Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Thank you again for all the kind feedback so far. I really do appreciate it! Go read Annalore's Perfection: A Drabble Collection, which inspired this story. Trust me. Payback was sort of epic. Dolph losing will eventually be featured in here and all that, and actually had me as uncomfortable as they meant for us to be, so big ups to everyone involved in that. John was John, but I really appreciated almost everything he did because the entire match was entertaining (+10 life points for jumping into that big pile of dudes – you made all my dreams come true). Punk's return was majestic. And then Raw took it to the next level. Can't wait for Dolph to be all over that shit.
Also, I've tried to make sure that the at signs came through in the twitter segments this time, but I fear that is not going to happen. Hopefully I've done enough to make it obvious there are twitter segments without it! I'm also not sure what's going to happen to hashtags here, but if the number sign doesn't show up, you should be able to tell where there are because the words will have no spaces in phrasing.
Big thanks to Annalore for another amazing review (and for starting a great new Punk/John story that you should all go read, The Winding Road). SparksFlyOut: You are amazing. Your reviews on this and Care brought me joy and I'm so appreciative. You two are super motivational.
Chapter Warnings: Hijinks throughout the greater Phoenix area. The Jodi Arias trial. Dolph's Lana Del Rey obsession. Deep. Dish. Pizza. Blink and you miss it Punk wrestling feels. Dolph's 5/13 Raw Tweet-A-Thon. John starts to feel better – Punk appreciates this. Unbeta'd.
Nick had to admit that the past four days with Punk had been pretty awesome.
After getting home Thursday night and eating again, he'd got Punk set up in the guest room and passed out for ten hours. He woke up without a headache, without dizziness, and without nausea.
Nick believed it was a sign that the weekend would be a good one. And it was.
After giving a quick statement (and launching into an impromptu kitchen comedy routine about "classic Swags" moments while Punk made the pancakes he'd bought on their shopping trip), they'd settled onto the couch for the laziest day in Nick's recent memory.
They'd got in a bit of Sports Center, during which Punk went on and on about the Cubs and the Blackhawks. It eventually got to the point where Nick had to switch it over to the hours worth of Jodi Arias verdict coverage he'd managed to DVR for himself several days prior just to shut Punk up. Having had aspirations to be a lawyer if the whole wrestling thing didn't work out, Nick found himself following nearly every big case: Casey Anthony, George Zimmerman…hell he knew every line in every episode of Night Court if was he was being serious with himself. The courtroom was just like the ring, if a little less tan and jacked.
However, introducing Punk to the trial – and filling in the blanks for him where the likes of Nancy Grace failed to – had proven to be a questionable idea. Punk got emotionally invested during the first hour, and spent the next couple hours so obsessed he'd even taken notes on his phone to piece together his own version of the events. Eventually, Nick spoiled the verdict for him and Punk lost it, causing Nick to have to throw together their lunch while Punk poured through conspiracy theories and asked Nick the likelihood of each and every one.
When Nick refused to give his own opinion – and he still wouldn't, no matter how many times Punk threw balled up napkins at him – Punk became overzealous.
"I'm cutting you off. You can't watch HLN at all in this house, Punk."
"But she still has sentencing! Do you think they'll execute her? I mean, seriously? In this day and age we still execute people…how do you feel about execution? I feel like you're totally against it. You had MSNBC on when I got here; you're totally a bleeding heart commie liberal."
"We aren't talking about that either!" he'd laughed while he cut the crusts off his sandwich.
"Oh, come on! Why the fuck not?" Punk noisily crunched into a celery stalk and stared him down.
Nick snorted. He wasn't intimidated in the least. "Haven't you ever heard that it's impolite to talk about religion and politics in casual company?"
"I don't believe in either of those things so I don't see the point. Besides, this is about murdering people! Eye for an eye shit. What's your opinion on that?"
Which eventually dissolved into a full on philosophical debate which lead them to discuss 18th century wigs, the founding fathers, the city of Philadelphia, and the Flyers, a topic which took Punk right back to rambling on and on about the Blackhawks' cup chances. They'd switched back to ESPN at that point just so Nick would have something logical to listen to, rather than Punk's impassioned Arias opinions.
