Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

AN: You guys are the greatest. Especially for putting up with me and having to wait two weeks – again. This chapter was half done ever since I posted the previous chapter, but real life (and discussing MMA at length with Annalore) kind of got in the way of finishing it. But here you go!

Chapter Warnings: Confessions. Stanley Cup wins. Stanley Cup payout. Stanley Cup celebrations. Body frosting. Chicken and Waffles. Trying to end the awkwardness. More awkwardness? Punk deserves this.

Punk waited for Nick to meet him in the hotel lobby.

Even with Punk busy following the Blackhawks, they had managed to text each other a bit the previous week – mostly about stupid, shallow shit. But Nick seemed in good spirits, so Punk had accepted the lack of proactive discussion. For now.

He'd nearly decided to give up on Nick on Tuesday night. He really had. He liked the guy, and he did care about him – it was impossible not to, the man tapped right into Punk's desire to take a bullet for any of his friends. Punk could take Nick's non-answers about what was wrong. He could take his obvious swerves away from discussing actual problems.

But being ignored was not something Punk would put up with.

So he'd told Nick to go fuck himself. And he'd tried to forget about it for a while. He'd laid in bed not thinking about it. And then trying not to think about it. And then thinking about it and getting angry. He couldn't help it; it was weighing him down. He was so agitated with the entire situation. If Nick didn't tell him what was up soon, he would blow a gasket. He could feel it.

So he'd caved and texted April, trying to act all nonchalant about his annoyance (and hurt – there was definitely some hurt there at being ignored).

His annoyance quickly turned to worry when she informed him he had gone off to Cleveland with Miz. He'd thought the worst – that something was wrong, with Nick, with his family. He didn't know what to think; maybe Nick was the kind of person to just randomly pick up and go see his family – they were close after all. Far closer than Punk and most of his family, and even closer than a lot of people Punk knew who had great families. (And as far as Punk could tell, Nick had one. His reaction to Briley's firing was proof enough.)

His worry broke his resolve, causing him to text Nick yet again to make sure that he was okay, that nothing had gone wrong, that his family was okay. The read receipt had been blank, not even 'delivered', for so long that Punk had to stash his phone and get out of bed long enough to go get water and stand on his balcony because he thought he might chuck the phone at the wall.

When he got back, Nick's text had confused him: I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm a dick. I'll explain when I see you. I promise.

Promise. Punk wasn't sure how he felt about the concept. But Nick sure seemed to like making them. Whether or not he was going to keep it…well, Punk would see about that. Since that text though, Nick seemed like he might actually tell Punk when they were in person again. Like he might actually open up. That was all Punk wanted out of him – the truth. Reassurance that not everything was wrong.

Because sometimes, Punk needed reassurance too.

Punk caught sight of Nick as he got off the elevator and waved him over.

"Hey," Punk got up as Nick came over, "how are you?"

Nick shrugged. "Pretty good. Hungry?"

"Starved."

"You didn't have to wait on me. I could have met you there."

"Well, I had to make sure you were actually going to show." Punk smirked at the mortified look on Nick's face. "I'm kidding. Unless you were actually going to try and bail on me…?

"No!"

"Good."

"So, what the fuck is up with you?"

Punk refused beat around the bush. Beating around the bush was for people who were afraid to hear the truth. Punk wasn't afraid to hear the truth because he was sure the truth wasn't that big of a deal.

He watched Nick deflate, sit back, and gaze out the window. He watched the way Nick's jaw tensed and relaxed several times over. Nick mindlessly played with the napkin in his hand, crushing it in his fist before smoothing it out and lightly fingering the edges.

When he looked back at Punk, he seemed startled. Like he'd forgot Punk was there.

"I didn't even realize I was being an asshole." It tumbled out. Punk hadn't expected him to start so suddenly. "I've been acting like I have some big secret problem. So here's the truth: I don't," he paused, looking down for a second before meeting Punk's eye. It made Punk shift in his seat.

