Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.
We always hurt the ones we love most, it's a sentiment Paul can't say he's ever really agreed with, a sentiment that is essentially nothing more than a good excuse. Whilst that appeals to the promoter in him, the father in him disagrees, the ones he loves most are his children and the last thing he'd ever do is hurt them but the sentiment is about a different degree of love entirely. He had perhaps put a little too much strength behind that ladder shot, a little too much force in flinging it at Punk. Punk on his knees, sweat dripping down his body, staring up at him, a look he couldn't read in his eyes. It had reminded him far too much of that day in Philip's home, of the defeat he was suffering and Paul will admit that anger had clouded his judgement. The first sight of Icarus' blood spilt because of Paul, had almost brought him to his knees. The urge, the overwhelming, all consuming urge had been to staunch the blood, to wipe it away and to take Icarus to the back and protect him but Paul had a job to do. He left Icarus bleeding in the ring and hovered at the gorilla, waiting nervously. The staples to close the wound stand out sharply, glistening little slivers of metal in Philip's sweaty hair.
"I am sorry." Paul manages to say, staring at them, something close to guilt and sincerity filling him, Philip merely shrugs in response.
"Should have moved." His voice absentmindedly distracted, invested in something else, his cell in his hand, his eyes focussed on the little screen.
"Still." Paul trails off and Philip turns to him, a wry twist to his lips.
"I'd have only complained if you'd held back. You know me." He laughs and pulls Paul into a hug, leaves him standing in a corridor, trying very hard to work out how much of that conversation and embrace were sincere and how much of it was Philip playing with him, again? It's confusing, painful and irritating, this continued defeat at the machinations of Icarus, even his one shining moment of being fully certain that he'd won feels tainted. Every time he looks at Good, the urge to beat the smug little smirk off his face rises in Paul and it feels like there's nothing he can do to stop it. However, Paul E Heyman is a man of restraint and violent assaults on essentially innocent playing pieces is far from fair. The next time Paul sees Philip that night, it's with a piece of gauze in one hand held to his stitches, his cell pressed to his ear with the other, his bags at his feet. Paul picks them up and carries them, following Philip as he leads the way to his rental, still softly talking on his cell, the laughter giving away who's on the other end.
"Will you be okay to drive?" Paul asks once the call is ended, the later Cabana confirming Paul's suspicions.
"If you're that worried, you can drive me." He says a smile on his lips and he gets into the passenger's seat, tossing Paul the keys. When they arrive at the hotel, Paul keeps hold of Philip's luggage and escorts him to his room. He pauses at the door and hugs Paul once more. "Good night, Heyman." He says as he closes the door, leaving Paul standing in the corridor.
The F5, Brock delivered to Icarus, the one on the announce table looked painful; the way his ankle clipped the wood definitely looked like it hurt. On his way out, Brock absently asked Paul to extend his apologies to Punk. It had been a misjudgement on his part and Brock is many terrible things but being overly unwilling to accept his own fuck-ups isn't one of them. Paul assured his friend that he would and went in search of Icarus, finding him sitting on a crate, arguing with the girlfriend. She doesn't have long left really, the next one is waiting in the wings, pretty, little and twelve years her junior. Philip treats dating like a gauntlet match, one relationship after the other, all in a bid to find the one. They once had the most curious conversation on the topic of love on a flight. Philip is oddly convinced that there is one perfect person for everyone, it's just they are only perfect at the start. Hearts, like people, get broken, they chip and crack and after that, the perfect person isn't quite so perfect because you're imperfect. Love, he asserted, was a matter of finding someone to break with, someone perfectly imperfect, whose jagged edges and sharp corners, fit well enough with your own. It was an interesting concept, one Paul can see the merit in but he has less romantic notions, love is a chemical reaction in the brain and there is nothing more fickle than the brain.
"What do you want, Heyman." Philip asks, once he's ended the call. He looks to be in pain, his ankle heavily taped, even with the wrappings, it's clearly swollen.
"Brock sends his apologies." Paul says, considering if he should offer to help Icarus to his hotel or not.
"I somehow fucking doubt that." He mutters, standing gingerly and swearing as soon as any weight is placed on his bad ankle. Paul is there, supporting his weight, without really thinking it through.
"I assure you, he was, almost, entirely interested in making sure I told you he was sorry." Paul laughs softly and focuses on the task of supporting as much of Philip's weight as possible.
"Doubt it, if I was going home to Sable, would I hell, give two fucks about anyone here." He snaps, still occasionally swearing when he puts weight on his wounded ankle, as they walk to the parking lot.