It was an absolute shit show, if Nick was being honest. But it was the most entertaining six hours of his life – and he'd spent a spring break in Cancun with MTV. But he could barely remember any of that. This had been so simple, so stupid if he was being perfectly honest. But now he would forever associate Jodi Arias with Punk.
It was just when they decided they needed to figure out whether to order in or go out for dinner that he got the message.
April
I totally just saw this on tumblr…
Attached was a picture of Nick sitting in the basket of a Target shopping cart, gnawing away at a frozen Uncrustable and cradling a bunch of bananas in his lap, while Punk, phone to his ear, pushed him around.
Nick had laughed for a solid minute before finally giving in to Punk's cries of "what's so funny?" and showing him the picture. Punk burst into hysterics, and Nick joined back in, clutching his sides and hoping he was getting enough oxygen to his brain to avoid aggravating his injury. "Do we seriously look like that? I look like your misbehaving toddler!"
"That pretty much," Punk had to stop midsentence to gasp for air, "sums up how you acted last night."
When they'd calmed down enough to breathe, Nick explained the situation to April and they'd both checked twitter (which they'd both managed to neglect the entire day while squawking at each other), seeing that #PunkAndDolphTakeTarget had been trending that morning.
And then Nick got the notification:
CM Punk
HEELZiggler I thought you were a bag of clementines #orangemuch
Nick had thrown his phone at him. They agreed to order Thai for dinner.
Saturday finally saw Nick get out of the house under Punk's watchful eye. They'd hit Nick's gym in the morning, and though he had to take extra care of what he did and for how long, he had managed to squeeze in a pretty good workout after being sedentary for three days. Once home, Punk had made a beeline to the pool ("My sweat is sweating. This place is the surface of the sun. I don't care where Google maps claims we are.") and jumped in fully clothed when they got home. Nick had briefly considered stripping before giving up on that thought and jumping in after him, Under Armour and all.
Their afternoon was lazy, and they eventually dragged themselves out to see The Great Gatsby after lunch and showers. They both agreed it could have been a bit better, but that Lana Del Rey song had got caught in Nick's head – like every Lana Del Rey song tended to – and he'd spent the whole ride home torturing Punk with his sung along falsetto versions of most of the Born to Die album he'd cued up on his phone. (Punk threatened to find this chick and pay her to stop making albums just so Nick couldn't sing along. Nick had laughed and made sure to scream the last chorus of National Anthem just for Punk.)
After waking up well before Punk on Sunday and sneaking in time on the treadmill, Nick decided that Punk could obviously handle him in isolated situations for long periods of time and made plans to take him way out of town. Informing the sweaty, bleary eyed, and sleep-deprived Punk who came down the stairs that he better hurry up because they were going to drive two hours north to visit the Meteor Crater site where astronauts trained may have been better received after the man got his first cup of coffee, but it was met with interest nonetheless.
Except for the desert part. Punk still apparently had qualms with the dry heat around him and so far he'd only been truly happy in air conditioning and the pool. (The man had even complained on the 300-foot walk from the movie theater to the parking lot that he was melting. Nick told him he would be more comfortable without his Gracie Jiu-Jitsu zip-up, but Punk had simply laughed, shot him a smile over the roof of the car, and slid into the driver's seat, starting the engine to blast the air conditioning.)
While Punk had been pretty miserable when they stepped out into heat at the site, briefly resting his complaints in the cool visitor's center and the informational movie theater, though his whines started up again on the walk outside.
But he'd immediately shut up standing at the rim of the crater.
Nick caught the briefest glimpse of Punk's genuinely awestruck expression as he took in the sheer enormity of the crater before Punk had caught himself and righted his features. Nick thought it was easily the truest emotion he'd seen from the Second City Saint, next to his face after his win at Money In the Bank two years before.
Nick let Punk torture him by singing (and playing drums on the steering wheel) along with metal station on satellite radio just because he could.