"I've been really bothered by how happy you are." He laughed, the sound bitter and raw. "That sounds like the douchiest thing. But in Chicago…I was in such a shitty place and a shitty mood. And you weren't. You were having the exact opposite experience. And I didn't want to upset you or bring you down, because you deserve to be happy. But not complaining just…it built up for me, and I got angry with you. I didn't want to celebrate because it felt like rubbing salt in the wound, ya know?"

Punk assumed this was rhetorical until he realized that Nick was staring intently, waiting for his reply, waiting for Punk's confirmation that feeling the way he had was okay. "I guess I get that…"

"I was happy for you though – don't think I wasn't. You deserve to be happy for a million reasons. I just really wanted someone to be miserable with….and I kind of wanted it to be you. I guess I just got used to it for so long, and I assumed when you got back…"

"That I get." Punk did. Punk understood what it was like to have an experience you wanted to share with your friends, but no friends to share it with. He also understood what it was like to have an experience you could only share with one person and want – desperately – to share it with them. If he hadn't had John the first time he won the title, he never would have coped.

"I think you get a lot."

I think you get me. Punk heard it there, just under the surface. He did get Nick. He got the snark and the anger, and using both as defense mechanisms for how insecure he was with where he was. Nick was him five, six years ago. Fuck, Nick was the way he still was some days. He totally got it; it all made sense to him.

"I do. You could have told me though. I would have put you in your fucking place and made you come eat eggs with us."

Nick laughed. "I would have probably burst into tears, so it's a good thing you didn't." He shifted awkwardly. "That night was rough…I put April through the ringer."

"Oh?"

Nick nodded. "I feel like I do that to her a lot."

Before Punk could stop himself, the question came spilling out: "Are you guys together?"

Nick stared wide-eyed at him, and Punk sort of wished he could reach out and pull all the words back in. Because it was intrusive. It was weird to ask. At least it felt that way.

Nick shook his head. "No…I don't know. We were? Not seriously…just um," he grabbed his glass and took several large gulps of water, nearly draining it. "Only last week," he rushed out, like he'd hoped to hide it somewhere between pulling the glass from his lips and setting it back on the table.

Punk knew what Nick meant. "You shouldn't fuck around like that."

"I'm not. We're not. It was just…the one time. By accident?" Nick laughed. "That makes it sound like I fell on her or something…"

"She doesn't deserve to get jerked around while you figure out what you want."

Nick cocked his head, brow furrowed. "You think I would do that?"

Punk shrugged. "Anything is possible."

"Well, first: I wouldn't." Nick grabbed his water and took a sip, and Punk felt a little bad. "And she pretty much told me it was a mistake – even though she said it wasn't. And she wants to go back to the way we were before. And we have. So…"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Kind of sucked. I thought maybe that was…," Nick seemed to close up. "I thought maybe we were together? Guess not…"

"That sucks."

"That's life." His dismissal sounded hollow to Punk's ears.

They were silent a while.

"It feels weird now," Nick admitted. "To have thought her and I were finally…and then to have her tell me we weren't. To have to pretend we didn't do anything. It feels stupid. Immature."

"That's why you don't do it in the first place." It was just one of the added bonuses on Punk's lifestyle – avoiding all the crazy relationship dynamics that came out of stupid, heat of the moment decisions.

Nick frowned. "I can't imagine that."

"Can't imagine what?"

"Thinking anything like that through if I just want to do it? If I want to do it, I might as well do it."

"That's an impulse control problem."

"It's not a problem though."

"It can be. You're confused now. I'm sure April is too."

"But that's half the fun."

Punk wasn't sure he knew what to think about that. "I'm not sure that I feel the same way…"

Nick smiled and shrugged. "It makes life interesting."

"I'm not sure you like uncertainty as much as you think you do…"

"When there aren't a million other uncertain things going on, that kind of uncertainty is fine by me. It makes the end result that much more rewarding."

Punk nodded. He didn't get it. But whatever.

Punk picked at his salad for a while, weighing his options. He wanted to bring John up. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. But he also didn't want to kill the mood…or whatever it was. This lunch didn't have a "mood". He was losing it. "So I need to ask you about something else."

Nick finished chewing a bite of his sandwich. "Okay?"

