This. This, you think, is the worst part. When you stand before him, doing your utmost not to hurt his feelings. Because you're not a bad guy, you're not a cruel man, but the truth is you stopped caring weeks ago and what you really want now is to avoid causing a scene.
You've always thought breaking someone's heart should be harder, but it's almost painfully easy. It's no more difficult than breaking an arm, and it never hurts you. When it gets to this point, you can barely remember what it feels like to be stupid in love, and you always wonder why you got yourself into this mess to begin with.
John Cena loves to keep up appearances. He'd never start something in public, so that's where you do it, in the hotel restaurant after a show. The place is nearly vacant, but you never can tell who's watching when you're not behind closed doors, so he's got his public persona firmly in place. He orders and starts to eat like he doesn't have a care in the world and despite knowing him better than that, you also know he has no idea what's going through your head.
He used to love that about you. "I can never tell what you're thinking," he'd say with a smile and a shake of his head. And you think, you think, you used to find it endearing. Because it wasn't always like this, silent dinners, thousand yard stares across a table, wondering how long it'll be before you can get rid of him and be alone again. Now you know that it just means he doesn't know you, and you really should have seen it coming.
"John," you say as he cuts into his steak. He looks up at you, nothing more than mild curiosity on his face. "I'm tired," you start.
"I'm almost done," he answers placatingly, pushing food into his mouth and chewing. You watch him with a combination of longing and disgust. You're not eating yourself, you're only here because of the opportunity it presented, and you have no intention of sharing a room with him tonight.
"I'm tired of this," you say, shaking your head. "It's not working, John."
To anyone else watching, you might have just made a comment about the weather or some equally bland shit, but you can see the way his face freezes for a split second, the way his eyes dart around the room then back to you. If you were alone, he might have done more, and you know you made the right choice of venue. He chews on his food thoughtfully and the last thing he's about to do is start crying on you.
Finally, he looks up at you. "You're right," he says. You frown. It's never been this easy before, and you didn't think it would be with John. Where's his never-give-up when it comes to you? "I've been meaning to find some time to talk things out, but you know how crazy it's been."
Of course he would want to fix things. That's more like it, and it soothes your ego, even if it's not what you want. You've done this so many times you're an expert. You can usually peg the ones who think they'll be better off without you, who get angry instead of depressed.
"I don't want to talk," you tell him, and you can see the incipient confusion on his face. And you think – but really, it was so long ago, how can you be expected to remember – you think you used to find it adorable. Used to chuckle as you smoothed a hand across his furrowed brow, kiss his frowning mouth until he laughed with you.
John puts down his fork. He's all focused on you and you start to wonder if maybe you misjudged, because anyone looking at this table now would be able to see that there's something serious going on. "It doesn't have to be now," he says softly and you can tell he's hoping against hope you're not doing what he thinks you're doing.
You have no hope to offer him, but suddenly, you don't think you can do it. It's not so much that you don't have the heart as you don't have the patience. You can see this conversation dragging on as he tries to convince you and it's already midnight.
"I'm tired, John," you repeat, rubbing a hand over your eyes. "I'm going up to my room." You slide out of the booth and walk out of the restaurant without a backward glance, even though you can feel his eyes burning a hole through your back.
You bypass the elevator and take the stairs to the fifth floor room you are not sharing with John. You may not be able to sleep, but at least you'll be alone, which is all you want right now. You hear footsteps behind you, but you ignore them, assuming it's just another guest making his way to his room. You have no idea that it's John catching up to you until you enter your room and turn to close the door behind you. He's there in the doorway and this time you can't read the expression that darkens his face.
"This is my room," you say as he pushes past you. "Go get your own." You hold the door open and gesture towards it invitingly, but let it swing shut when he makes no move to go.
You sigh and try to walk past him, but he grabs you around the waist and pulls you in. You don't have the energy to push him away, so you just stand there in his embrace, hoping he'll get tired of holding on to someone who doesn't want him. The problem is your traitorous body does want him, isn't bored of him the way the rest of you is. You feel yourself relaxing in his arms, leaning into him as he kisses your neck and pulls your shirt up and over your head.
"Stop it, John. I'm not in the mood," you say as his hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing over your ribcage, then wrap around your back to rest on your shoulder blades.
"Let me do this for you," he murmurs into your ear. "You know you'll sleep better." You hate that he's right, that even if he doesn't know your mind, he knows your body, knows its rhythms, from manic energy to crushing weariness, all of the highs and lows and the frenetic in betweens. He knows you better than anyone has, knows when to ride out the storm and when to take the wheel and steer and you have to wonder how long it would take him to get tired of you if you didn't get tired of him first.