When they got home in the afternoon, he let Punk try to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Which kind of worked, but mostly pissed off some of his neighbors ("Did you know there's a tattooed man egging your sidewalk?"). It worked after an hour of direct sunlight and Punk was so pleased he'd tweeted a picture of it with the caption "fried".
Just before sundown, Nick got him back in the car and over to 40th street to see the bats take off for the night out of the flood control tunnel. ("You know, since you think you're Batman. I figured I would bring you to your kind so you could take off in flight with them and be free.")
They'd spent the rest of the night in the pool, drinking virgin pina coladas and talking about the Golden Girls and M. Night Shyamalan movies.
That morning saw them hit the golf course with a couple of Nick's friends who'd called and made the plans when they'd found out he was home. Nick stayed in the cart, hydrated, and out of the sun, jokingly boasting of all his prior professional caddy experience with Kerwin White, while Punk generally sucked but was good about the entire thing and charmed all of Nick's friends into claiming they liked him better than Nick by the end of the outing.
On the way home, Punk's phone lit up in the cup holder with a text from his sister Chaleen. Nick caught the words "recipe" out of the corner of his eye and immediately grabbed the phone while a confused Punk kept his eyes on the road.
"What are you doing?"
"You sister has the recipe. My entire life has lead to this moment…."
Which was how they now found themselves in the kitchen, covered in flour and arguing over toppings.
"If you put the pepperoni on now, it's going to make the entire thing a greasy, runny mess. Why don't we cook the pepperoni separately and wipe it off and put it on for the last few minutes..."
Punk stared at Nick like he was speaking from his eyeballs. "Are you serious? Did you miss the entire point of pepperoni pizza? It's supposed to be a greasy, runny mess! That's why it's delicious!"
Nick raised his eyebrows at Punk. "I'm sorry, up until not too long ago, weren't you a vegan? And now you're going to fight me on the merits of adding pepperoni after making the pizza? Are you getting high now too or…?"
"Hey!" Punk pointed at him, face very serious, finger jabbing him in the chest. "That's crossing a line, my friend." Punk threw the sauce jar lid at him, but Nick easily swatted it to the ground, spots of tomato sauce dotting the tile.
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that this is all a bit hypocritical if you ask me."
Punk grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and chucked it at him. "Do not think for one second I will not beat the shit out of you with a wooden spoon just because you have a concussion."
Nick laughed as he caught the apple one-handed. "Lighten up, I'm kidding." He took a bite out of the McIntosh. "Besides, I'd like to see you even try."
Nick's challenge had dissolved into fifteen minutes of laughter and trying to outrun and avoid a CM Punk, armed with several wooden spoons, who got in a few good torso shots when he managed to catch him behind the couch. When the oven finally beeped that it was preheated, they managed to negotiate a shaky armistice and put a plain pizza in to bake – toppings to be added at the consumers desire.
Nick eventually disappeared to his room, locating his laptop and some cables. When he came back downstairs, Punk shot him a questioning look.
"Sometimes I wish I had stayed in Florida; I do not put up with Mountain Time television delays very well. Think if anyone at corporate finds out I've been live streaming shows I'll get fined?"
Punk looked a little shocked and Nick actually thought he was about to get chewed out for not waiting to watch the show live and contribute to ratings when Punk spoke up: "…I totally forgot there was even a show tonight."
Nick was a bit taken aback. It was Monday after all. "Oh…"
"I haven't really watched anything in a few weeks. I've got it on my DVR but…"
Nick understood the look on Punk's face a little better. It wasn't shocked so much as…Nick wasn't sure how to describe it. A little surprise that he'd honestly forgotten Raw was on? Nick was pretty sure there was something else there too, something he couldn't account for: relief.
"Nah man, you've been out long enough to mix days up; it's vacation, there are no Mondays. Plus who wants to think about work when there's hockey to be watched and pizza to be had?" He smiled reassuringly and got back to work plugging his laptop into his television.
They were quiet for a while, Nick getting a live stream set up so they could watch in a few minutes while Punk paced the tile floor, occasionally stopping to peak in through the oven door at the baking pizza. After being satisfied with his set up, Nick collapsed on the couch, grabbing his phone in the process. He tried to focus on work for a few minutes, knowing his twitter presence was a constant on television days.
