Warnings: Slash (Unspecified/Punk), Minor Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, Domestic Abuse, AU.
"Shh... Easy." The voice buzzing in Punk's ears is utterly unfamiliar, the softness underneath him equally so. It feels like a bed, but it's not his bed. He knows his bed, knows the way that there's a spring that digs into his kidneys uncomfortably, but he's not got the money to buy a new mattress. He knows the smell of the linen, the smell of the room, and this isn't it. This linen smells almost store bought new, this room smells different, like it's not got a smell yet. He tries to open his eyes, and fails, his face hurts, which at this stage is about the only familiar thing to him, so he takes comfort in that. It's depressing that being in pain is so familiar that it's comforting, but that's Punk's life. "Wait... Just wait." Something warm and wet swipes gently over his left eye, and cautiously Punk cracks it open, seeing a slightly bloody man in hipster glasses, peering at him with a worried look on his face.
"Whe..." Punk's voice is rough, his throat scratchy from ill-use, and his Good Samaritan hands him a glass of water. He takes a greedy gulp, and a hand takes hold of his wrist, guiding the glass from his lips. Without thought Punk glares at the man in glasses, briefly furious at being denied, the gulp of water was painful to swallow too, but it's more a fear of not getting any more that concerns him. He clings to his ire only briefly though, quickly realising he has no idea where he is, or who the man opposite him is. He could very well be in a serial killer's house, he could be anywhere with anyone, and no way of letting anyone know where he is, or that he's safe, not that there's anyone to tell really.
"Slowly." The man smiles at him, the kind of smile Punk can't actually remember the last time he saw, a smile without hatred or malicious intent towards him. He seems to inspire malice and hatred in people. He doesn't mean to, but he tends to speak without thinking, and that's always getting him in trouble. This smile though, it's a weird sight, not one he's used to in any way, shape, or form. He nods vaguely, and sips at the water, grateful as the tiny sips soothe his aching throat. Once the glass is empty, the man takes it from him, leaves him lying alone in bed. The room is painted a bland oatmeal colour, the colour walls are when you first move in somewhere. The whole place is personality less, boxes here and there. Wherever he is, the Good Samaritan hasn't been there long either. "How you feelin'?" The man asks once he comes back, an awkward little smile on his face, startling Punk from his restricted observations of the room.
"Where am I?" Priorities are things Punk has a lot of, and right now number one is working out where the hell he is, so he can get back home. The last thing he can remember was being beaten, fists colliding with his body over and over, the feeling of his head smacking against the wall. The last thought he'd had been that worry that there was blood on it, it'll have stained by the time he's feeling up to cleaning it at this rate.
"Well, you're in my apartment... I found you on the floor." The man's awkward smile slips away, leaving him looking at Punk, the way the light's reflecting off the lenses of his glasses makes it difficult to see the expression in his eyes. "You want me to call the cops? I'm sure they can find the people who kicked the shit out of you..." Punk almost wants to laugh. It wasn't people who beat him, it was a person, one man. A man he should have left years ago, a man he foolishly loved once upon a time, and now stays with out of some strange sense of duty. It's almost that he's too afraid to leave, he'd tried once or twice before, and there are always threats. Threats to him, threats to the people he loves, threats that his lover will kill himself if Punk doesn't go back, so he always does, his lover has a wife, kids, he can't have them losing their daddy over him. In those few weeks when he's first back it's good, it's like it was in the beginning, but then something will happen, and things return to the way they always are. When he was younger, Punk had always thought that people who endure domestic abuse were weak, and Punk's not weak by any stretch of the imagination. It's just not good for his health to argue with his lover, it ends up with him in pain more often than not. This time though, he'd made it out of the apartment, he remembers the hallway clearly, but can't remember his lover following him. He doesn't think his lover will still be in his apartment, but when he comes over he never reacts well to seeing Punk's blood on the walls or the floor, so he'll need to get the place cleaned before the next visit, whenever that is, and lying in this bed, won't get walls cleaned. Punk's often wondered if he somehow deserves this relationship. His parents had turned their backs on him, his friends are few and far between, his work colleagues are nothing more than people whose cheques are signed by the same company as his, there has to be something wrong with him that he ends up abandoned, and alone in horrible situations so often. His lover is quick to remind Punk of his many flaws, his many failings, and having heard it for so long, Punk's essentially come to agree.
"It's okay." Punk croaks, his throat still feels rough, he can feel the ghost of the hand that had been wrapped around it, choking the life out of him in rage. He's sure he's wearing a pretty necklace of bruises from those strong fingers.
"I really should take you to the hospital, get your arm looked at, at least." The man's mouth quirks in an odd expression, and Punk shakes his head, trying to get out of bed, intending to get home, but ending up choking back a scream of pain. It seems that his lover had gotten him worse than he thought. Now that he's moved it, his arm feels full of molten lead, his hip doesn't feel much better, and the entire left side of his body feels weirdly hot. "Whoa, whoa, easy there... Jesus." The man is there quickly, rapidly pushing Punk back against the pillows. "You're beat up, man, stay put." Punk blinks at him, the words not making much sense, the room spinning. "Oh fuck... That's it, I'm calling an ambulance."
The second time he wakes up, he's in a hospital room, an IV line in the back of one hand, and his Good Samaritan sitting in the chair by the bed, watching TV, a notebook in his lap, and a pen between his teeth.
"Wh-"
"You're in a hospital." The man turns to Punk, tucking his pen behind his ear, and fetches a glass of water. "Slowly." He mutters, holding the glass to Punk's lips, letting him take small sips. "How you feelin?"