When you don't say anything, he walks you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed. He pushes you down until you're sitting. You don't try to stop him, you just watch impassively as he takes off his own shirt, toes off his shoes, then sheds his jeans and underwear. You remember – even though you don't want to, you're trying not to – you remember too many nights like this, when he got you off, held you close, watched you sleep the sleep he bought you with his body.
He stands before you naked, his erection bobbing in your face. You wonder what he'd do if you tried to bite it off. But you're not bloodthirsty, you're not angry. You don't even really want him to leave anymore, not as long as he doesn't expect you to talk or do much of anything.
"Well?" he asks, because John Cena would never do anything without knowing he had your consent.
You shrug. "You're going to have to work for it," you tell him. You see him snort out a huff of air as you lever yourself backwards onto the bed and lie down. When do I not? you imagine he's thinking. But you don't care, because he's the one who always has to do things the hard way. He's the one who's staying when he could just as easily have left.
You don't move as he finishes undressing you, stopping to trail his fingertips over your skin as he goes. You're relaxed, but you're not hard. You're tired; you're not in the mood. You don't even know if you can get there, despite needing the release.
You close your eyes as he goes to work. The obvious thing would be to go for your dick, but he avoids it as he trails kisses down your chest, hands running up and down your thighs. His tongue traces your hipbone, then blows on the moistened skin. You can't deny it feels good, that it does something for you, but it's just not enough. Fortunately, John is nothing if not persistent, and he knows all of your hot spots, all the things that turn you on. By the time he makes it to your nipples, you're breathing a little harder, wishing he'd move it along.
You don't have your piercings in, don't really wear them all to often anymore, but your nipples are still extremely sensitive, and you groan when he presses his tongue flat against one and tweaks the other. It's the first sound you've made since he started and after teasing you for a few more minutes, John decides it's time to get the lube.
You open your eyes as he climbs off the bed, watch him as he goes over to your bag and rummages through it as though he has every right. His own bag is god knows where, still in the car or in a room of his own that he isn't going to use. As you stare at his naked ass, you can't help but remember the first time you saw him like this. The first time.
Over a year ago now, and a lifetime as far as you're concerned. You were eager then, diving in head first as you threw caution to the wind. Discovering every part of him, everything new and exciting. He stands and turns back around, watches you watching him and smiles at you, dimples popping. Your breath catches in your throat, even though you're not really sure what he's smiling for.
He returns to the bed and sits down on the edge, still looking at you. You can tell that he wants to kiss you, but he doesn't. He just gives you another smile before going back to work. You close your eyes again as he's squeezing lube into his palm. You're at half mast when he takes your cock in a hand slicked with lube. You feel a shiver run through your body as he jerks you slowly, a tingling echoing through every part of you he's touched tonight. You lift your arms above your head, clutch at your pillow. You bite your lip to keep from saying his name, but you know he knows what he's doing to you from the way you harden in his hand, lift your hips up to meet his touch. He knows you're ready.
He takes his hand away from you and you wait, body taut and expectant. You hear a groan and you know he's touching himself. Despite trying to convince yourself you're not interested, your eyes drift open to watch John lube himself up. After a couple strokes, he stops and wipes his hand off on the sheets. He climbs on top of you and you part your thighs for him, lift your hips until you feel his cock poking at your entrance. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even seem to notice you're looking at him as he pushes inside of you with no prep. It doesn't hurt, or if it does, you're too used to it to notice. You arch your back up off the mattress as he moves inside you and he latches onto your nipple again, sucking and laving it with his tongue.
He sets a hard pace, but you meet it, pushing back against him. Before long, you're panting and arching against him in earnest, your neglected erection lying heavy between you. "John…" you gasp out before you can stop yourself. He takes you in hand and strokes you as he thrusts deep inside you. You wrap an arm around his back, pressing yourself as close as you can get.
"J-John," you stutter as you squeeze your eyes shut, so close to the edge. He captures your lips and that's all it takes. You're coming, or maybe coming apart. Stars form behind your eyelids, your muscles contract wildly, and you don't even notice that you're kissing him back as you ride a wave of pleasure and relief. He buries his face in your neck seconds later, muffling a cry as he releases inside of you, setting off a round of aftershocks that leave you breathless.
When he's finished, he pulls out of you, rolls to the side and lies next to you. He doesn't try to touch you or hold you. It reminds you of how you got here to begin with and suddenly you feel heavy and leaden, not just tired, but drained.
"I was trying to break up with you, you know," you say after a while, not really caring about his reaction anymore, or much of anything, really.
"Yeah, I know," he answers, and you're mildly surprised. "If that's what you really want, just say the word and I'll leave now."
You turn away from him and say nothing.