HEELZiggler
no ziggs at #RAW ouch WWE
swags/del rio will surely entertain JK JK
at least cenas there doing fresh material, i bet ;)
He heard Punk's snort of laughter a second later and shot him a smile over his shoulder. The oven timer sounded, and Nick all but dove over the back of the couch to get back into the kitchen to witness the unveiling of his long-desired meal. The smell hit him the second Punk pulled open the door, and Nick couldn't contain a rather embarrassing moan.
Punk shot him a grossed out look. "Do you two want to be alone, or…?"
"Yes! With a fork and a bottle of coke…"
Punk exaggerated a gasp, grasping his chest. "Coke! How could you betray me like that?"
"I'm sorry! Blame it on my momma, that's all she ever bought."
"Do not blame the lovely Mrs. Ziggler for your sins, Dolphie! that's just rude!"
Nick play-shoved Punk out of the way, and grabbing an oven mitt, he pulled the pan from its hot confines and gingerly sat it on the awaiting trivet. He hovered over it, basking in its glory, his face mere inches from it, pulling in its luscious scent despite the steam stinging at his face. His moment was interrupted when Punk pulled him back. "If you scald your face in my presence, I'm never going to hear the end of how I could have prevented your disfigurement, so if you could keep the creepy to a minimum for just one second…"
Nick swore he had tears in his eyes – and not just from the steam. "It's just so…perfect."
Punk rolled his eyes and shook his head, though Nick caught the fond smile. "Okay, remind me not to be around when you have children."
"Oh no, I will never feel this strongly about my own children. I reserve these intense feelings for orgasmic cuisine and selling bumps."
"Your priorities are so healthy, man." Punk started to go at the pie with a pizza cutter and Nick waited on baited breath. "The bottom is crunching. I think we may have achieved actual success over here."
"First time in my life!" Nick handed Punk a spatula and grabbed them a plate each. Punk dished out slices and they went about garnishing them with the appropriate toppings.
Neither of them used pepperoni.
They dug in as Raw began, and both had to admit, for their first attempt the pizza was okay. Maybe they'd used a bit too much sauce and the bottom was a bit harder than either of them would have liked, but they were rather pleased with the results.
When he was done, Punk wiped at his face and hands, leaning back in his chair. "Well, this was a good try. But, once you're back on the road, we'll get the real stuff at my place on a day off."
Nick confusedly considered this statement for a while before realizing that Punk had pretty much just invited him to come stay in Chicago. He wasn't sure whether he was more shocked or proud that he'd made a good enough impression to get the invite. This man was notoriously good at shutting people out for the littlest of fumbles. Hell, look at his twitter any given day and you could watch him virtually cut out complete strangers.
And then Nick realized the gravity of Punk's words: CM Punk considered him a friend.
On top of that, CM Punk considered him a good enough friend to invite him to Chicago, to invade his privacy, just so they could get a pizza. A pizza that only Nick had ever really wanted. A pizza that got Punk here in the first place, just so Punk could give him that pizza.
God bless deep-dish pizza.
Nick smiled across the counter at his friend. "I think that could be doable."
Punk nodded before turning his attention to a thorough study of the ceiling while worrying his lip ring. Nick couldn't help but beam at him, the last little bits of his apprehension that something would go wrong with this entire situation starting to melt away.
When Nick was done, the pair managed to get everything cleaned up, and they settled in on the couch to watch the show.
"That tweet was good earlier," Punk suddenly proclaimed, eyes earnest. "What else you got?"
Nick shot him a questioning look. "Are you challenging me?"
Punk shook his head. "Just an inquiry."
"It felt like a challenge."
"Nah...not unless you want it to be." The smirk on his face made Nick really want it to be.
"If you're challenging me, just come out and do it. Because I will win."
"It's not exactly like there's going to be a winner or a loser in this…"
"So you admit you're challenging me?"
Punk gave an almost exasperated laugh. "Sure, Nick. If that's what you want me to admit to…."
"You're going to egg me on either way."
"Oh, hell yeah."