"Shit." Punk manages to rasp out. He truly does feel like shit, everything hurts, every inch of his body aches to varying degrees, and his walls are probably stained with his blood. There's a stupid part of Punk that's worried about his deposit, there's no chance he's getting that back.
"I'm not surprised... Doctors tell me you've got a fractured skull... Ain't much they can do for that... And you've got no id... So I've no idea if you've got medical insurance. Fuck, I don't even know your name... They've been calling you John Doe." The man refills Punk's glass, and sits back down. "So... You wanna answer any of those questions, Mr Doe?" He smiles, and Punk is more than resentful of his glasses and their ability to reflect light. The easiest way to tell a man's intent is to see his eyes; the light that reflects off the lenses makes it impossible to see anything, impossible to know anything about this Good Samaritan.
"Punk." He croaks, his head is beginning to ache, all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but it would be rude, and he should somehow contact his lover, let him know he's not dead at least, though he might appreciate Punk being dead. If he were then there wouldn't be any more horrible arguments, there wouldn't be Punk's blood to scrub off the walls again. The man in the chair snorts, and looks at Punk, he takes the pen from behind his ear and places it between his teeth once more.
"That's your name? I'm guessing that you ain't got medical then, Punk." He sighs, and Punk passes out again, hearing the man laughing softly at him. Punk's used to being laughed at, but not like that. When he's laughed at it's with something dark and cruel, not something light and kind.
The third time he wakes up, the Good Samaritan is talking to someone, his back turned to Punk, their voices too low for Punk to hear. He lies staring that the Good Samaritan's back wondering if his lover is worried about him at all. He's has no idea how long he's been gone from his apartment, but he's sure it'll be long enough to earn another beating when he finally gets back. Even if his lover hasn't visited to know that Punk's not there, there'll be something to beat Punk for, there always is.
"Hey! You're awake." The Good Samaritan turns round and smiles at Punk. He's holding a piece of paper in one hand, and his cell phone in the other. "The hospital thinks they have an identity for you, and there's some cop here who wants to talk to you. Something about a missing persons that was filled for someone that fits your description."
"Wh-" Punk looks pitifully at the Good Samaritan, and he comes over, pouring Punk a glass of water, helping him drink it again. Punk's not used to kindness, especially not used to it from strangers, but it's easy to accept help from this guy, he's nice. "Who are you?"
"Who am I? Yeah, I should tell you that, huh?" The Good Samaritan laughs, and refills the glass. "Call me Colt." He holds the piece of paper up for Punk to see, written on it is Punk's legal name, his address, some other particulars, and his lover's name. "So, you're actually called Phil?"
"Yeah... But, call me Punk." Punk takes the piece of paper, scrunching it in his hand slightly. "How long have I been here?"
"Since last night, it's like ten a.m. now, so less than twelve hours... Apparently your friend was worried, and-"
"He's a cop so he put out a watch on the hospitals." Punk mutters, closing his eyes, and the Good Samaritan, Colt, laughs, but Punk feels sick. His lover is going to be furious, having to put a watch on the hospitals, having to explain to people something about Punk. He might not survive the beating for this.
"Yeah... Those guys who beat you up are gonna be in for it when he gets here, huh?" Colt smiles at him, and Punk makes an agreeing noise. His head is pounding, and someone will be in for it when his lover gets there, just not the person who beat Punk up. He can only hope that a skull fracture will keep him from being beaten again, he's not sure he can take another beating, not right now at least. "So... I noticed that you were almost home when you passed out." Colt's smile is tight and awkward, and Punk looks up at him suddenly uncomfortable. There's something in Colt's tone, something soft and kind, something warm and gentle, something that makes Punk feel oddly safe.
"What?" He murmurs, raising a hand to rub at his temple, his head's pounding, aching and all he wants is to sleep some more. He doesn't need strange confusing feelings and equally strange thoughts in his head about this guy's soft, safe voice. He needs to rest so he can face his lover.
"I live next door, moved in like two weeks ago. I-" Colt smiles again, and Punk almost nods at him, but the pain in his head stops the action in its tracks. Colt moved in recently, that explains why his house, why his bed smelled so new.
"Here you are." The sound of his lover's voice interrupts whatever it was Colt was going to say, and Punk stares at the man he loves, resisting the urge to cringe back against the thin hospital pillows. "I was so worried... What happened to you?" His lover creeps closer, taking Punk's hand, his lips are wearing a kindly smile, but his eyes are filled with rage.
"Well, he's not said, but my guess is a mugging." Colt offers, and Punk's lover looks at him. Punk desperately wants Colt to leave, the longer he stays the worse this is going to be for Punk. It's already not going to be good; he doesn't think he'll be able to take worse.
"A mugging?" He asks, and Colt nods. Punk curses the glasses he's wearing again, if they weren't there, he'd be able to see Colt's eyes, be able to judge at his emotions better. There's a tiny stupid part of Punk that likes Colt, that thinks he likes Punk too, but he's clearly just a nice guy, he's clearly just a Good Samaritan, no one likes Punk, no one but his lover, and even then he doesn't like Punk all that much. People who like you don't smack you around after all.
"Well, I'm guessing... He almost made it back home though, you'll be pleased to hear. Scott Colton, I'm his neighbour." Colt holds his hand out, and Punk is mildly confused as to why Colt is giving a different name to his lover. Though, it might be that Colt is a nickname, and he'd given it to Punk in return for Punk telling him to call him Punk.
"Well, I'm glad you came along when you did, Mr Colton... A regular Good Samaritan." Punk's lover takes his hand, shaking it firmly.
