The adrenaline post-show had worn off by the time he left the arena for the hotel. But the nerves were still there. They lived in his shaky arms, his bouncing legs, unable to stay in one place. He called up the boys, called up Colt, gave them the "wait an hour" speech like he perfected, and then some room service: two bowls of chocolate ice cream. The food arrived just in time for his guest of honor. He finished setting up the bowls on the table when knocking rapped on his door, and his breathing quickened like his heartbeat.
This is it.
More knocks. Punk took a deep breath.
Okay. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. I can do this. I can totally do this.
When he opened the doors, he found Chris looking as tired as he should've felt. "Hey."
"Hi. Come in."
Their shoulders brushed as Chris passed by.
Punk shut the door. His forehead leaned on the wood, fingers squeezing the handle.
Do it, dammit.
Behind him, Chris said, "Still wearing your gear?"
"Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat and forced a smile on, facing him. "Old habit. Can't help it."
"Heh." Chris gestured to his own wrestling boots and knee braces still on. "I know what you mean." He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. "So what's this about? Thought you'd be off celebrating."
"I will." He crossed the room. "I needed to do something first."
Chris frowned. "Yeah?"
They came face-to-face. "Yeah." His fingers itched at his sides, lowering his voice as he leaned in. "I wanted to thank you."
He snorted. "Ah, come on—"
"I mean it." His feet moved forward. The gap between them closed. "Thank you."
Chris's face fell. He couldn't pin-point the expression or the emotions. There were too many to pick out. Confused, sad, shocked—Afraid? No. No way. He focused on blue eyes searching him, frantic flicks going up and down his face, looking for something. An ulterior motive, an innuendo, digging deep for the second meaning, and he smiled when Chris stepped back, shaking his head no. "Punk…"
His hands reached for Chris's hips. "Ah—" His voice caught, thumbs pressing into the dent. Their chests touched. Chris's nose rubbed his. "Shit." And his eyes shut as he leaned in, lips finally covering lips.
Hands went to his shoulders. They pushed back. He grunted and squeezed his hips firmer. They pushed again. He pushed his tongue inside. Chris's moan escaped—those hands shoved one more time—and his hands left hips for Chris's ass, squeezing it hard enough to bruise. Another moan came out, vibrating against his chest, spilling into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss, tilting his head, fingers flexing and massaging and rubbing, until those hands gripped at his shirt and slid down his back.
They parted lips. "Shit," Chris panted. "I—" He muffled himself, forcing their mouths together. Tongue on tongue, teeth scraping teeth, another rough pull back, and then, "I can't." Chris's hot breath tickled his wet lips. "Too old."
"Bullshit."
Chris grunted, "No." He leaned away. Punk stared at his red lips and red cheeks. "I'm tired of this."
He frowned. "Of what?"
His answer was another push to his chest, harder than the last, but his hands soon locked around Chris's waist. He pushed a leg between Chris's—Chris's leg blocked his—and he could've shut him up with another kiss, wrestled him to the floor, pinned him down and made him forget. The adrenaline was coming back. Instinct kicked in: wrestle, counter, hold, block, pin, submit. He could do it. He could win.
Chris's eyes met his.
Punk saw fear.
Fuck.
He took a deep breath, loosening his hold on Chris. "Look. I'm not stupid. Okay?" He let go, sliding his hands back to Chris's hips. "I know I shouldn't jump into anything. I've heard the warnings, and I've seen the crash-and-burns. I'm not some kid with stars in his eyes. I'm not here for something long term, short term or anything like that. It is what it is." He smiled. "A thank you. Alright?"
The fear eased up into something better, something he couldn't pin-point, but at least Chris smiled back. "Really." Even sounded like himself now.
"Yeah, Chris." He leaned in. "Thank you." His eyes drifted shut, their kiss softer than the last one. "Thank you for tonight," he whispered over his lips, closing them again with another kiss. Then another. Another, and he whispered again, "Thank you for this."
His hands slid away from Chris's hips, up underneath his shirt and jacket, palms soaking up warm, smooth skin and hard muscles. He sighed into their next kiss, Chris's hands following suit, dipping under his own shirt to grope his back in slow strokes.
Their clothes scattered across the floor. The ice cream melted and softened in their bowls. Chris moaned his name as he worked his dick with his mouth. He moaned just as loud and long when Chris did the same to him.
His phone vibrated on the bedside table when Chris settled inside him. He picked it up, texted be there later, and threw it back where it was with a moan, his arms hooking around Chris's neck.
Chris smiled down at him, sliding a sweaty hand down Punk's equally sweaty cheek. "Good?"
He gasped, "Yeah." His legs situated better around Chris's moving waist. "Shit. Yeah." He leaned up into a messy kiss, fingers tickling the base of Chris's hairline. "Good."
A steady rhythm settled between them. Their bodies shifted when it got faster, Chris hooking his palms under strong thighs, leaning over and down. Punk's body sunk into the bed, taking the harder thrusts easier with louder grunts and moans. More messy kisses blurred time away. Heavier breathing filled the wet hair. Sharp groans, fast gasps, Chris's voice—"Shit. Oh shit," and then his hands swept over his face, pushing his bangs away, scratching his jawline. "Punk."
He moaned back, "Chris." A whine bled out. "Chris." Punk gasped, close, bucked up, so close, dug his nails into Chris's back, please, and he heard himself whisper, "Fuck, Chris, please. Please."
The world disappeared when Chris obliged with quick strokes to his dick.
Their kiss muffled Punk's drawn-out moans.
He floated somewhere in the darkness beneath his lids, listening to Chris's grunts and hisses. The bed squeaked along with each thrust, his body reacting in soft moans and whimpers. Hands groped his skin, scraped nails down his sides. Teeth bit into his shoulder—Chris muffled his name—and Punk moaned with him when Chris stiffened and came too.
His lips curled into a smile at Chris's hoarse whisper: "Fuck."
It quickly turned into a frown when heavy weight flopped on top. "Oof." Punk snorted, pushing a shoulder up. "Off."
"Mm." Chris slid off to his side. "Sorry."
"Hm." He looked off the side, over the rise of Chris's hip, where the ice cream cups lay toppled over on their bowls in the far corner. "Well, there goes my dessert."
Chris chuckled. "Your dessert, huh?" He slipped an arm up Punk's chest. "What'd you get?"
"Chocolate ice cream."
"I like strawberry."
"Of course you would." Punk rolled his eyes—and he growled at the vibration coming from the bedside table again, "Shit." He wiggled an arm out from under Chris, reaching over to grab his iPhone. The screen read Colt's name. The message: WHERE R U? "Shit."
"Late?"
"Yeah." He typed a quick message back, LATE, BE THERE SOON, and flung the phone onto the bedspread. "They can wait. I need rest."
"Thought you didn't—" Chris yawned. "Sleep."
"I don't." He scooted down some on the bed, until his head pressed against Chris's chest. "You clearly do."
"Heh." A hand drifted to his sweaty hair, combing through. "Why'd you get ice cream anyway?"
"Part of my thank you."
"Should've ate that first…" Fingers scratched his scalp, just like Chris did in the ring. "Whatever."
Punk smiled, leaning into his hand. "Yeah." He sighed, resting a hand on Chris's hip. "Whatever."
An hour later, he woke up and slipped away, leaving Chris to sleep in his bed. He dressed quick, careful not to disturb him, and as he left, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Thank you. He leaned back, thumbing the side of his parted lips. I mean that.
Punk shut the door carefully behind him as he left. If Chris was still there when he came back, fine. If not, that was fine with him too.