"I can't even fathom why you would think I wasn't going to give my tweeting my all, whether you wanted me to or not."
"I'm just trying to see how far you're willing to go."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Punk shrugged. "How many people do you want to piss off?"
Nick wanted to piss everyone in the company off at all times…but it was a slippery slope. Just like it had been when he'd pressed John the other night. Things could be a good, honest laugh for everyone when suddenly, the stupidest little joke, usually the least clever of the bunch, pissed the wrong person off in the worst kind of way. And then people were sent packing.
There was a lot Nick could get away with. But what he could get away with, and what he wanted to get away with were two entirely different things. His earlier tweet had been fine. It was tongue in cheek and just Cena-hating enough (because really, the guy was fair game as long as you didn't accuse him of fucking porn stars) to be in character, but honest at the same time.
Nick's biggest problem was that when he got going…the line between what Dolph was allowed to say and what Nick wanted to say became more and more apparent and he was usually on the wrong side of it. Hence the 45 drafted tweets he'd never sent sitting on his account, some waiting days, weeks, months, years even to get posted, because he just had terrible feelings about them despite their innocence.
But at this point, Nick felt like things were slipping. Only he could get a title and a concussion in a little over a month. He wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to hang onto this title very long. He was only supposed to retain at Extreme Rules to get him to Payback and now that entire thing was up in the air. But he knew he wasn't going to have the title for the summer; he could feel it in his bones. Whether or not it was a good or bad thing…he didn't know. And until he knew, he had to take chances. Even if taking them was possibly a crucial misstep.
"I want to piss off everyone."
Punk turned away from the television and stared at him. Nick slowly slid his gaze from Raw to Punk, holding his eye for longer than he thought he was necessary. Punk smirked.
"Go for it."
Nick does. And it takes everything in him to ignore those couple of 203 area code phone calls he really does get.
The six-man tag team elimination match had gone far smoother than John expected.
Going in, he'd had the worst feeling in the world. He was dreading it. He was so convinced something would go wrong. That he would take one misstep, give out under one guy's weight, land wrong just once. John felt like there was a little countdown clock in the back of his mind, waiting to run out, and his ankle would irreversibly snap, retiring him for good.
But as the show went off air and the clock hit zero…he was fine. His ankle was intact. It didn't even twinge. Back in his locker room, out of his shoes and in the shower, he realized that it wasn't even stiff after a full day for the first time in weeks.
He didn't want to jinx himself but…he was better.
The weight off his shoulders took his breath away and left him holding himself up against the shower wall while he recovered from the overwhelming relief. He'd dodged a serious bullet. How many guys left the ring hurting to find out they were done for good? And here he was, absolutely fine, requiring nothing more than a few weeks of taping and icing. He tried not to cry, but was man enough to admit he'd failed.
Now, he just had to make it through Sunday – which was shaping up to be a blood bath if creative had anything to say about it – unscathed.
Out of the shower and dressed again, he looked through his phone. He almost called Nikki, but she was already waiting for him back at the hotel. His thumb lingered over Punk's name in his messages for a while. He hadn't answered since Punk's reassurances that everything would be fine on Thursday night. He'd meant to, but then he'd randomly seen the picture of Punk and Ziggler, and he'd quickly decided that he was going to keep his distance for a few days so he wouldn't blow up or anything. Or so they could bond or whatever.
No. He wasn't going to act like that. Punk was allowed to have other friends; he did for heaven's sake. He was right when he said John was acting like a naggy girlfriend. But during his self-imposed hiatus, John had just come to depend on the sureness of calling or texting Punk whenever he needed and getting an immediate response. He didn't want to call him and have to leave a voicemail that wouldn't be answered for hours because Punk was off having fun with someone who wasn't him.
John groaned. That wasn't exactly true. Sure, he wanted to be off gallivanting with Punk, or any of his friends for that matter. If that wasn't evidence enough that he needed time off, he didn't know what was. But he didn't want to be looking for someone to put his worries on only to get more worried worrying about when they would actually respond.
Maybe now that his ankle was feeling good, that stress would go away. And if the past ten minutes were anything to go by, it would.