"Just being neighbourly... If you need anything, lemme know." Colt looks to be leaving, his tone strangely heavy to Punk's ears. "The doctors told me his arm's broke, his hip's cracked and he's got a fractured skull... He's going to need to take it easy for a while, months probably..." Punk's lover nods distractedly, his eyes focused on Punk's face. Colt takes his glasses off, and looks at Punk, something understanding in the deep brown eyes that focus on Punk's face. "You'll be good to go round Summer time most likely... If I can help let me know."
"I will..." Punk mutters, and his lover squeezes his right shoulder firmly. Punk's glad it wasn't the left, that arm's in a sling, and he thinks that he'd not have been able to hide the pain of that grip if it was on his injured arm. Colt leaves, and Punk almost wants to call him back, almost wants to think of a good reason to not be left alone with his lover, but this is his bed, and he needs to lie in it.
"You're fucking your neighbours now, whore?" His lover hisses, and Punk closes his eyes. He's too tired, too hurt to deal with this, he needs to sleep, he needs to rest, he needs to recover. It's more than likely a futile hope, but he does hope his lover will let him heal a little before getting back to normal.
"I just met him." Punk whispers, and his lover squeezes his shoulder again, firm unyielding pressure that aches, that strangely makes his head hurt even more.
"You work fast... Must be fucking desperate to fuck you when you're all beat up like this." His lover sneers, and Punk holds back a sigh. He deserves this, he has to, there's no other explanation for it. "Fractured skull..." His lover's tone changes suddenly, and he sits in the chair by the bed. "I'm so sorry, baby... I never meant to do this... It's just you drive me crazy. You know better than to rile me up, you know better than to push my buttons. You gotta stop doing that." His lover sighs, and takes up Punk's uninjured hand, his lips brushing over the back of it. "You're so pretty... But you're so stupid, baby." Punk's eyes close, and he lets the words wash over him. He's heard them so often that he believes them maybe ninety percent of the time. He has to be stupid to stick around in this mess; he has to be stupid to be in this mess in the first place. Everything his lover tells him, over and over again, it all makes sense. He is worthless, he is useless, he is unlovable. If he weren't those things, his parents would have cared, if he weren't those things he'd have friends, if he weren't those things he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed because he did or said something dumb again. "I'll take you home in a few days..." His lover stands, looking to leave.
"Will..." Punk starts talking, but falls silent at the harsh look he receives, he should know better than to make requests of his lover, but he is so stupid. His lover scowls at him, and leaves.
The fourth time Punk wakes up the room is dark, the curtains drawn, and Good Samaritan Colt is sitting in the chair by the bed again, his notebook in his hand, his pen moving over it rapidly.
"Hello?" Punk groans, and Colt turns to him, a smile on his face. Punk's confused, he'd expected to wake up alone, he'd expected to never see his neighbour again, but there he is, writing away at something.
"Hey! I didn't think you'd wake up. The doctors said you'd been sleeping, that it was good for your recovery process." He sets the notebook down, tucks the pen behind his ear, and pours a glass of water for Punk. "You must be thirsty... Here." He holds the glass to Punk's lips, letting him sip at it. "How you feeling?"
"Shitty." Punk forces a smile to his lips, it hurts, he's pretty sure that his lip has to be split, and Colt smiles awkwardly at him.
"Yeah... You're pretty beat up... Look, it's not my place-"
"Don't, okay... Just don't." Punk sighs, and the Good Samaritan nods, a frown on his face. Punk isn't used to concern, isn't used to people being interested in him, people ignore him; it's the way it's always been. The only person who ever pays him any attention is his lover, and that's not often very good for him, but this is the first time he's ended up in hospital because of that attention.
"Okay." Colt frowns, and sets the glass down. There's a worried set to his lips, behind his glasses there's more than a little concern in his eyes.
"What're you writing?" Punk changes the subject quickly. He doesn't want to deal with Colt's worry. He's only just met the guy; he doesn't want to burden him with problems. Problems that are solely of Punk's own doing, if only he weren't so stupid, so selfish, then there'd be no problems in his life.
"Some new material..." Colt smiles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Material?" Punk can't say he's sure what Colt means, and he's kind of interested, but he probably shouldn't pry, should probably let Colt get on with whatever it is he's doing.
"Uh-huh... I'm a stand-up... Well, I'm trying to be, the legwork is hard... Struggling comedian here." He laughs, and Punk tries to nod, briefly forgetting his broken head, but the little movement he managed reminded him swiftly, making him whimper in pain. "Hey, shh..." Colt's fingers rest on Punk's forehead gently, almost stroking his skin. "You gotta take it easy." Something impossibly sad flits through Colt's eyes, and Punk stares up at him. "He fucked you up pretty bad, didn't he?" He asks softly, and Punk says nothing, he just lies there staring at Colt. "Sorry... Not my place, right?"
"No." Punk mutters softly, his eyes drifting closed. The almost touches of Colt's fingers against his forehead is probably the most careful handling Punk's ever had in his life. He shouldn't be enjoying this though; he shouldn't even be talking to this man. Colt's job of Good Samaritan was finished once he took Punk to the hospital. "Are you funny?" Punk feels like an asshole for asking that question, wants to take it back as soon as he voices it, but all Colt does is laugh.
"Once you can laugh without messing with your head, I'll tell you a joke, and you can tell me." He sounds so utterly like he means that, but Punk can't quite believe it. No one sticks around, no one wants him around them for too long, everyone leaves him, everyone but his lover, he's the only person who bothers with Punk on a regular basis, he's the only person Punk has left.