"Do you hate John?"

Nick snorted, but immediately had the decency to look apologetic when Punk glared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"I mean…I don't hate John. I barely know him."

"See, you could have fixed that problem if you had come out with us!"

"You'll never stop complaining about that, will you?"

"Nope. Never."

"Okay, look. I'm sure he's nice. All I ever hear about is how nice he is. And he's been perfectly professional when I've worked with him. I just don't think we're that similar."

"I think you're shockingly similar."

"I think I'm offended."

"Nick…"

He held his hand up, and Punk stopped with an irritated sigh. "Hear me out. I've never had anything but superficial interactions with him. But my observations of shit that's gone on between him and other people? They didn't create the most positive impression of him for me."

"Then you should let him prove you wrong."

Nick rolled his eyes. "I think he hates me too. Have you grilled him about that?" Punk was quiet. Nick laughed. "That's rich."

"He doesn't hate you! He dislikes you…mostly because he thinks you hate him. So if you two would stop acting like you're thirteen-year-old girls…"

"We aren't. We're acting like people who are pretty sure they aren't going to like each other, and are smart and mature enough to avoid causing a problem."

Punk smirked. "Did you just call John 'smart and mature'?"

Nick shook his head. "Not on purpose."

"But you did."

"Fuck you."

"I just have one more question."

"Ugh."

"Did you squawk at John?"

Nick furrowed his brow in confusion. "No…?" Then his eyes widened. "I mean…yesssss…."

Punk laughed. "Awe man, I thought he was kidding the whole time!"

"It was an accident," Nick groaned. "It was weird and I laughed and the laugh came out wrong…I don't know! I sounded like the Fruit Loops bird."

"He immediately called me and asked what was wrong with you."

Nick stared him down. "Oh wow. Shit talker. How nice."

"He wasn't shit talking…he thought there was something wrong with you."

"Wow. That's even nicer. 'Hey Punk! Is your friend Nick mentally impaired?'" Nick mocked. "Seriously talking him up right now, Punk. I can't handle it. Shockingly positive stuff."

"Oh, shut up. He thought you were being mean – I meant mean. Not 'wrong with you'."

"Admit it: you meant wrong with me."

Punk threw down enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip for their waitress who'd managed to be polite without being saccharine and apparently knew enough about body language to not interrupt this conversation. He needed to change this topic. Now. "Come on. I have to go call Kane and give him his pep talk. The man is lost without me. I'll never know how he made it to the NHL."

"He was number one overall the year he was drafted. Something tells me he did fine without you."

"Shut up, Nick."

Nick smiled. "You excited for tonight?"

"I have the best feeling about tonight."

Nick made his way outside after Raw.

Punk had somehow made him cave, and now he was going out for a post-Raw meal with his friend and Cena. He was pretty sure he'd rather lay face down on the grill at the restaurant than go through with this. But he would. For Punk's (misguided) sake.

And on top of getting his way, Punk's feeling had been right: the Blackhawks had won the Stanley Cup. Nick was prepared for an exceptionally smug Punk. What he encountered outside was a different creature all together.

"Nick!"

Nick froze. Punk, still in full ring gear and his hoodie, was doing cartwheels in front of his bus. "Are…are you drunk?" He was obviously kidding….but only a little.

Punk stopped, dropping to sit Indian style, leaning back on his hands. He was breathing hard, smiling, beaming really. "Nope! High on life!"

"I believe you. Only because it's you. Anyone else, I would be taking to have their stomach preemptively pumped."

Punk laughed. "You need to celebrate with me!"

"I am! I'm buying you chicken and waffles!"

Punk looked at him like he was dumb. "No…well, yes. Just waffles. But you have to cartwheel. I know you can. And if you half ass it, you're going to have to do headstands against my bus."

Nick groaned. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. Cartwheel. Now."

Nick set his bag down. "You're a dick."

"I know." Nick did one, making sure he didn't half ass it. He knew Punk seriously might make him headstand against the grill of his bus. "Do some more!" Punk insisted.

"Why? So you can post this on Tout?"

"Fuck that. I don't use my Tout. I'm not contractually obligated anymore."

