Randy found himself laying on the empty bed again, watching smoke rise up towards the ceiling, twisting and twirling around in the most intricate of patterns. Punk always hated when he smoked in the house. He would always nag and complain in his snarky way that Randy always secretly enjoyed. Hell, most off the time he would push his lover just to hear those blunt comments. Not that he would ever let his man know any of that. But since the man hadn't answered any of his calls for days, he's not exactly worried about Punk coming home to see it.

Randy snorted on the last puff of smoke for that cigarette. Fuck, he'd screwed up. He knew he had been playing with fire, but it all started piling up on him again. Years of waiting for a push, injury on top of injury, it seemed like a never ending cycle of hell. The only time it felt tolerable was when he was with his lover.

And Punk was on the top of his game, WWE champion and fulfilling all the obligations that the title carried with it. He would never begrudge his lover of that though. He deserved it, Randy was well aware of all the years his man had spent pushing his way through the indies and even more aware of all the time he had been stuck and toiling on the under card. Unfortunately, all of that just left him with less and less time to spend with Randy. So he turned to the one other thing that made getting though his life possible.

That bliss he experienced from the first snort, the calmness he always felt after a good hit of weed, they just made everything better. It wasn't like it had been years ago when he would take whatever he could and however much he could just for the party. Just for the fun, the rush of doing something he knew he wasn't supposed to. It wasn't like that for him anymore. It was all about doing what he had to do to make it to the next show, through the never ending press conferences and interviews. That's where the pills came into being. His fucking downfall.

He could always handle the weed and the coke, he was always able to say no to them. It was always the fucking pills that got him caught. He always told himself he only needed one here and there when he first got the bottle, but he knew better. It always started with one every couple of days, then the habit would start growing. Before he was aware of it, he would be popping five or six a day just so he never came back down into the searing pain that seemed to never go away. It wouldn't be long after that, that he would be pulled aside for "random drug testing" and then read the riot act. It had happened many times over the years, he would always get his hand smacked just enough to make him pull back on his using.

The difference this time was the fucking steroids they discovered.

It was a god damn double edge sword. Everyone new the look the suits wanted, hell even the fans were well aware of the expectations. And he was always praised on having that look, and upper management always looked the other way when he did it too, until it became so obvious that they couldn't ignore it any longer. Randy couldn't deny that the suspensions hurt. As did the threats to his career, the threats to take away what he loved doing.

But the look in Punk's eyes when it couldn't be hidden anymore would always hurt more. On the surface, Punk never gave up his disbelief and never ending support when everyone would be whispering behind Randy's back. But sometimes, Randy would catch him looking at him and Randy would be able to see the pain pouring out of those brown depths. Punk knew him better than anyone else, of course Punk always knew when he was using. But his ability to deny was right up there with the best of them.

How much had he hurt his lover, his straight edge lover, with his actions. Yet he would always be forgiven, they would fight, make up, and move on with their lives, always ignoring the elephant in the room. But not this time apparently. Punk hadn't talked to him anymore at the arena before Randy had packed his bags and left. And he hadn't made his way back to their shared hotel room after the show either. A quick text to Cena had confirmed his suspicions that Punk was leaving on the house show loop without having the confrontation with him.

That's when he started making the calls, leaving the depressing voice mails and heart breaking text messages begging for something in return. And now, four days later, he still had nothing in return. He was stuck wandering around their empty house, staring at pictures holding happier memories of the two and imbibing on the two vices left to him per company policy, smoking and drinking.

Reaching out to take another swig of the bottle at his bedside, he quickly discovered it was empty. Grudgingly, he pulled himself up and managed to climb out of bed before stumbling his way down the steps and into the bare, darkened kitchen. It was never like that when Punk was home. His loveable jerk would never admit it, but he absolutely loved cooking and had a small addiction to the Food Network. Whenever they were home, Randy could always count on various home cooked meals.

Now, staring silently at the empty room, he could almost see a picture of the two of them, he at the counter, jokingly teasing Punk about the vegan diet he enjoyed, and Punk pacing back and forth between the cook top, oven and recipe book laying open of the granite surface, a small smirk on his face as he took Randy's teasing in stride.

Shaking his head slightly to push away the images, Randy continued his journey to the refrigerator. Taking stock of the contents, Randy let another sigh roll off his chest when he saw the bare shelves and drawers. He would have to go shopping, something he rarely did due to Punk's love of cooking, and therefore shopping for whatever ingredients he needed. But Punk wouldn't be there this time around to do any of that. Allowing himself to sink a little farther into his misery after acknowledging that fact, Randy reached for two of the dark, brown bottles before more of less slamming the door shut.

When his eyes adjusted, the image before him had his heart stuttering until it almost came to a stop. There, underneath some magnet advertising the Chicago Cubs was a snapshot of he and Punk. He couldn't remember exactly when the photo had been taken, but what he couldn't miss was the absolute joy shinning out of Punk's dark eyes and the love Randy could see in his own looking back at him as he stood behind Punk and wrapped his arms loosely around his chest.

God they were such opposites. Punk was staring at the camera with a smile so big that it took over his entire face while Randy was simply smirking as always. Randy hardly ever smiled, Punk never complained about it though. His partner would simply make fun of him in that loveable way he had about how strange Randy always looked when he actually did smile. Then he would always say something about how much he liked Randy's smirk, usually capping off the statement with a soft press of lips against his own. Randy was left laughing at himself, he did look pretty wired when he tried to smile.

Damn, Randy thought as he stared longer at the photo, even their tattoos showed how different their personalities were. Where Randy was dark and brooding, and everything had a specific place so it was all nice and orderly, Punk was colorful and out going, almost to the point of annoying, crazy and disorganized so his plans always seemed to ended up a hectic mess.

Randy didn't know when, but he had moved himself at some point so he was now leaning against the counter, but he could stay standing anymore even with the added support. He slowly slid down, the edges and knobs of the cabinet digging in and scrapping across his back. He barely felt any of it. His gaze never left that picture, his focus never left the look on his lover's face in the absent mindedly snapped picture. It wasn't until his body slammed onto the tile that he noticed the picture becoming blurry. And it wasn't until a choked sob escaped his lips, that he realized it was his tears causing the blur.

What the hell was he doing. What was he doing to his lover and to himself. He broke his staring match with the picture, letting his gaze slip down to the cold bottles still pressed into his palms. Did he really want to do this again, did he really want to fall back into how his life was before Punk. He silently started flashing back through all those dark memories. It wasn't pretty images that filled his mind. It was a life that consisted of a constant mixture of pills and alcohol. He was going to kill himself and everyone knew it, even him. Punk had saved him though before it came to that, and no matter how many times he screwed up, Punk just kept saving him. But what was he going to do if he didn't save him this time.

Letting out a guttural scream, Randy hurled the beer at the wall. He watched the foaming liquid slid down the wall as he felt the silent tears fall down his face.


A/N: It's been forever I know and I have no clue how it happened. I never have been a big fan of real life so I'm just blaming it. My plan is for no more ridiculous delays in updating though, you all deserve better than that and I hope I get to hear something from you all! Thanks in advance for any and all feedback as always!