The first time Punk wakes up in his own apartment, he feels cold. The hospital had been warm, the bed had been narrow, but there hadn't been that spring digging in his back, and the air had been warm. The worst thing about his city is that it's cold in Spring, its cold all year round but Summer. In the Summer, it's warm, in the Summer, it's hotter than hell, but at least it means that Punk isn't cold for a change. He wasn't surprised to wake up alone. His lover will be elsewhere. He'll stop by when he has time, or the inclination to do so, but Punk will never know when that will be. It's then as he lies in his cold bed, that Punk realises he's not been at work for days, that he's not called them, that he's very likely been fired. If he's been fired there's no way he can pay the rent for his apartment, and without this apartment, he's homeless. He's no friends that would let him stay with them. There were people once, the people Punk loves, but he's not allowed to talk to them, his lover doesn't like them, so he stays away. It's safer for Punk, it's safer for them, it's safer in general.
The second time Punk wakes up in his own apartment, his lover is sitting on the bed beside him, his cock in his hand, the head aimed at Punk's face. The strands of cum that land on Punk are warm, and slimy. He lies staring at his lover, at a loss for words. His head feels full of glass, and there's liquid sluggishly seeping from his ears with a strange ticklish sensation, rather like the feeling of his lover's on his face.
"I need to call my boss." It's the first thing Punk says, and his lover looks furious. Punk knows it was the wrong thing to say, but his brain is fuzzy, it hurts to think, it hurts to breathe but he needs to tell his boss something.
"I called them, told them you were attacked by some kids... You're off with sick pay. It'll cover the rent on this box." His lover stands, tucks his cock away, and leaves the room, then the apartment, all without wiping his cum from Punk's face.
The third time Punk wakes up in his apartment, he's cold, he's sore, and he's so very hungry. He manages to pull on some clothes, manages to find out there's no food in the place, manages to pull on his shoes, grab his wallet and keys, before managing to get out of his apartment. As he slithers down the door, to collapse in a heap on the floor, Punk realises he's lost count of how many times he's passed out over the years.
"Uh..." Punk wakes up in some unfamiliar place, the smell, new and barely lived in gives him an idea of where he is though. "Colt?"
"Hey... What the fuck were you doing?" Colt and a glass of water appear before him. Punk smiles awkwardly, his head is killing him, and talking seems like a lot of effort, sipping at the water does too, but he needs that so he endures.
"Hungry... I've got no food in, so I was gonna get some." Punk mumbles, leaning back against the couch's arm, his eyes closing. It's stupid to feel so safe with Colt, but so far in the short time they've known each other, he's been nothing but nice to Punk. He really is a Good Samaritan it seems.
"You can manage soup right?" Colt asks, and Punk makes some kind of agreeing noise. He thinks he can handle soup at least. "Stay there, no wandering off." Punk doesn't answer, just lies there with his eyes closed, trying very hard to not think, thinking hurts, even breathing hurts, but it's his own fault. He shouldn't have riled his lover up in the first place, and he shouldn't have left his apartment now, that'd been another of the so many moments of stupidity he has.
Months pass, Spring bleeds into Summer, and finally Punk's skull seems to have knit itself back together somewhat. If nothing else, he feels better for the warmer weather. His relationship has been strained since the day his lover fractured his skull, but surprisingly, there's been no violence since then, and for that, Punk has been grateful, but it's not like it was in the beginning, it's nothing like that at all. It's less a relationship and more like being his whore than usual, there's not even the half-assed attempts at conversation anymore, all that it is now, is his lover coming over, fucking Punk and leaving. Punk had known that getting involved with a married man was stupid, had known it from the first time his lover had forgotten to take his wedding ring off, but he was in love with the man, he'd forgiven him, had endured because he was in love, because he believed the words he said. Those words have been losing their grip though, the power they'd once had is slipping, and that's all down to Colt.
His neighbour has been a strange influence on him. In spending time with him, Punk has been spending time with the people his lover had shut out of his life. The people he'd called friends before he'd fallen so deep with his lover are slowly creeping back into his life. For the first time in years, he'd spent time with his sisters, and he'd forgotten how good it was to be surrounded by love. They'd made him promise to not leave them in the dark so long again, and agreeing had been so very easy. He doesn't want to be without them, not again, never again.
Colt also gave him new friends, Colt's friends from the comedy circuit, his friends from his childhood, people Punk liked, people who seemed to like Punk. His social circle has grown, and it's good to have one again. His work colleagues have even seemed more interested in him, have commented on how much better he's been looking since he came back to work, and that's all down to Colt, all down to his friend. A friend who Punk thinks he might be falling for. He's suspected it for a while, but it only really became obvious to him that he probably feels more for Colt tonight, because for the first time in all the time Punk's known Colt, he went out on a date.
All day, well all afternoon, Colt had been flitting around his apartment, Punk sitting on the couch watching him, giving his opinion on which shirt he should wear, feeling maudlin. He'd been jealous then, and Punk knows he's still jealous now. He wants someone to fuss over what to wear for him, to be panicking over where to take him, to be obsessing over how to act around him. It's pathetic, but Punk's never been taken on a date before, never. He's had hook-ups, and one of those turned into his lover, but he's never been dated. It's a silly thing to be jealous of, but Punk can't help it. He's jealous and that's all there is to it.