"You suck, Punk." He did a few more, even holding a handstand at the end.

Punk applauded. "Good. Don't you feel…ten times more jolly now?"

He hated to admit it, but they had made him feel a little…jollier. "No. Not really…." Nick didn't know who this man before him was. "Are you okay? I feel like this win may have driven you over the edge…"

"I'm perfect!"

"Okay. Calm down there."

"Why be calm when the Stanley Cup is ours?" Nick could only describe the sound that came out of Punk as a howl.

"Punk, you're like…manic right now."

"I know!" Punk jumped up to emphasize his point and Nick had to bite back the grin threatening to split across his face. This Punk was glorious.

"You guys just won like…three years ago. If this is you after three years, I don't know what you're going to do when the Cubs finally win the Series…"

"2015, Nick. Just two years from now. And you know how long that draught will have been? 107 years. People have lived entire lives and died and been buried for…30 years without my Cubbies winning."

Nick mockingly applauded. "All of this. Based on Back to the Future."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy, bud."

"Um…I feel like that doesn't mean what you think it means..."

Punk rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Cubs in 2015."

"I don't doubt you. I will be jumping right on the bandwagon if it looks that way."

"When they win, I'm going to buy the Cubs. And rename them the McFlys. Just for one season."

"I don't know that you have the money for that."

"No, but I have the drive."

"Plus you're intimidating."

"Exactly!"

Nick's phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to check it. April had texted him a link. "…I thought you said you didn't use Tout anymore?" He held his phone up, glaring at Punk.

Punk smirked. "I haven't. Not in 10 months."

"Of course. You break your silence by embarrassing me."

"I thought you liked showing off?"

"It's not showing off if you don't know you're doing it…," Nick mumbled.

Punk laughed. "Whatever. Think of all the likes and shares that's going to get. That's the showing off part."

"Shut up. You don't know anything about showing off."

A large hand suddenly clapped against Nick's back, startling him. "What did I miss?"

John Cena was at his side, smiling at Punk. And touching Nick like he knew him. He was all hot and sweaty from his dark match, just hovering over Nick's shoulder. It was gross. Nick barely managed to tense up and side step away without saying something to the champion.

Punk smirked. "Cartwheels. I won't make you do one because I don't feel like scooping your clumsy brains off the pavement with a chunk of your skull like it's a salsa and chips."

"I think I could manage a cartwheel." John wasn't so sure about that right now. But he wasn't going to let Punk know that.

"Sure, John."

John had been prepping for his dark match when the game was over, so he'd missed it, but his phone hadn't. He'd been happy for Punk, if a little sour over having lost their bet. But he was excited at the prospect of the friendly ribbing Punk would give him for it. He wondered if that was a little weird.

He wasn't sure he cared.

He fished the dollar he'd buried in his change pocket before his match out and handed the wadded little bundle over to Punk. "Yours. Fair and square."

Punk threw his hands up in repulsion. "Oh no. You aren't giving me that. Go unfold it and flatten it out on something."

"Were you planning on running to a vending machine or…?"

"Just do it."

John rolled his eyes, but did as Punk asked and rubbed the bill against a nearby bus.

Nick stood there, frozen with awkwardness. He didn't want to be that guy, standing there saying nothing, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. But he was. And he thought he might be sick when he realized it was all about him – he didn't want to say the wrong thing and fuck this up. Especially when Punk was going around smiling like that.

Punk fished his phone back out and thrust it at a confused Nick. Punk smirked. "Oh, I'm not just taking that dollar from John. I need photographic evidence of his loss to show the whole world."

"Oh, fuck you!" John shot, coming back over with a much flatter – if very wrinkled – buck. "You're such a dick."

Nick laughed and thumbed the camera open on Punk's phone. "All right. Say cheese."

"You mean money."

"No, I meant cheese. But if you want to say money, Punk, that's your prerogative!" John laughed and Nick shot him a tight, quick smile. He held the camera up, and John and Punk held the dollar between them. "Oh, come on. You two can do better than that!"

