~~~~ - Passing of Day.
****** - Pass of Time.
==== - Elsewhere.
The backstage hall way had been remotely empty, a few superstars passing by along with stagehands others who just didn't matter. The Longhorn Loudmouth was sat on top of a box that probably held more wires or something that was eventually going to be needed; his bare legs covered in nothing but his glossy boots and knee pads and a gorgeous man sitting in his lap, one arm securing his legs and the other busy wrapped around his shoulders, his index finger unconsciously tracing a signature red and blue tattoo.
The majority of the wrestlers refused to care by now. The unusual relationship eventually had sunken in with the year's course, and the two still heavily stuck in their "honeymoon phase." They'd been inseparable in every form to the point where they might as well have had the wardrobe of conjoined twins. The ones who did pass by just rolled their eyes, or told them to get a room, to which the Texan would rely a sharp "shut the fuck up" through his soft moans and go back to what would have been sex if their trunks hadn't been on.
"Mr. Layfield," the young camera man's eyes tried to avoid the pair as they attempted to merely stop frenching one another. The very moment one broke their legions of sloppy kisses that began to leave the lips and slowly travel south. "You're on in sixty seconds..." he cleared his throat and looked to the interviewer and back to a instant rush of Layfield getting his cowboy hat and Mamajuana wind-breaker back from his prized tag-team champion.
"Punk, get out of my shot," he demanded, poising himself to his usual perfection and tilted his hat down over his forehead to shadow his lust dilated eyes after a second glance to his tattoo covered lover who moved behind the cameras, attempting to catch his breath. "This shouldn't be long, baby."
"Whatever..." Punk rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and looking to the ground.
With a minute of boredom, the straight edge wrestler had up and left to the dressing room he shared with his boyfriend. The couch had been his area, and everything else had been absolutely covered by John's things, but as he had reminded him - Punk was "one of" his "things," He kicked back on a recliner with a mini package of cookies he'd found in a vending machine in the arena, along with his faithful bottle of Pepsi. He sighed softly, leaning over to the coffee table in front of the couch and grabbing the remote control and searching the channels for tonight's Raw. John hadn't said a word about his match with Randy Orton which had ended up driving his curiosity wild. JBL had been on screen - ranting as usual, never loss for words to enforce that he was the greatest, the wrestling God, the cream of the crop, the best fucking thing since himself: he couldn't even find a thing to compare himself to that came close to his apparent greatness.
"John's going on now?" he blinked, nearly dropping the bottle in surprise before regaining himself in a fraction of a second, "Jerk... Doesn't shut his big mouth but leaves the results out? The results! Ugh... Damn it. Well, what are the chances they'd let 'em take out Orton anyways?" he shrugged and reclined back into the leather cushions, feeling like the only one that was going to even root for John. Sure, a billion people hated Orton, but he'd bet their penthouse that they hated his cowboy the most.
Feeling like a fan again was almost torture to watch. John was so close to winning with Orton writhing beneath him. It was almost enough to send waves through his spine. Waiting for an outcome was becoming too much and he was on the edge of his seat, heading out the door and running down the hall way to get to the ring.
By the time he even made it onto the ramp, the Longhorn theme had blasted through the massive speakers above and he'd started his walk back to the limousine. He lept from the walk, running down and wrapping himself around the unsuspecting JBL; their lips meeting hard and John falling for the heat of it for several seconds until he had come to and shoved the younger man off and into the side of the limousine.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?!" He was more than furious. The rage in his eyes had said what words could not. Every ounce of their split seconds of passion had left completely and exhausted a spark of fear into his lover's deep brown eyes.
"John -- I ... John..." Punk gulped dryly, choking in the process, "I'm sorry, I, I don't know what came over me," had come in a low whisper, "...Ev'rybody knows, anyway..." now he was begging that he stayed on the couch and didn't feel the need to interfere like an idiotic fan jumping the barrier, and he knew he didn't just jump that barrier as John's voice came booming down onto him; barely acknowledging the words and just nodding that he was the correct one... He had pole vaulted over the stadium entirely.
His taped up arm reached out pathetically as John turned and left. He stood there, absolutely defeated as the sounds of the shocked crowd had suddenly turned on in his ears as if it hadn't happened the moment their lips had met instead of an expected Clothesline or a G.T.S.
CM Punk had stow away in a private room backstage, he hadn't dare find John or go anywhere near him. Staying hidden had been the best thing - at least up until the headline event. It was time to start leaving, and the thought of going back to that room for his things had been enough to drive tears back into his eyes. He couldn't bare to think of what could be going through Vince's head right now. He hadn't tolerated Randy and Batista's relationship for the longest time, but eventually he had been willing to turn the other way when it was the topic of the locker room. For the most part he had controlled Cena's jealousy over the matter which proved to be the toughest thing to not allow it to drag into the ring. He had drawn the line at the Hardy's incestuous relationship, but even he couldn't stop that. John Layfield never intended to let anybody know, but being John Layfield he absolutely "had to" show it off and let the world know that he staked claim over the straight edge superstar. Nobody had ever dared to do something on the show that had involved their actual lives together, and letting anybody's affairs on the show was the last thing Vince would ever allow, especially this.