"Here you are, whore." His lover sounds angry, his voice low and clipped. Punk looks up from the book he's reading, and almost wishes he hadn't. His lover is swaying, clearly drunk. "Get over here, on your knees." It's stupid, but Punk stays where he is, and he can't say he's surprised when his lover storms over, and throws a punch at Punk's face. The crunch of his nose breaking is a familiar pain, he's broken it before, and Punk has no doubts that his lover will break it again. "Stupid little bitch, I've been so fucking nice to you lately... Ungrateful whore!" At the sound of his lover's pants' zipper opening, Punk closes his eyes, and waits. He knows what's going to happen, knows it's better to let it go. His mind is carefully blank, carefully focussed on anything else, worrying if he'd bleeding on the book in his lap. It's not his book, he'd borrowed it from one of Colt's friends, he can't give a tainted book back. "That's it... Open that cunt mouth of yours... Good boy." His lover's cock fills his throat, and Punk is dragged from his concerns about the book back to the present, staring up at his lover. "Stupid little bitch, you know no one's ever going to give a fuck about you? All you have is me, all you deserve is me, you know that." The thrusts into his throat are rough and painful, but the touches to his face and hair are gentle. "See, this is where you belong, with my cock down your throat, or in your ass. All you are is a hole for me to fuck. It's all your good for, baby." His lover smiles down at him, and Punk wants to look away, wants to argue that he's doing okay, that he's got friends, that he's loved. His sisters still love him, they still care about him, that they miss him, but these words are old and familiar, words he's heard, words he's said a thousand times. Worthless, useless, unwanted.
The next morning, Punk wakes up alone, it's early, maybe five a.m., and he can hear Colt struggling to open his door. Punk picks himself up from the floor, sparing a brief glance for the latest bloodstain to his carpet, and opens his front door, letting the light from his apartment make it easier for Colt to see.
"Hey Punk... Did I wa- What the fuck happened to you? Did he..." Colt's jovial, tipsy rambling falls into a mess of fury and concern when he looks at Punk, and Punk fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze. He didn't want to have a conversation; all he'd wanted to do was provide enough light for Colt to get his door open.
"You need some help getting the door open?" Punk doesn't answer the questions, instead he changes the subject, his voice thick and pained. He needs to reset his nose, he'd not had time to whilst his lover was still there, and when he'd finished Punk had simply passed out where he'd been tossed. The pain from the break is dull and familiar, and the way if makes his voice sound is almost more familiar to Punk than his normal speaking voice.
"Punk..." Colt's hand hovers near Punk's face, between the dim lighting, and his glasses, it's impossible for Punk to tell what expression is on his face though. "Come in... Let me get you cleaned up." Colt manages to open his door, and he holds it open. "C'mon, it's okay." He smiles softly, and Punk hesitates, before taking his keys, locking his door, and following Colt inside.
Colt's apartment finally has a smell, it finally feels lived in, and Punk's uncomfortably comfortable in this place. He follows Colt to the bathroom, not really feeling up to arguing.
"Thanks." Punk mutters, as he takes the wet cloth Colt offers him.
"You wanna talk about it?" Colt perches on the edge of the bathtub, and Punk shakes his head, concentrating on wiping his blood from his face. His nose is tender, swollen, and he thinks this time its going to sit squint, he's not sure it's going to set as straight as it once was. "You know..." Colt trails off, and stands, leaving the bathroom. Punk meets his own eyes in the mirror, silently condemning his stupidity again. If he'd just been less stupid he wouldn't be in this state. If he'd just gone to his lover when he asked him to, he wouldn't have deserved the punch that broke his nose.
It's late in the Summer when Colt extends the offer of coming to a show, and Punk had agreed readily. His lover on vacation with his family out of state, so there's no worries about him coming back unexpectedly. Colt had knocked on his front door, and looked strangely nervous, dressed in some nice shirt, looking far better than Punk. He'd worn his nicest clothes, because there's a foolish little part of Punk that wants this to be a date, and not just his friend inviting him out to watch what are mutual friends perform, then go out and eat. It doesn't matter that Punk wants it to be a date, it doesn't matter that he wants Colt to be interested, it doesn't matter because Punk is worthless, unlovable, and wanting more will ruin the one friendship he has.
Punk treasures the memory of that date that wasn't a date, Colt never asks him out like that again, never is it just the two of them, but their friendship grows. Whilst they get closer, Punk knows he's keeping a distance between them, he knows it's for Colt sake, and safety, as much as his own. His lover has been more aggressive lately, and he doesn't want there to be anything that could set him off unexpectedly, more unexpectedly. It's almost like Punk's living two lives. One where he's a cowering, terrified, stupid whore, and the other where he has friends, he has opinions; he's a real person with thoughts, and hopes, and dreams. He knows which life he'd like to lead, he knows which life is a real one, but he's no idea how to make it his. So he keeps going as best he can with this horrible duality. Slowly letting Colt grow more and more important to him, slowly, stupidly falling more and more in love.
"You wanna help me decorate my tree?" Punk asks once December comes around. It's a brutally masochist habit, but every year he puts up a Christmas tree, like a cruel reminder of every Christmas he's spent alone, every Christmas he's been disappointed. When he was a child it was because there was no money for presents, then it was because he was working, then it was because there was no one left because of his lover. This year he might be able to spend Christmas with Colt, with someone who likes him. Even if Colt's Jewish and more than likely not interested in Christmas, it'll be better than spending another year on his own.
"You know, Jews don't celebrate Christmas, Punk." Colt smiles at him, and Punk nods. He doesn't really celebrate it either, it's just a habit, just a reminder of everything he can't have, and this year he can add Colt to that list.
"I know... But still-"
"Sure, I'll help, but I got no artistic talent so if the bits I do look like shit don't blame me." Colt laughs, and Punk smiles at him. It's as he's pushing open the door to his apartment that he realises this is the first time he's let Colt in there. He almost panics, almost wants to throw Colt out. This place isn't somewhere he wants to bring his friend, this place isn't somewhere Punk's happy, and he doesn't want to share his unhappiness with Colt.