Punk smiled and John stared at Nick for a minute, uncertain what to do. Nick waved his hand at him, trying to get a reaction out of John, who simply shrugged as Nick snapped the picture. When Nick got a good look at the shot he'd just taken, he laughed. "Oh man."

"Let me see!"

Nick handed Punk back his phone. Punk's eyes widened and he laughed, shoving the phone at John. "Please look at yourself."

John took the phone and groaned. "Oh god…"

Punk laughed. "You look terrible!"

"I look like a doofus."

Without thinking, Nick patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right. The world already knows you're a goof."

All three of them froze, Nick's hand lying still against John's shoulder. It was a tense moment, and Punk was sure that something would go wrong, that one of them was about to do or say something that would ruin their tentative truce and send both of them plummeting to the blacktop. He was convinced he really was going to have to scoop someone's innards off the ground. He was sure of it.

And then John laughed and Nick smiled and dropped his hand and Punk breathed the largest sigh of relief he ever had. Thank Stan Lee.

"All right, so what are we getting this winner over here?"

Nick shrugged. "I suggested chicken and waffles, and he just made me do cartwheels so…"

"Well, I'm all about that. Punk won't order chicken, so he'll eat all of mine. But I guess we can go anyway."

Punk shoved John. "Oh, screw you. I will not."

"You're a pretty shitty vegan."

"I've been managing pretty well, lately. Without Nick shoving pizza down my throat."

"Oh, I shoved it down your throat?"

"Well, you did. Psychologically. Once I saw it, it was game over…"

Nick laughed. "Whatever. You were the one on a crusade through an airport to buy one for us."

"For you! It was all for you and your stupid concussion!"

"Hey, don't bring up that concussion! It was a pretty wile bastard, fucking me over when it did."

John shook his head. "I see why you're friends now. Weirdoes…"

Punk and Nick both glared at him, Punk a little more jokingly than Nick. "Why don't you go in and maybe wash some of that sweat off, John boy? You smell terrible."

"I'm wounded, Punk. I really am." John headed back inside anyway.

Punk smirked at Nick, but was taken aback when Nick rolled his eyes. "What?"

"You think you smell like sunshine?"

"Fuck off."

"Yeah, I'll do that in your bus while I wait."

Punk gave him the finger and headed back inside.

John was in the middle of pulling a fresh shirt on when two arms wrapped around him from behind and a pair of lips grazed his ear. "Hey Champ."

He smiled and turned around, hugging Nikki to him. "Hey there, gorgeous." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She beamed up at him and pecked him on the lips. "So," she started, face almost immediately falling, "this probably goes without saying, but are you going out tonight?"

John smiled and tried his hardest not to look too excited. She was in a good mood – he wasn't about to fuck with that and get accused of preferring late night breakfast food with Punk to sex with her. Again. For the second time that day. "Yes. With Punk and Ziggler."

Nikki's brow furrowed. "You're going out with Nick?"

"Yeah. And, as always, invitation is open to you…"

Nikki's face went blank. "Yeah. I really want to go out with Punk and my ex."

"Ah. Right."

"Exactly, babe." Nikki reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him very deeply, very suddenly. John grabbed her by the hips, pulling her flush against him, just as she pulled away. He nearly whined. "Well, if you get bored of them…I'll be waiting. In bed."

"Okay."

"Without panties," she told him, running her fingertips down his chest.

"Okay…"

"Or any clothes at all." She pressed her chest to his.

"Nik…"

"And I'll probably have some of that Jessica Simpson body frosting you like," she purred.

"They can just-"

"Oh no, John! You made a commitment! You have to go eat scrapple and grits with them! They'll be so heartbroken if you don't." She smacked a loud kiss on his cheek, and then pinched it. "Gosh, you're so darn handsome!" She started toward the door and shot him a wink over her shoulder. "I won't wait up."

John had to picture Mark Henry with a wedgie in order to get himself together enough to leave his dressing room.

"I feel like I'm cheating on pancakes."

