesn't need the carbs." He shot John a look. "And don't talk about my ass in public."

"I wasn't going to say anything." His lewd grin matched his look.

"Uh-huh." He shook his head, grabbing his Starbucks cup and tilting it to his lips. "What did I just resign myself to?"

"A relationship."

"I know that, smart ass."

"Pot calling kettle."

Punk rose a hand to John as he took a sip. "Okay quiet time starts now."

"Heh. You, quiet?"

"Quiet time for you." He pressed his fingers together as he said, "Now shhh."

John rolled his eyes, fixing his breakfast up on his lap. Without a word said, he served a pancake, a sausage, another hash brown, a fork and a napkin onto the platter's cover and placed it on Punk's lap. A few seconds later, as he ate his own breakfast, he heard Punk sigh, and John smiled watching Punk cut up his pancake.

"If I get fatter, it's your fault."

He chuckled, turning his attention back to the tarmac and the blue sky outside. The melancholy he felt from last night was gone. So was his fear about Brock. Whatever happened on Sunday didn't matter anymore. Win or lose, he'd be okay, because there was something more meaningful in his life now, something to take care of, and he wouldn't fail at that. He couldn't.