"Uh... C'mon in." Punk mumbles, and steps aside, letting Colt into the living room, cursing how bare it looks, how unlived in it looks compared to Colt's place, where life has left it's debris everywhere. In this room, there's nothing much but the TV, the coffee table, and the couch. The other things Punk had at one stage or another have either been broken, or bloodied. He's been through more than a few tables in his time in that apartment. The few things he'd wanted to keep over the years have all fallen victim to his lover's rage.
"It's minimalist." Colt smiles awkwardly, and Punk shrugs, dragging the box with the artificial tree in it out of the closet. "I always figured you'd have more stuff..." Colt seems almost sad at the lack of things in Punk's apartment, and he can't really work out why. It's not Colt's problem, it's Punk's, no one is at fault but him, as usual.
"Yeah, well..." Punk shrugs again, coming back with the box of decorations. Some of the baubles in this box are as old as he is, and he's always been grateful that his lover never visits at Christmas. Even in the beginning, even when it was good he'd always left Punk alone over the Holidays. His family were, and are, far more important than Punk, which he understands, which for the first year ever he's grateful for. It's stupid, but a part of Punk had always thought that if they'd spent Christmas together it would be good; it would be nice, romantic maybe.
"Fuck me..." Colt mutters as he opens the tree box. "How the fuck does this turn into a tree?" Punk laughs at him, and comes over, helping pull the branches out of their plastic bags.
"It's easy, the hooks go in the holes, and then bam tree." Punk smiles, looking up to see Colt watching him carefully. He feels horribly uncomfortable under that gaze; it makes him feel exposed, and fidgety. "C'mon, the ones marked 'E' go on the bottom, this bit 'A' is the top." Punk holds the top of the tree up, and Colt nods vaguely, muttering darkly about how it'd be much easier to go buy a real tree. Punk's never had a real tree, he's always wanted one, but never saw the point in having one for just himself, so his trusty fake tree has been used every year since he bought it.
"You sure you wanna decorate it?" Colt asks once they've assembled the tree, he looks rather pleased with himself, sitting on the couch, looking at the tree with a smug expression. "I think it looks pretty good as it is."
"If you don't wanna help, you don't have to." Punk almost snaps, and a part of him expects Colt to leave, or to raise his hand, anything but what he does, which is laugh.
"C'mere, sit. Tell me the creative vision for it." Colt pats the cushion beside him, and pulls the decorations box closer. Punk sits awkwardly, the spot Colt's sat in is his space on the couch, and the other cushion is where his lover sits. For some pitifully fearful reason Punk's never sat on this cushion before, but it feels much the same as the other one, and his reason seems foolish to him.
"There's no creative vision, Colt." Punk says quietly, almost wanting to snatch the box from him. The decorations are old and shabby, he knows that, and he pretty much regrets asking Colt to help him with this. There'd been a part of him that'd hoped it would be fun, but instead it's been nothing but stressful for Punk. It's such a stupid facet of himself that he's sharing, and somehow for almost a year he's managed to keep Colt in his life, he doesn't want to chase him away by revealing how very unintelligent he can be.
"So what goes on first?" Colt asks eventually, handing the box to Punk. Punk shakes his head, and smiles at Colt, but he doesn't think it's a very happy looking smile. The expression on Colt's face suggests that Punk looks far more miserable than he should. "Lights, right? I read somewhere that lights should go on first."
"I don't..." The string of lights Punk had once long ago had been destroyed when his lover had shown up drunk one year at New Year's. He'd never bought a new set, didn't see the point in it. Long ago Punk stopped trying to replace the things he lost to his lover.
"No lights? Right, coat, let's go. I might not do this whole Christmas thing, but even I know that you need lights on a Christmas tree." Colt laughs, and Punk follows him out, bemused by his friend's insistence.
Colt had bought the lights, had refused to let Punk pay for them, had even carried them back to the apartment building, but he'd had to leave Punk to decorate himself. He'd been booked for a show across town, and had to leave, so Punk had decorated the tree alone. He thinks it looks nicer with the lights, but that might just be him deluding himself. He does that so very often, but that's understandable, the stupid are given to delusions, but these little twinkling lights are like tiny reminders of the light Colt's friendship has brought to Punk's dark life over this year.
A few days later, Colt comes over, knocking on the door, asking if he can come in. Punk can't think of a good reason to refuse, so they end up on the couch, looking at the tree, the lights are switched on, and it's far prettier looking than it is with them off.
"Here." Colt hands him a present, and Punk looks at it mildly. "It's not much, but you need presents under your tree." Punk nods, and sets the gift down under the tree, something warm filling his chest. He can't remember the last present someone gave him, Christmas or otherwise.
"Thank you... I-"
"Don't worry about it." Colt waves Punk off, and sighs, fidgeting on the couch. "Punk... I need to talk to you." He says suddenly, and Punk looks up, the tone Colt just spoke in was so heavy, so leaden that Punk almost wants him to never say what he's going to.
"Sure..." But Punk has always known it was coming, the moment where Colt decides he's had enough of Punk and leaves him alone. He's not worth anyone's time, the only person who can put up with him is his lover, he knows that. Colt sighs, and takes his glasses off, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
"Why do you stay with him?" Colt asks, and Punk stares at him, of all the things on the list of things Colt might say to him, that hadn't even charted. "I know he hurts you, I know he fractured your skull that night... I've fucking heard the shit he says to you, the shit he does to you... Leave him, Punk... Please. Just leave him." Colt moves closer to Punk, taking his hands as he talks, and by the time he finishes, his thumbs are stroking Punk's skin gently.
