Person 1: Basically this is a free-for-all, anything goes fic, which involves all three person's Punk musi.
Phil Brooks was home, alone and totally exhausted. He sat slumped on the end of his bed, head hanging forwards with weariness, and sighed to himself. Insomnia was a cruel mistress, as was loneliness. But as if anyone was going to want to see him like this – he looked out the window and frowned at the ghost of his reflection. Even in the glass the dark smudges under his eyes were visible; red-rimmed olive orbs gazed languidly back at him.
I'll phone John. He thought, He never cares what I look like.
That's what he had been telling himself for the three days he'd been hiding out in his room. But for some reason he just couldn't muster the energy to go get his phone and dial the number. Being social was draining.
He dragged his hand lowly down his face, and fall back on to the bed, staring at the ceiling. He willed his eyes to drop closed and sleep, but nothing.
"That's not going to help any," drawled a strange voice from the other side of the room. Phil just kept lying there, he was too zoned out to really react to the fact that there was suddenly a stranger in his room.
"You should go out. Do something. Paint a picture. Read a book. Listen to some music."
"Fuck off," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes furiously in an attempt to get rid of that gritty, feverish feeling that comes with sleep deprivation.
"Not likely," teased the stranger, and footsteps made their way to his bedside. It finally clicked.
"What... are you doing in my room?"
A chuckle. That chuckle sure did sound familiar. It was laid back and self-assured.
Phil finally turned his head to look at the stranger, and froze. Of course he knew that chuckle; it was his own.
He was staring at himself.
Well, a version of himself, anyway. The man standing in front of him was slightly taller, and had replaced his own thin frame with lithe muscle. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a confident smirk on his face – but everything else... the raven hair, the lip piercing, the intricate tattoos which covered his arms... all exactly the same.
"Well, considering the circumstances I think it's safe to call it 'our room' for now."
Phil sat up silently, his eyes never leaving the other man.
I really do need some sleep.
"Well anyway, hi. You can call me Punkers. Everyone else does. After my ring name, but you already know that."
"O...Okay, Punkers. Hi."
"Soooooo..." Punkers crawled onto the bed with him, and sat on his knees, staring holes into Phil's face.
"You're a bit scrawny for me. Haven't you been working out?"
"Been... sick..."
Punkers reached forward and cupped his cheek, running his thumb quizzically over the dark shadows under his eyes.
"You look it – you should be resting, or something."
"Yeah..." An awkward silence fell between them, and Punkers withdrew his hand. At a loss for what to say, both began chewing absently on their lip rings.
"Huh. Not much of a talker, are you?"
"I – I've been alone these past few days... haven't really talked..."
"Fair enough. Do I really sound like that?"
Phil raised an eyebrow, "Sound like what?"
"You. Your voice sounds weird... Do I really sound like that?"
"You... uh... sound like you..." Phil blinked a few times. This whole situation was really doing his head in; he could feel the dull ache of a migraine beginning in the back of his head, and all he wanted to do was go to sleep. Was it so hard?
"You know, this can't be real." Mused Punkers, "This is impossible."
"Eh. Come to think of it, I've seen stranger things, what with my boyfriend not being exactly... normal."
"Oh yeah, I forgot you'd be gay too." Punkers sniggered, and inched closer to Phil.
"You know, I'm hot. I mean, you're not exactly in perfect form-" he reached forward and squeezed Phil's bicep, "but the 'look' is still there. Now I can stop wondering what Shan sees in me."
Wait, what?
"Shannon? You're... I'm... going out with Shannon Moore?"
"Yep. He's one sexy little creature. But you... Hmmm..."
Phil gulped. He didn't like the hungry gleam in the other man's eyes. It was a look he recognised from the depths of his own soul, and it only came out when he wanted one thing.
"Wouldn't it be interesting," breathed Punkers, growing so close Phil could feel the other man's breaths on his cheek, "If I made out with myself?"
Phil took a shuddering breath and shuffled backwards weakly.
"I... I don't think..."
"Don't be shy... technically it's not cheating when you do it with yourself."
"N-no! That's just weird!"
Punkers laced his fingers around Phil's waist, "Oh don't give me that, you said you've seen stranger things."
Identical olive eyes locked, and suddenly Punkers covered his other self's lips with his own, and Phil found himself responding likewise, exploring what was, in essence, his own mouth. Punkers's hands snaked up his shirt out of curiosity. There they found soft skin, and his fingers ran over his torso, discovering that he could feel the other man's ribs; rows carved out from hunger and illness. It was strangely intoxicating. Phil was a little more tentative, opting to place his hands on the other man's waist. He marvelled at the slightly alien feel of the body he had, up until a few weeks ago, been used to.
"I'm a good kisser," he panted, when they broke apart for air.
"Sure am."