"God, I could kill my self for letting this shit happen..."
Tattooed fingers gently twisted the door handle, "John?" he spoke softly, trying not to let his voice crack, confidence around John had always been the correct way to go.
"Where the fuck have you been, son?"
"....Can I come in?" he knew he must have looked incredibly pathetic, trying to wipe the look off of his face once John nodded, he stood against the door frame, watching him and waiting for him to speak. The silent demeanor would have been a godsend in any other situtation, but now it had just been eating and twisting his insides into paralyzes. "I'm sorry... Do... do you still?" he shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes," John smiled, "We're going to get fired, most likely. Since we are, I don't think it should be the reason we're not together, and since we're going to be fired, I suggest you make a change for the better as to not embarrass the both of us."
"What?" a part of him was beaming from the news, and soon turned to absolute confusion.
"You need to change, and for an expected "what?" again I'll just have to tell you," he stepped closer to him, allowing Punk to walk into his arms, "I've gotten over all of this. Us, together, it's insane, it's disgusting, and not just because we're two men," he secured his arms around his waist as the boy went to pull away, "I need you to change if we're going to be together. I've gotten over the whole idea of being a fagot but I can not accept this."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you're good enough for me, if you love me, you will change for me. We'll be happier."
"You need to present your self better - to my standards, not this insane joke you call a lifestyle. I'm not saying I'm going to make you drink my alcohol, or smoke my cigars. You need a hair cut, presentable clothing. Change."
He was dumb founded, and the expression on his face had led John to keep talking, listing everything wrong with him. John really only wanted a clone of himself, he wanted to leave, but the tone of his voice, the way he spoke, everything said that he was still in love. For the most part, he was probably right. Many had mistaken him for the delinquent son going nowhere in life, tagging behind John and trying to learn how to do something with himself. He began to hate that he was so completely in love with him.
"I'll change, I'll do anything to be with you."
At home, they had been mostly quiet, Punk was sat on his lap, the latest financial information on the television, and when that hadn't been on, they had been rewinding the recording of the night's Raw, playing the moment he fucked up and waiting for the phone to ring from Connecticut and be ready to have their head's ripped from their necks.
John had gone to sleep shortly after, wrapped up in expensive sheets and saving a spot for his possession, even if his spot was really under or on top of him, their sweet, innocent kisses turning into much more, until their clothes had strewn about the floors and until sleep knocked them out cold, and the turning fan above them, complete with a shirt hanging from it would fall off in the afternoon and wake one of them.
Punk stayed downstairs, curled up in himself with a mug of coffee and thanking that John had many more outlets than the WWE to support the both of them. His mind had ran rampant, there wasn't much that he was capable of to jump straight into when he would finally be handed his walking papers. He couldn't imagine how John had gotten to sleep, but he had never worried about anything before, and wasn't about to start caring about something like this because he knew he had more things in life he was capable of. At three a.m he had found himself at the gym, attempting to figure out life with John and what he meant by changing, the idea had never crossed his mind before, John always stuck up for him, and wasn't afraid to tell anybody that they had fallen in love. He would have curb stomped the first person to say anything about their relationship, or the way he looked with John.
"John? Babe? Hey, wake up..." he knelt down by the bed, prodding gently at his arm, "Babe?"
"...What, just get in bed, come here. I've been waiting," he yawned and sat up a bit.
"I'll do anything to prove I love you."
"What?" John rubbed his eyes, yawning again and sitting at the edge of the bed, looking down at him before pulling him up onto his lap, "What are you
going on about now? Prove you love me? I know you love me. Who doesn't? Who couldn't?"
"I mean, I want to change."
"...Right now?" he yawned again as Punk nodded, "Go in the bathroom, I'll be in in one second." He collapsed back down onto the bed as the boy left his lap and went to sit in the bathroom. He squirmed a bit in the sheets, stretching out and getting his slippers as he dragged himself into the bathroom. "Alright, if you say so. Tomorrow I will take you shopping, and we can get you some nice things for a change," with a nod, he kissed his forehead and searched the drawer for a pair of scissors and a razor.
Punk stared at the ground, highly doubting John's hair styling ability as he watched clumps of black hair falling onto the tiled floor at his feet. It seemed almost endless. "I have bleach," he tried not to move as he spoke, "it's under the sink."
"Thinkin' 'bout going blonde before?"
"I've debated it for a week or two, yes."
"Loved it blonde," he chuckled.
"I thought a dark purple, maybe?"
"...I'm not dating Jeff Hardy."