Nick laughed at the guilty look on Punk's face as he sopped up a good portion of the syrup on his place with the bit of waffle on his fork. He was so into the food on his plate that he hadn't made any attempts at stealing Cena's chicken (the Champ seemed rather grateful). But he'd nearly caved at the beginning of the meal and gone for the pancakes. He and Cena had spent over a minute egging him into ordering the waffles while the waitress watched, giggling, until he'd finally given in to them.

(Punk didn't mind. Punk didn't mind their shenanigans one bit. Because John and Nick were having shenanigans. Shared shenanigans. They could pour a dispenser of syrup over his head right now, and he wouldn't give a fuck, as long as they did it together.)

"I'm sure they won't mind," Nick assured him.

"I might never be allowed in a pancake house again."

"I really doubt that," John told him, ripping a chicken wing apart. "I think you've kept every pancake house in Chicago in business this year."

"And if they do ban you," Nick added, "you can exclusively go to Waffle House."

Punk pondered this for a second. "Fair point." He nibbled at an especially crispy waffle edge before dramatically dropping his fork. "…Wait, I'd be banned from pancake houses?"

John and Nick shared a smirk. "I mean," John started, "I feel like it's still a possibility. Especially since Ziggler over here tweeted about this excursion…"

"You did?" Nick laughed at Punk's overly shocked face. "Why would you ruin my pancake cred?"

"You Tout'd my cartwheels."

"They were good cartwheels!"

"These are good waffles!"

Punk gave Nick an exaggerated pout, and both his tablemates laughed at him. He thought he might actually explode with happiness. He quietly finished up the last of his waffles, shooting his friends furtive glances while Nick explained some app on his phone to a puzzled looking John, who nodding along feigning comprehension. He didn't want them to catch him looking, observing. It was such a fragile little…thing, and he was afraid – so afraid – that if either of them caught him, if he gave them the knowing little 'I told you so!' look he was so desperate to show…it would end as quickly as it began.

That they would just throw down at this table…and ruin his waffles.

But then John was laughing at some joke Nick cracked that Punk didn't hear, and he felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. That this would keep up. That they would become friends.

He realized it was all he really wanted right now.

He finished up his pancakes and downed the last of his Pepsi. "All right, not to interrupt your pow wow over there, but I gotta pee. I'll be back."

Nick lazily waved him off. "You have fun with that."

"You know what they say. Two shakes…"

"Shut the fuck up, John."

John laughed as Punk stomped off. "He can dish it out, but he just can't take it."

"Nah, I think he can. He just likes us to think he can't."

"He really does."

The pair stayed quiet for a long while.

John looked at Nick and their eyes locked for a long, tense moment.

With Punk at the table, with the ice broken earlier, Nick felt fine talking to John. But now that their conversation had been interrupted – and Punk had excused himself – something was…off. It was as if Punk had taken their little slice of burgeoning camaraderie away with him.

While the usual malice he felt was numbed for the moment, Nick knew that one wrong move on either of their parts would tear their current détente to shreds. (He could feel it – as much as he wanted to stay civil, there was still something thrumming away under his skin, craving the confrontation.) And he didn't want to make it – he couldn't take that blame.

He wouldn't be able to take Punk's disappointment.

John felt the same. He felt like as friendly as they were being tonight, a part of him was still out for blood. He didn't want it to be. And he really didn't want to say something wrong and have this guy making noises at him again. He didn't want to do anything that might upset him, and in turn, upset Punk. Because he knew how much this meant to Punk. He knew Punk desperately wanted them to get along. He would suck it up for Punk.

Because Punk deserved that much.

Nick looked away first and hoped that there wasn't some cosmic symbolism behind his choice to back down first.

John studied his profile, taking in the tension in his jaw, the hard set of his eyes. He turned away, but felt no sense of victory at making Ziggler look away. Not in this situation.

And when Punk returned, he didn't seem to notice anything suddenly off between the two. And they managed to slip back into casual conversation, even if it was slightly strained.

AN: Chapter 10 soon? I'll say in the next two weeks just to be safe.

Jessica Simpson body frosting is an actual product. Back when she was MTV famous, she put out a beauty line called Dessert of edible lotions that come in whipped cream-type containers and things like that. It's still available for purchase on Amazon.