Marty DeRosa: Wait, these wrestlers hook up with each other?
CM Punk: A completely fabricated rumor. Never happens.
The show is over and you're just finishing packing your bag when he knocks on your door. All your history, your current rivalry, and John actually knocks on your open door, waits for you to look up and respond.
"What could you possibly want now?" you ask wearily. You have no patience for John Cena right now.
He holds up his phone. "I was just catching up on my Twitter. What's this about?"
Of course, you can't see his phone from this distance, so you consider being a dick to him and making him explain what he means, but the truth is, you know exactly which tweet he's talking about. What you don't know, or hope you don't, is why he's asking.
"Maybe I was throwing you a bone," you suggest dismissively, zipping up your bag.
"No," he says, shaking his head. "You were being a raging hypocrite. For all I know, you're the one who made up these ridiculous allegations about me and AJ."
You narrow your eyes at him incredulously. "Did you see what just happened to me out there, John? I was better off with AJ."
"Then tell me-" John starts, then stops. He frowns at his phone, tilts his head as if he's trying hard to remember something that just isn't coming. You recognize this for the dangerous territory it is. "Punk, tell me..."
"Figment of your imagination, John," you say as you shoulder your bag, walk past him and out the door. "Never happened."
You remember too late that that's not what your tweet said. The last thing you see of John is his frown deepening.
Later, back at the hotel, you're just stepping out of the shower when there's a knock on your door. You don't bother putting anything on, just wrap a towel around your waist. It seems like a good idea until you open the door to find John standing on the other side.
He's seen you in a lot less, sees you in less on a regular basis, but you know this is different even before you see the covetous gleam in his eyes, the shell shocked look on his face, as though he's being haunted by a memory he can't quite grab hold of.
He takes a halting step towards you and reaches out a hand as if to touch you. He's touched you plenty of times in the ring, but again, this is different. You take a step back. "John," you say sharply, and he snaps out of it.
He shakes his head confusedly. "I don't know what I'm doing here," he says. He waits a minute, as if he expects you to tell him. When you say nothing, he turns away and leaves.
As you look down the now empty hallway, you curse under your breath. You never think these things through. All you meant to do was make a tongue-in-cheek reference to your own past history with AJ, but you should've known it had the potential to shake something loose in John's head.
A few hours later, you're still not asleep when there's another knock on your door. You're not really expecting it to be John for a third time, especially not at this hour, but you throw a shirt on over your shorts just in case.
Of course it is him. You can tell the second you see his face that he's been drinking, so you let him in without comment. The last thing you need is a drunk John Cena causing a scene outside your room in the middle of the night.
"I remember," he pronounces proudly, stepping into your personal space.
"What is it you think you remember?" you ask, trying for a bit of bravado.
"I remember," he repeats, backing you against the wall. You catch the warm, yeasty scent of beer on his breath, the tang of alcohol. It's more familiar than you'd like it to be. "So don't tell me I imagined it."
"You're drunk, John," you say instead, still hoping that he doesn't really remember anything, whatever it is he thinks he knows. You made an agreement, and even though you were on better terms then than you are now, you intend to keep it.
"Do you know that I dream about you?" he asks. You look up against your will, into his eyes. "Sometimes I step into the shower with you... Sometimes I invite you onto my bus and I..." he lifts his hand, touches your cheek with his fingertips. "Was that real? Did that happen?"
You swallow hard, well on your way to being seduced, despite your best intentions. "No, John. That never happened."
And it didn't happen that way. You know, you remember, because you were sober when it did, like you always are.
It happened in the summer, when his marriage, his life, was falling apart. When he started drinking to forget, and you were the only person he trusted to stop him from doing anything stupid.
It happened when you were friends, and he used you to forget. In a hotel room a lot like this one, his breath hot in your ear, asking for just one night. Back then, things like love and loyalty had seemed a lot more important than respect.
"Then tell me what did!" He slams his hand against the wall in frustration, startles you. It's clear to you then that he doesn't really remember anything.
"Why don't you go back to your room and sober up," you suggest, refusing to flinch.
"I need to know, Punk. Please."
The desperation in his voice weakens you, almost makes you crumble. But you know you can't do it. It's just the alcohol that does this to him, and knowing won't make him want you, it'll only make him hate himself.
"Why don't you tell me what you think happened," you say challengingly. Daring him to say it.
Emotions war on his face, and you'd swear he comes closer than you ever thought he would. But he backs down in the end, takes a step away from you.
"Nothing," he says. "Nothing, it was just a fabricated... figment of my imagination."
You nod, but you have to lean against the wall to support yourself. "Go, John," you whisper, your voice oddly small and weak, even to your own ears.
He looks at you for a long moment, and you think he's going to say something, but then he doesn't. He just backs away and leaves.
You don't sleep at all that night. You can't even face lying on your bed for remembering, so you sit in the rolling desk chair and stare at the pages of a magazine.
What you see is John, blushing as he tells you he's never done this before. It goes without saying that you have, that you know exactly what you're doing.
You see John underneath you, asking if it'll hurt. Trusting you to tell him the truth. You see him straining under you, his face transfixed as he comes.
"I probably won't remember this tomorrow," you hear him mumble. You remember saying you could remind him, still buried deep inside him. "No, don't," he said as he fell asleep. And you vowed that you wouldn't.
You see him in the airport later, catch a glimpse of him across the terminal. He's walking with Randy, a crowd of fans following after them. He smiles and laughs at something you can't hear, then he's gone.
You took his virginity and he took your self respect. Most days, it doesn't seem like a fair trade, but on a day like this, you think you'd do it all over again, just to see him happy.
Note: I struggled with this quite a bit, but I wanted to get it finished up and posted before I see Hell In A Cell. And if you are wondering, I am not capable of writing anything happy, because I have a dark and twisted soul. Truthfully, these things don't seem quite so angsty in my head as they end up being.