"I can't." Punk mutters softly. He can only hope Colt won't question that, because the reason for why Punk can't leave merely shows how pathetic he is. If Colt knew that Punk can't leave a married man who beats and abuses him, because he knows he deserves nothing better, it'll show Colt that he shouldn't be wasting his time with him.
"Why?" Colt hisses, his eyes filled with fire. "You deserve so much more than this... Punk... My Punkers, you deserve someone who loves you." Punk stares at Colt.
"No one loves me... No one can." Punk mutters quietly, and Colt shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue. "It's not self-pity, its self-realisation, Colt. I've never had a relationship that wasn't like this. Fuck, no one's ever even wanted to take me on a date before." Colt snorts, and looks away from Punk, something dark in his eyes.
"I took you on a date... I didn't realise you didn't know it was one though." He sounds miserable, and Punk stares at him, at his hands cradled in Colt's own. He remembers the night Colt took him to that comedy club, remembers Colt taking him out to dinner afterwards, just the two of them. He'd wanted it to be a date so very badly, but at the time he'd convinced himself that it was just Colt being his normal friendly self.
"I didn't." Punk turns his hands in Colt so that he can grip Colt's fingers. "I didn't..." He squeezes, and Colt laughs pitifully, shaking his head, still not looking at Punk.
"I figured you weren't interested. I mean, why would you be? You're you, and you're with this cunt... Why are you with him? Don't give me this I deserve it bullshit, because it is bullshit." Colt finally looks at Punk, and there's a contradictory part of him that wishes Colt would look away again. The weight of his earnest gaze is too much for Punk to bear.
"He's the only person I have left." Punk tries, but he's not sure who he's justifying his relationship with right then. "I've tried to leave him, and he... He threatens me, threatens the people I had to push away." Colt sighs, and Punk looks away, stares down at his carpet, at a bloodstain he never could scrub out. "I can't go to the cops, he's one of them, they won't believe me. I'm stuck..."
"I'll help you." Colt squeezes Punk's hands gently, then lets go of them, using the freed hand to catch Punk's chin. "I know some real sharp lawyers, some people who can help you... We have your medical records... I can take pictures, we can get you examined by a doctor. Just cause he's a cop, doesn't mean he's above the law, and this is illegal. Let me help you."
"Why? Do this for me?" Punk tries to look away, but Colt's hand is still cradling his jaw. There's no pressure in his hold, just his fingers lightly resting on Punk's skin, but he can't move, he's too afraid to, but it's a new fear, one he's never had before.
"I think..." Colt purses his lips, and takes his glasses off, looking Punk dead in the eye. "I think I've fallen in love with you." Colt's voice, though quiet is sure, and Punk stares at him.
"Think?" He whispers, and Colt nods, his hands cupping Punk's face.
"I don't know you as well as I want to... You won't let me get close enough, but I'll wait for you to be ready. I'll wait as long as it takes for you to be ready to let me love you." Colt strokes Punk's cheeks gently, and he sighs. "I thought you should know, but you look so lost. Did I fuck up?" Colt's thumb caresses Punk's eyebrow, and without thought, Punk leans forward. "Hey... Hey, now..." Colt smiles at him, leaning back a little. "Don't do something you'll regret." He says softly, and Punk shakes his head. He wants this now; regrets can be dealt with later.
"I don't regret things... Lemme have this." Punk leans forward again, and Colt stares at him, a slight smile on his lips.
"You're a very difficult man to refuse." He whispers before he leans forward too, their lips meeting in a kiss that's far softer, far sweeter, far more mutual than any other Punk's had in his lifetime. It's only broken by Colt's cell beeping, and he pulls away, something mournful in his eyes. "I've a show... You wanna come?" He looks hopeful, but Punk thinks he needs some time alone. He got things to think about, things he needs to consider. If what Colt said is true, then maybe every word his lover has said to him is untrue, maybe every shitty things that's happened to him is just something shitty that's happened, and not a sign that Punk's utterly undeserving of love after all.
"I... Next time, okay?" Punk smiles, and Colt stands, putting his glasses back on. His hand cups Punk's cheek briefly, a soft smile on his lips.
"I'll hold you to that." He leaves, and Punk sits very still on the couch, staring at his tree, and the solitary present under it.
The hand in his hair, pulling him off the couch wakes Punk up from the nap he was having, and the scent of his lover's alcohol tainted breath fills his lungs.
"What the fuck is that under that tree, whore?" He snarls, and Punk stares at him, unsure if it's wiser to be quiet or to answer. "A fucking present? Who the hell would waste money on a dumb slut like you?" His lover's hand tightens in his hair, and Punk freezes, he's no idea what to do in this situation, but he never does. He truly is as stupid as his lover tells him he is.
"The neighbour..." Punk croaks, and his lover laughs, dropping Punk to the floor.
"Open it." He growls, kicking Punk's stomach once, the toe of his shoe digging in just under Punk's ribs. "Let's see what your little friend got you." Punk's hands are shaking as he reaches for the little parcel. He hopes in that moment it's something cheap, that it's something impersonal, that it's something that won't set his lover off worse. "Hurry up, bitch, I ain't got all day." His lover kicks him again, and Punk opens the parcel, unwilling to tear the paper more than he has to, he knows that once this is over he's going to rewrap it so he can open it again on Christmas day. "A book?" His lover snorts in disdain, and Punk tries very hard to keep a smile from his face. It is nothing more than a cheap paperback, but it's a book Punk had mentioned wanting to read months ago. Punk closes his eyes, and slips the book back in the paper. There's a wordless growl, and it's then that Punk realises that he's done something stupid. He'd lost that battle against a smile, he can feel it on his lips, but it's only there a short moment before his lover grabs his hair and smashes his fist into Punk's face. "You're nothing... That shitty fucking book is nothing but a cheap bribe to get a cheap whore in bed." Something inside of Punk clicks in that moment, something inside of him remembers Colt's hand on his face, remembers his soft words, and Punk stands, forces himself to his feet. "Whore?" His lover snarls, and Punk holds back a cringe. Colt said he'd wait, and it might take Punk forever to be ready if he doesn't get started now.
