Just trying myself at Shawn/Cena. As random as usual.
And not my best writing I'm afraid :(
He imagines it's close to waking up next to Shawn.
The sun is barely shining outside, some green curtains further filter its light almost everywhere in the bus; it's as quiet as it can get. Could be a room. Could be in bed.
Eyes are closed, some mouths are half-open, and only a few snores disturb the silence. He forgot who's sitting behind him, but he's sure as hell going to prevent that guy from ending up here again. And wonders how Shawn managed to fall asleep. How they all managed to fall asleep.
For now he's too busy thinking, about matches, about cars, about music, about the man next to him and the closeness. His head keeps slipping, slipping on the side, always getting closer to John's shoulder.
Nonchalant was the way to go – to try to go – when they stepped in the vehicle. Don't sound eager, don't look hopeful, or the other way around. Not asking him to sit next to you, it's just a possibility you inform him of. Randomly. And the steps seemed higher, the bus seemed larger, too many seats, too many seats. Stopped bickering with the boys and walked on, looking around, trying to hear a certain deep voice. All that, nonchalantly.
Shawn was muttering something about the cold, of course, he was tired, he was hungry (John searched his pockets for forgotten snacks; nothing) – not a good day. But here they are in the end, sitting next to each other, Shawn on the side of a window he hardly glanced at before falling asleep, John left staring at everyone else. At that tilted head.
He moves, to his left, uses his back to somehow shake the seats a little, and, and here you go. There's a weight on his shoulder. And what to do now? He starts noticing things. A golden glow. A free lock of hair. The angle of a neck. A hand near the edge of the seat, next to his own, so close to his own. Thinks about closeness again. What if he moves his hand, accidentally, touches those fingers, accidentally? It's like sliding your arm behind the chick you managed to drag to the theater, it's all accidental. And it's the same kind of nervousness.
Shawn mumbles something in his sleep, gets more comfortable on his shoulder – John can only freeze. Go back at touching with the eyes. Keeps noticing the details. Nose. Jaw. Stubble. Lips. Lips. Lips. Fucking lips. Kind of chapped. Kind of inviting.
Look away.
Can see Jericho on the other side of the aisle, headphones on and heavy metal so loud John can hear the sounds, some psst wee psst psst that apparently rocked him to sleep. He's one of those who drew the curtains closed to hide from the sun, and there's no golden light on him, and there's no pretty detail to notice. John's eyes don't focus on anything, when what seems to be a perfect jaw hypnotized him minutes before. And he wants that again.
Having him sleeping on his shoulder should be enough of a satisfaction, dammit.
Turns to look outside. Nothing but a few buildings, some dying trees, people. Nothing beautiful about those.
Shawn moves again, his eyes immediately fall on him. Curses, but that's not going to make him look away. Lips. Lips. Lips. Lock of hair.
His hand has a mind of its own, right at this moment. It's not willingly that fingers brush the hair, tuck it behind an ear, stay there a little while. The sane part of his mind pushes him to look around for stares of some kind – nothing. All sleeping, busy – they could be alone. They're alone. Or, rather, he's alone. With him.
It begins to look like an opportunity. He can, definitely can get so close to Shawn's face some other times; in the ring. In front of thousand and thousand of people who certainly aren't sleeping at all. Wouldn't be able to stare and touch, not like that.
He remembers a moment of tension, awkwardness, where Shawn looked up and he looked down, and something passed in between. Maybe want. Then Shawn flashed him that white grin, and was gone. John's heart pounded away, the rest of the match was a blur. And Shawn asked, "what's up with you, kid?" and he never answered.
He doesn't really know what the hell is up with him anyway. When he turned into some romantic fuck. Just that it begins to look like an opportunity. To...to...
His tongue passes over his lower lip, and a buzz suddenly reaches his ears. From Shawn's pocket. Cellphone.
Fucking cellphones.
His eyes haven't started to open yet that Shawn's hand goes to the phone. John focuses on the outside before they do. Buildings, dying trees. The head doesn't move from his shoulder. Hears the phone open, a sigh. And the weight is finally lifted from his shoulder.
"Sorry 'bout that..." Shawn mumbles, eyes still on the tiny screen.
"It's alright, man." More than that. It was part of a plan, almost, and it went down satisfyingly. Almost. More than alright. While it lasted.
He tries to sound cheerful.
"I didn't drool all over you, did I?" He actually glances at his t-shirt with a smirk. Of course he didn't. But, shit, I did. Figuratively speaking. Like the boy with the teenage crush he's becoming. Is already.
And now he can also stare at the greyish blue of Shawn's eyes, the fingers moving over the pad, and all the other little things he downright admired seconds ago. It's worse than a teenage crush. It's a crush doubled with fanboy worship, for fuck's sake.
"You're comfortable." And a chuckle.
John doesn't think. "Go ahead, then." Won't think again.
Shawn's eyebrows go up and he shoots him that incredulous smile. John taps his shoulder.
The hell are you doing.
Shawn looks around much like John did earlier, putting the little black cellphone back in his jeans, murmurs a "how can he sleep with that stuff" when his eyes reach the seats right next to theirs, and eventually goes back at his sleeping position with a shrug. Head on shoulder, hands close. Smells of colognes mix. The lock of hair falls from behind his ear again. He looks up. John looks down. There's no match to continue this time, no grin flashed at him, no mat. Almost no tension, and isn't that a first?
The hell are you doing. Look away.
But he doesn't, gets closer. It's all about closeness. So focused on the lips, doesn't see the eyebrows going down this time, knitting. And it's conciously that his hand is lifted up this time, settling on the back of a neck after sliding underneath the beginning of a ponytail. And John's heart pounds away.
No, it's different from the high school crushes and your arm around the shoulders of your first so-called date; they don't imply so many things, have no risk of a fist flying to his cheek (a slap at worst). Not even the same kind of nervousness in the end.
It's worse.
He clearly hears his own breathing, Shawn's. His eyelids want to fall. His mouth is dry, and approaching those lips. The neck he trapped backs away, he tightens his grip.
"John."
It's not a sigh, or some romantic whisper. A warning. Eyes still shut, he doesn't know what expression Shawn is sporting. Doesn't know what kind of warning that really is. 'Don't you dare do that.' 'We shouldn't.' Or something else, more negative, more positive; he doesn't know shit right now.
And leans in. There's a sharp intake of breath before lips bump into each others, stay awkwardly pressed.
Holy...
"John." Faint voice against his mouth. Far less intense warning.
A buzz again. He doesn't want to let go. Shawn tries to back away again. He doesn't want to let go...
The need for oxygen makes him, many seconds later. Shawn uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, the other hand already holding the cellphone, John winces at the gesture. Wants to run out of the bus, faster than ever. Jump. Crash on the road. Die with the dying trees. If anything the shock to his head would wake him up, make him realize what the hell he's been doing. All he's really aware of is his ribcage threatening to explode.
He risks a glance at Shawn. Almost completely turned towards the window, looking at it. Most of his face hidden. Shoulders tensed.
John needs to run. And jump.
For those who liked it...no idea how soon an update will come.