He called Punk before he could over think it.
Punk picked up on the second ring. "Oh, hey, Johnny. Long time no talk."
John laughed a little embarrassedly. "Yeah, I suck."
"Yes, yes you do."
John could hear the television going in the background. "Are you guys watching Raw?"
"Already did. We're pirates."
"So you saw my pitiful win."
"I did. Took that powerbomb like a champ…or the champ in this case."
"As if I never have."
John heard a rush of air and a door shutting, and then nighttime sounds. "How are you feeling, man?"
There it was. "Honestly, Punk? I feel..good."
"Good?" He sounded as surprised as John felt.
"Yeah. My ankle feels fine and it's…making me hopeful? I don't really know…"
Punk laughed. "I can't imagine how relieved you must feel, but, seriously? I'm relieved."
John frowned. "Was I really that naggy?"
"Yes. You were the naggiest."
"Well, I didn't mean to be."
"But you were, John."
He sighed. "I'm really sorry."
"Don't be."
"I didn't mean to be-"
"John." Punk's voice was hard and stern. "I don't care. You're my friend. I would have cut off my right foot if it made you feel better…. And I'm rather…attached to my right foot."
John burst into laughter. He could nearly hear the smirk in Punk's voice. "You're corny."
"No, that would be you."
"Nah, that's you."
"No, you."
"Oh, Phil," John giggled in the girliest voice he could muster – which wasn't much, "You hang up first!"
"Shut up, John boy."
"How's…Ziggler?" John asked, knowing that he'd done a total one-eighty.
John waited while Punk took a second to think about his answer. "Awesome."
John blanched. "Awesome?"
Punk groaned. "Oh, come on, you aren't going to be naggy and jealous?"
"I'm not trying to be!"
"Right. You're totally jelly that Nick and I are off going to craters and golfing while you work for the man."
John froze. "You just said jelly! What is he doing to you?"
Punk laughed. "I was kidding!"
"I feel like I seriously doubt that."
Punk laughed longer than John thought was necessary. "Naggy and jealous, man. Plus you don't put out? Worst girlfriend ever."
"Shut up." John could admit he was getting annoyed.
Punk sighed. "John."
John was silent.
"You sound like your old self."
John considered that for a while. "What do you mean?"
"The John Cena who doesn't worry about anything."
John wasn't so sure. All he knew was he really missed that person. "Let's hope so."
"I think he's back. Give it time."
"I will. Night, man."
"Yep. Night, yourself."
John left the arena feeling better than he had in ages.
Nick was a great guy.
That's what Punk had decided in the last four days. Thursday had been fun, but he'd had hesitations about the situation. He ignored them for Nick's benefit and kept the concussion in mind. But when he woke up on Friday, the change from the night before had been immediate and noticeable. The guy was in rare form, telling Punk jokes about several of Swagger's funnier misdeeds when they were teaming together. The guy was hilarious, and it had made it easy for Punk to ignore the total of zero hours of slept he'd gotten sticking to the sheets in the guest room, even with the air conditioning and ceiling fan on high.
They'd gotten out and done things. Phoenix was interesting, though far too dry and hot for Punk to ever consider spending more than a few weeks at a time in its deserty embrace. It was sprawling and spread out, so different than Chicago or New York with their tall, close buildings and packed-in denizens.
He'd kept a close eye on Nick at the gym, hoping nothing went wrong. But the guy was careful, and everything worked out. Leaving the gym for the 98 degree heat of the parking lot at ten in the morning was the worst sensation Punk had ever felt, and the second they rolled into Nick's driveway, he'd darted for the pool, throwing himself in sneakers and all. Nick had come to the pool, stood at the edge, and given him a look that said he didn't understand Punk at all. Then the look disappeared and he did a cannonball into the deep end.
He'd been dragged even further into the desert, to an absolute no where, where Punk had been awestruck by the crater he thought was far cooler than the Grand Canyon could ever hope be. Nick had taken him to see bats that lived in the city's flood control tunnels fly off for the night, and he'd managed not to punch him for the Batman joke he'd made at Punk's expense (mostly because it was actually funny and he appreciated the sentiment). They'd even golfed with Nick's friends, who were not the douchebags Punk assumed they might be.