"No." He says firmly, and his lover grabs the front of his shirt, hauling him close.
"No?" He laughs, and Punk stares at him, ignoring the pain in his face, ignoring the anger being thrown at him, the only thing on his mind is Colt's voice, warm, soft and gentle, feeling him feeling safe.
"No." His voice is firm, and unshaken. He's surprised, but pleased about that, he sounds like he means this as much as he feels he does. "Not anymore, I'm done. Leave." His lover laughs, and throws Punk back against the tree. It crashes to the floor, leaving Punk in a sprawled mess on top of it. He's sure he heard some of the ornaments break, and a little part of him breaks with them. These trinkets were worthless everyone else, but so very precious to him.
"You sonvabitch!" His lover growls, and lunges. The beating is worse than usual, almost as bad as the night he fractured Punk's skull, but he does leave, leaves with a promise to never return, that he was through with trash like Punk. It hurts, the beating, and the insults, but beneath the pain, beneath the aches, Punk finally feels free.
"Hey..." Colt's voice is a soft surprise, and Punk moans quietly. It feels like he's lying in a bed, which hadn't expected, because he'd passed out on the floor of his apartment, thinking that he should get up, and shut the door because his ex-lover left it open. The pain from the last beating radiating throughout his body, but there's something else inside him to counter that, something light, something free. Last night he'd done the one thing he should have done years ago but didn't because he was afraid. He's still afraid, kind of at least, but it's a different fear, it's finally not the fear of saying the wrong thing and getting the shit kicked out of him for it. It's the fear of losing the warmth of Coltat his side.
"Hi." Punk's voice is rough, and before he can move to grab the glass of water beside the bed, it's raised to his lips by Colt's hand.
"Slowly." Colt murmurs, and Punk sips at the water. "So last night?" He says softly, and Punk stops drinking, laying back down against the pillows to look up at him. The light is reflecting off his glasses, and Punk frowns, reaching up and taking them off. "I need those to see." Colt laughs, and Punk smiles at him.
"I'm right here, nothing else to look at." He smiles, and Colt shakes his head, lying back down beside Punk. "Last night... I told him it's over. You said to me you'd wait for me, that you think you're in love with me." Punk sighs, and moves closer, a tiny little bit closer, Colt's arms wraps around his shoulders, his hand resting on his bare skin.
"Yeah... I probably shouldn't have laid that on you then though... Bad timing." Colt's fingers move in a slow caress, and Punk moves just a shade closer.
"No... Good timing. You gave me the motivation to get rid of him, I... This." Punk gestures to his bruised face. "This was because I told him it was over." Punk turns to Colt, and smiles, even though it's small it still hurts his split lip to wear it. "I don't know how long it'll take, Colt, but if you're willing to wait, I'd like to try." Colt grins at him, and Punk closes the last of the space between them, resting against Colt's side fully, his head on his shoulder.
"Me too." Colt sounds unbelievably happy, and there's a bitter little voice in the back of Punk's mind that's telling him that it's unbelievable, because no one will ever want him as anything more than a hole to fuck, and body to beat. "I'll wait for you, you're worth it, so very worth it." Colt murmurs, and the conviction in his words cancels a little of that voice in Punk's head out.
"We're in your place?" Punk asks, not commenting on what Colt said, not wanting to get into it just yet.
"Uh-huh." Colt pulls away, and gets off the bed. "You okay to stand, or do you want me to carry you?" He picks up his glasses, putting them back on, and Punk stands on unsteady legs. Colt's arm is around him holding him up before Punk can even think to take a step. "Close your eyes." Colt tells him, guiding him slowly out of the bedroom. The voice in Punk's head is screaming that walking around with his eyes closed is a stupid idea, but there's another, louder voice that's telling him that Colt won't hurt him, that this will be okay. "Sit. Keep your eyes closed." Colt settles him on the couch and then moves away. "Open them." In front of him is a Christmas tree, a real Christmas tree, covered in the ornaments from the fake one in Punk's apartment, some of them looking like they've been glued back together. Whilst they might look old and ugly in the cold light of day, in that moment with the curtains drawn, and the Christmas tree lights on, they look beautiful.
"When..." Punk can't find the words, can't even begin to think of what he wants to say. He's utterly dumbfounded. He'd expected all of these trinkets to be thrown in the garbage, not hanging on a tree, a real pine fresh tree. They might be damaged, they might be broken, they might be worthless, but Colt made whole, he made them beautiful. There's a metaphor for Punk there, at least he thinks there is, because right now he's damaged, he's broken, he's worthless, but he'd like for Colt to try and make him whole, to try and make him beautiful. Colt sits beside him, his arm snaking around Punk's shoulders once more, making it easier for Punk to curl up against him.
"Merry Christmas Punk." Colt says softly, and for the first time in years, Punk thinks it will be.
My Christmas present to me (maybe?) this year is a collection of fics inspired by my favourite Christmas Carols.
First up we have God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. I love the traditional Carols, and this one is my favourite. :3
Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with.
You can't give me an apple for Christmas like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)