The trip to the hotel is uneventful, a brief discussion of how to continue to build for the match at Summer Slam, a brief discussion on getting food that results in takeout from a Subway. This might be a good opportunity to get a quick round in, in his weakened state Icarus might slip up but Paul has every intention of letting Philip rest. He looks tired, he looks in pain and Paul has had more than enough of the feeling of Icarus' warm body pressed along the length of his own, he wants to go to his own room and carefully not think about that.
"Coming in?" He asks, voice sounding as tired, as his body looks. Once glance at him and Paul knows that he'll be tucking Icarus up in bed. He strips down to his underwear, leaning on the bed more than that he really should have to and then sits heavily. "Can you get me some ice?" Paul nods, fetches a bucket and helps ice the swollen ankle. The feeling is uncomfortably similar to when his children were young, when they came to him with grazed knees and bruises shins, only tending to Icarus' aches comes with the awful urge to let his fingers linger on that soft, tanned skin, to touch, to stroke, to caress. Paul tidies up the ice and stands. He sets the bucket on a side table and starts fixing his clothes as an excuse to look at anything but Icarus. "Thanks. Good night, Heyman."
The feud builds, Brock leaves once more, other players get drafted in and it keeps rolling on and on, far past a conclusion. Their segment has just finished and Paul is almost desperate to find Philip, heading to the trainers but finding it devoid of his presence, he does get a tube of anti-septic cream for his visit though.
Eventually, Paul finds himself outside of Icarus' hotel room, the tube of cream, given to him by the trainers, in his pocket and a keycard in his hand, hotel staff really need to be more thorough in identity checks. He swipes the card through the reader, the door lock clicks; he pushes it open and enters. Icarus is lying on his stomach, the covers pulled up over his legs and ass, his beaten back bare. The memory of bringing the kendo stick down on that back, of causing each one of those welts and marring lines of broken skin, flashes through Paul's mind. He steps closer and touches one of the few places that isn't painfully red.
"I am so sorry, Philip." He says softly, trading the card for the tube of cream, opening it and gently rubbing some over one of the wounds.
"Hmm? Heyman?" Philip turns his head, blinking sleepily. "Wha?"
"Shh." Paul murmurs, concentrating on coating the evidence of his assault with the cream. Philip hisses through his teeth, when he comes to a cut that was deeper, blood clotted and hard over the wound. "I'm sorry." Paul says again and Philip laughs.
"I'd have only complained if you'd held back. You know me." He says softly, the same words as the last time Paul spilled Icarus' blood. They bring no comfort, they didn't then and they don't now. This feud, it's dragging, it's getting bloated, they're talking of bringing that hideous Ryback creature into it. The last thing Paul wants is for that man to put his hands on Icarus again. Joe is one thing, Paul likes him well enough, certainly liked Curt enough to want to do right by his son but Ryback. He is one of two men Paul would happily gut, him and that smirking hound. Paul manages a slight laugh and stands.
"Yes, well, please hold back when it's your turn to return the favour." Paul watches as Philip blinks sleepily at him and yawns, nodding.
"Sure thing. Good night, Heyman."
Their feud concludes, Paul withdraws from television, returning only with Brock. They exchange no words, Philip is in no mood to talk or play, bristling and ill tempered, even the girlfriend, the one from the wings, seems concerned about him. Paul is never given the opportunity to re-feather Icarus' wings, never given the opportunity to try and he is concerned for Icarus. He's flying dangerously close to the sun, the wax is melting too fast for anyone to be able to help him.
The Rumble match, Paul watched but it felt pointless. It was clear from the word go, who was going to win, everyone knew, from the boys in the back to the marks out front. It doesn't matter how loudly they chant Bryan's name, he's not in this match and your winner is Dave, deal with it. Paul shakes his head; Icarus does good work but as he limps to the back there is something off about him, something missing or something new added. He ignores everyone, Paul included. He showers, changes and is leaving when Paul catches up to him.
"You should get looked at, Philip, the trainers will be looking for you." He turns and stares at Paul.
"I'm fine, just a headache." He throws the keys for his rental at Paul. "Drive me if you're worried."
Once inside his hotel room, lit only by a bedsit lamp, Icarus strips. This feels like the nights Paul would take care of him after their feud took too much out of him physically, only he doesn't stop at his underwear, keeps going till he naked and sits on the bed. Paul frowns, it looks like an invitation to play, it feels like an invitation to play but this game has rules, he does not touch. Yet for Icarus, he has already broken so many rules, it would be no hardship to throw away the last one.