And so what if Punk was now a little obsessed with Jodi Arias? Nick had terrible taste in music (who the fuck was Lana Del Rey and why did she sound like the bastard child of Shirley Bassey and Tupac?) and an even worse singing voice, so, as John would put it, the universe was evening itself out. (In Nick's defense, he knew several Slayer songs by name without checking the dashboard guide, so he'd scored major points there.)
Sitting here now, watching Raw, had thrown Punk off though.
He was honestly shocked that he'd forgot the show was on. He knew it was Monday – he'd never been confused about the day of the week at any point. But the thing about this self-imposed hiatus was that at the beginning of it, Punk had seriously considered retiring for one simple reason.
He was so burnt out on wrestling he was starting to hate it.
He never wanted to hate wrestling. It was his passion, his life. It had saved him countless times. It coursed through his veins and burned out everything else lingering within them when he was in the ring. He didn't care about music, baseball, hockey, or even his lifestyle when he was in that squared circle. All he wanted was to wrestle his heart out, until his body gave out and he was no more. But by the time WrestleMania came around, he'd wanted nothing more than to disappear without a trace.
Maybe if he started to miss it, he could have run off to Mexico and secretly worked as a masked luchador (with a full body suit to cover his ink), but he was happy that idea hadn't come to fruition now that he was in Arizona and had discovered how much this climate sucked.
So he had gone off to rest his knee instead and ignore the existence of wrestling for two months.
But when Nick mentioned Raw, the old butterflies, the ones that swarmed his belly before the bell rang, came rushing back. And that was when he realized that he didn't hate wrestling – he'd just forgot what it was like to love it.
So here they sat, Nick trying to piss off anyone he could with his tweets, and Punk, trying to keep an open mind about everything he was watching. Trying to recapture the love.
Punk's phone lit up again and he read Nick's latest tweet:
HEELZiggler
lots of (203) calls
skipping them, obvs
if this is my last day at WWE
this is exactly how i want to go out
haha
#raw
"I can't even handle it," Punk told him, shaking his head.
Punk had to hand it to him: if he was this guy, he might have non-storyline attacked the wrong person by now. But even when he tweeted and said things like that, he managed to keep his cool (though Punk had seen a few WWE Downloads where he almost hadn't). If he could help him get some frustration out by pushing him to tweet what was on his mind, then so be it. If the guy had to add a couple JKs to ease his own conscience, all the power to him.
But Punk had claimed to be the voice of the voiceless for a reason. If that had to extend to his pseudo-professional personal life, then so be it.
A while later, the show was over, and it was only just after 9. Nick flipped over to MSNBC and fifteen minutes later, Punk's phone lit up with John's name. The guy hadn't responded since Punk's reassuring text on Thursday night, and now he was probably a wound up mess. Punk felt bad he hadn't called himself, but he'd been busy.
He answered and spoke. "Oh, hey, Johnny. Long time no talk."
John managed to at least sound a bit awkward when he laughed. "Yeah, I suck."
"Yes, yes you do." He didn't, but Punk could give him hell anyway.
"Are you guys watching Raw?" Ah. So John was going to go with "you guys" for now. Safe.
"Already did. We're pirates."
"So you saw my pitiful win."
"I did. Took that powerbomb like a champ…or the champ in this case."
"As if I never have." John did take it well, so he wasn't going to deny him that fact. Though maybe the "knocked out cold" selling was getting a little old and unbelievable.
Punk nodded at Nick to let him know he was leaving. Nick waved him off in response, barely looking away from the television. Punk went out onto the patio, taking in the slightly cooler night air. It was a relief. "How are you feeling, man?"
"Honestly, Punk? I feel…good."
Punk was still for a moment. He hadn't expected to hear that from John. John, who'd spent the last year doing everything during their calls from sobbing over Liz and every he'd done wrong while he'd known her to rambling about carburetors for forty-five minutes without pausing while high on painkillers after his elbow surgery. Hearing John felt good had long felt like a thing of the past, so to hear it right now was…vintage Cena.
