Note: My Punk always seems to be in the second person present tense. I do not know why, and if this bothers you, then I apologize. This piece was actually meant to come later, but I think it fits pretty well here. So I'll just post it. Does asking for reviews ever help? Because reviews are awesome.
2. Fierce
He watches you dress with eyes that can only be described as hungry. It's just the two of you in the room and he can look with impunity as you prepare yourself for war.
That's how you always think of it, whether you're in a match or not. You go out to do battle, and your gear is your armor. It makes you fierce, a force to be reckoned with. It makes you a different person than you are everywhere else in your life.
It's right that he want this man that you are now, you think as you stoop to lace up a boot. This character who fears nothing, not pain, not ridicule, not even defeat. Who takes delight, perverse or otherwise, in all the world has to offer.
No gimmicks needed, you've been known to say. You are no gimmick, and yet, the person you are out there can bear little resemblance to the one that exists when the lights are no longer on you.
You pull your kneepads on, then kickpads. His eyes never leave you, and you wonder for a moment if it's you he wants at all, or just this. The familiarity of a routine he misses, even if he says he doesn't. You try to put it out of your mind. You wouldn't ask that question even at the best of times.
Finally, you go to reach for your tape. You find it's not where you left it, and you look up to see he has it in his hand. He offers it to you, an unreadable half smile on his face. Maybe he's caught in a memory – you're not sure how long you knew him before the first time you saw his bare wrists – but you want no part of it.
You step forward to take it the tape from him, your transformation not yet complete. He withdraws it, though, reaches out with his other hand. A bit of subtle pressure on your hip, and you're stepping closer until his nose is all but pressed into your crotch.
His hand skims down your bare thigh, and you imagine you feel yourself tremble. You're used to being touched by other men, but not like this. He inhales deliberately, and you think of how easy it would be to let him have what he wants. To let him devour you, both literally and figuratively.
"Not now," you whisper hoarsely, though you want it badly. In this hazy in between state, you have neither the strength to reject or accept. And you worry, as his mouth presses obscenely against the bulge in your trunks, about what it is he wants from you. You're strong enough to care, weak enough to know it makes a difference.
When he pulls back, you almost follow him, but the hand on your thigh holds you in place. He's looking up at you with that same mysterious smile, and you hate him for just a second. If there's one thing in the world you don't find amusing, it's this, and he… you don't even know. You didn't want to know before, but you do now. You wish you could know, without being told, what goes on in his head.
"Later, then," he says, his hand tracing the curve of your hip, his thumb settling in the hollow of your pelvic bone. It's more a statement than a question, but you don't mind. Later, you won't need to be strong. Later, you can melt into his arms, melt into him if he lets you. Melt until there's nothing left.
He presses the roll of tape in your hand, as if to seal the promise, and for a moment you're net even sure what it's for. You take it back across the dressing room, sit, and try to make sense of what you're doing. Your hands move of their own volition, absent direction from your brain, making familiar wraps. Taking out your sharpie and drawing your trademark Xs.
You stand up a man transformed. You've shed Phil Brooks, if you ever were him to begin with. You roll your neck to get the kinks out, bounce a little on the balls of your feet. You can almost hear the strains of your music in the rush of blood in your ears. You head for the door –
And something makes you turn. He's watching you with a look you're tempted to describe as wistful. You think, distantly, that he wants something from you that you don't even know if you have to give. But still, you go to him, touch his cheek clumsily with taped hand. "Later," you say, and he nods, his hair brushing against your fingers.
You are strong, you tell yourself. You are fierce. You are not the man you used to be. You are CM Punk, and you are a force to be reckoned with. And yet, as you slip out the door and let it close behind you, you can still feel his eyes on you.
You wonder if you'll feel them even out in the arena, one pair among millions. And later, when you're not a conquering hero, not the war wounded, but just a man… will he still think there's anything worth watching?