"What do you want, Heyman." Philip says easily, his lazy smirk on his lips. Paul swallows and sits in the chair facing the bed, a chair that's been placed perfectly to face the bed, a chair that Icarus put there specifically for this.
"To watch." Paul manages to grind out, his palms feeling damp, his voice far too quiet. Icarus smiles benevolently and produces a bottle of lube from somewhere on the bed by him. He coats his fingers and shifts, moving further up the bed, back against the headboard, feet planted, knees bent, giving Paul a perfect view as he eases one slick finger inside himself.
"Always watching over me, Heyman. It's strange, don't you think?" He eases another inside, stretching himself slightly. "Look but don't touch." He gasps softly and a third long, thin finger enters him. "I'm tired." He throws Paul the lube. "I'm done." He takes his fingers from himself and moves, hands and knees, presenting Paul with his ass, his hole stretched and ready to be taken. "Stop watching, Heyman." Paul swallows once more and unzips his fly, jacks himself hard and coats his cock, getting on the bed behind Icarus. Sinking into his body for the first time feels curiously like coming home, his head bowed, back arching, smooth tanned skin, glowing in dull hotel room lighting. The heat around his cock is almost unbearable, Icarus' so warm, inside and out. There is a temptation to stay buried inside of Icarus, the temptation to let the rhythmic clenching of his body slowly build a crescendo in Paul but the subtle movements of Icarus' beneath him, the gentle rocking of his hips, it's very difficult to not follow their movement.
"What do you want, Brooks?" Paul asks, his mouth near Icarus' ear, leaning over his back, his head turns and that lazy smirk is just visible to Paul
"Fuck me, Heyman." Paul obliges him, fucks him slow and hard, hands clasping his hips tightly, thumbs stroking the skin of his back, pulling him back into each thrust forward, him moving fluidly with Paul, his nails digging into the covers on the bed. He moves one hand to fist himself and there is a large part of Paul that wishes that they were facing each other, having Icarus' weakness as caused by himself is something Paul covets desperately. He pulls out and pushes on Icarus' hip.
"Turn over." He turns and his gaze fixes on Paul, his eyes glazed with lust, mouth open, panting slightly. Paul enters him once more, feels Icarus' legs wrap around his girth, pulling himself down onto Paul's cock more firmly, tugging him back each time Paul moves back. Age has benefits, the time it takes to come is far longer than it would have been years ago, Icarus' body clenching and tight though it is, is little match for Paul's familiarity with himself. Icarus comes far more quickly, watching Paul as he continues to fuck him, lazily licking his own cum from his fingers. Paul pulls out just before he comes, jacks his cock and comes over Icarus' stomach and his long, thin, tattooed fingers trailing through the white fluid, raising to his mouth, to be licked clean once more. Paul's cock gamely twitches but age also comes with the downside of reduced stamina. He gets off the bed, stares at Philip and for the first time since he met the man, wonders if perhaps he had read him entirely wrong. If instead of Icarus, Philip is the sun and it's Paul, himself, who has flown too close.
"Goodbye, Heyman." Philip says softly, turning his back to Paul once more, pulling the covers over his body. Paul nods vaguely at his back, busying himself with fixing his clothes, putting all difficult questions and thoughts of games and score keeping far from his mind.
"Good night, Philip." He leaves the room and can't quite shake the odd feeling that settles over him, goodbye, not good night.
Backstage was a buzz, noise and rumblings, Punk's name attached but details are thin on the ground. Gone home is the one thing they all have in common. Paul sits on a chair in a hallway, staring at the cheap plaster, his mind strangely calm; it was a goodbye, after all, not a good night.
Brokenspell77: I think it's safe to safe that Punk retired from the game the victor.
littleone1389: This would be how their feud played out, an appropriate phrase, I think, seeing as Punk is done with the game and WWE.
alizabethianrose: Heyman finally got to be a little more hands on. ;)
Rebellecherry: Rulespretty much thrown out of the window at this stage, poor Paul, he's lost terrible and his opponent has left the game.
EmbraceLove: ^_^ Thank you so much for your reviews! :3 Well he did get to touch Punk before he quit the game so that's something... right?
One chapter to go. Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...
Also, if I may beg your indulgence and ask you to go check out Amor Vincit Omnia It's a little something that the lovely alizabethianrose has cooked up and let me be sous chef on, your thoughts on it would be greatly appreciated too.