"Good?" He failed to mask the surprise in his voice.
"Yeah. My ankle feels fine and it's…making me hopeful? I don't really know…"
Punk laughed and found himself able to move again, feeling pretty good himself. "I can't imagine how relieved you must feel, but, seriously? I'm relieved."
"Was I really that naggy?" John sounded honestly concerned over the idea that he'd nagged Punk to his limits.
Punk wasn't going to pull his punches. "Yes. You were the naggiest." He skimmed his toe over the still pool, sending little ripples through the water that gleamed in the moonlight. Simple. But he still thought it was nice looking.
"Well, I didn't mean to be."
"But you were, John."
John's sigh was heavy, and Punk thought he might be reverting for a second. "I'm really sorry."
"Don't be." And Punk meant it.
"I didn't mean to be-"
"John. I don't care. You're my friend. I would have cut off my right foot if it made you feel better." Punk couldn't leave it there, couldn't leave all of this as serious as it was coming out. "And I'm rather…attached to my right foot."
John burst into laughter, another wave of relief rushing over Punk at the sound, pure and strong. "You're corny."
"No, that would be you." Because really? John Cena was an absolute goober and it was almost disgusting. Almost.
"Nah, that's you."
"No, you."
"Oh, Phil," John's voice was still deep, but had taken on a shrill quality that cut through Punk in a way he found hilariously uncomfortable. "You hang up first!"
"Shut up, John boy."
"How's…Ziggler?"
Punk could hear the distaste in John's voice, the reluctance to call him anything familiar. And they weren't familiar, so Punk expected nothing else from the champion. If there was one thing Punk could never really do to John, it was lie. "Awesome."
"Awesome?"
Punk groaned at the questioning, near-disgusted tone John used. "Oh, come on, you aren't going to be naggy and jealous?"
"I'm not trying to be!"
"Right. You're totally jelly that Nick and I are off going to craters and golfing while you work for the man."
"You just said jelly! What is he doing to you?"
Punk laughed. "I was kidding!" He was. He'd made the conscious decision to say that. Even if it had come out a little more naturally than he would have liked.
"I feel like I seriously doubt that."
Punk laughed hard and long. "Naggy and jealous, man. Plus you don't put out? Worst girlfriend ever."
"Shut up."
Punk quieted at John's annoyance, breathing out a sigh. "John."
John's silence spoke more than anything he could have said.
"You sound like your old self." Punk had wanted to say it the entire conversation, had struggled to word it. But he meant it because this was the real John: laughing, joking, hopeful. Not the bundle of nervous energy he'd been for over a year now.
"What do you mean?"
"The John Cena who doesn't worry about anything."
"Let's hope so."
Punk really hoped so. "I think he's back. Give it time."
"I will. Night, man."
"Yep. Night, yourself."
Punk pocketed his phone and spent another moment outside in the miniscule breeze. The air was so different here; it didn't just feel dry, but it smelled dry too. He hoped it rained while he was here. He couldn't even imagine what it might be like. He almost feared he would forget what rain was like if it didn't, that the desert would suck everything out of him and give nothing back when he left.
He went back in and Nick met his eyes over the back of the couch. "How's the girlfriend?"
Punk laughed as he sat down and stole the remote from Nick's lap, flipping through channels. "He's good."
AN: Both of Dolph's tweets in this chapter were actual Dolph tweets from May 13th, typos and all. Meteor Crater (original name, isn't it?) is the world's best-preserved meteor impact site, outside of Winslow, AZ, and is on my personal bucket list of places to visit. NASA trained the Apollo astronauts at the site to simulate the surface of the moon. You should go check it out, it's visually stunning, especially when you consider that the meteorite that created it was only 50 meters across. 203 really is the telephone area code for Stamford, CT, among other parts of Connecticut. Also, Lana Del Rey is a goddess. One of her songs really inspires me for much, much later in this story (though all of her songs have been my soundtrack to writing this…though most of them are a bit out there).
Next chapter is a bit of a dozy; prepare yourselves now.