Punk was terrified to see what his hair was turning out like as John had at it with the razor blade. The concern of his hair was flown out of his mind as John began to speak. He needed to be John's mirrored image. Learn about the boredom known as the stock market, and start investing in everything that he'd began to list off. He felt like he needed a note pad to write down everything, the way he was supposed to look, talk, dress, act and he was waiting to be given instructions on the way that was correct to breathe as the bleach had set into his hair and the blow drier worked to make the chemicals over take the jet black faster.
The hair cut had quickly become a mystery, as JBL said he wasn't allowed to look, and set to shaving his face smooth for him, making some kind o whipped cream joke that had gone way over his head just because it wasn't really understandable. A second box of dye proved to be needed after his face had been completely smooth.
John continued to talk, and talk, and talk about everything Punk needed to know while the golden piss color had begun to change to a real white blonde tone. With a manicure set that he'd only use on himself before, he set to professional style work on Punk's hands, getting every bit of black polish off and nourishing the nails to a perfect shine.
"I'm, uh, kind of afraid of what you're going to turn me into here."
"Don't trust me?"
"Of course I do."
"What's next?" he laughed, afraid to even ask.
"Eyebrows," he grinned, snapping the tweezers in front of him and hearing the more than audible gulp coming from Punk, "Oh, come on Phil. I do it."
He almost had to tie him up to the towel rack to keep him still while he shaped them perfect. "And you know what we do tomorrow, don't you?"
"What? Yeah, but that is not what I was referring to, darlin'. Tomorrow, you get you're teeth bleached."
"Oh, great. More bleach. This is really, really starting to itch ...and burn... a lot."
"Come on, lets go watch television or something while you're hair is finishing up."
A half hour later, Punk was still staring out of the window over the New York sky, "Does you're phone have any messages?" he asked, looking to John's reflection in the window.
"Don't dwell on it, we're going to be fine."
"You're always right," he sighed, turning to smile at him.
Punk chuckled softly, moving to sit next to him and get scooped up into his arms. Their lips pressed gently against one another's, the smell of bleach being a little too over powering for John and pulling back. "You taste like shaving cream."
"Wow, thank you Romeo."
"I'm gonna have to take that, too."
"Your lip ring."
John had fallen asleep on the couch after a few short minutes of being bored, and there just wasn't a mirror around to stare at himself. Punk sat beside him for a while, going through the vacant channels of absolutely nothing until the timer went off to go and wash his hair. The very moment he looked in the mirror he screamed and tripped backwards, sending John flying into the bathroom.
"What?! What happened?!"
"I.. I look... Like Jericho!"
One Month Later.
John grinned triumphantly as he walked into the private dressing room he demanded he and Punk have. He set to drying his hair off with the towel around his neck and taking a seat beside him, "What're you doing baby?" he asked, turning his head to give him a kiss. He'd been proud of tonight, it had all gone so well: Punk stepping out of the limousine, following along side JBL in a jet black suit and a new name. The two of them stepping into the ring and braying on about the economy, and Punk agreeing with how spectacular John was. The second John's opponent had stepped into the ring, Punk had set to going off about the other man, and having nothing but praise for John until it was down right annoying... John loved it but he couldn't help knowing that it wasn't really his Punk.
He'd taken Punk back to the hotel after each of their fights had finished. The ride was silent with John staring directly at him until he had felt like the poster child for awkward silence and uncomfortable-ism. John made no motions during the short ride, and he got out of the limo in one swift motion as the chauffeur opened the door for him. Punk followed a few paces behind him, he could hear the older man muttering something, but he wasn't sure exactly what.
In the elevator he was keeping focused on adjusting his cuffs and tie, straightening the blazer and making sure his pants hadn't wrinkled. He snuck a fast glance up at Layfield and when he had immediately turned, their eyes meeting, he forced a small smile and as the doors opened to their floor, John had exited first and he let out a relieved sigh before following him to the room.
He sat in silence on the bed, fiddling with the remote to the television while John started a pot of coffee. He'd gotten up as he heard it brewing, playing with the dials on the heater before John's deep voice called his name from the kitchenette. He breathed in deeply, unconsciously straightening his tie and walking over to him. His voice was meek.
"...Phil," he repeated, a little lower this time to put him at ease as his eyes scanned over him.
"....Why has our relationship worked out so well for so long?"
"We don't fight," he smiled, "Or argue. Or... anything."
"Why do you think that is, Phil?" sometimes he hated that he always came off so stern. So be it.
"I'm not sure," he shrugged.
"It's because I'm in this relationship."
"Oh," he chuckled, "Of course."
"And it's because opposites attract; but mostly it's because of me."
"We're not opposite!" he was quick to defend it, horrified.
"We were; and I liked it that way," he said, coming closer to him, staring into his eyes until it was so uncomfortable that Punk had backed up against the wall.
"I bought something for you today."
"...What is it?"
"Go look in the closet, it's hanging next to my Mamajuana jacket."
Punk nodded, slipping past Layfield and jumping out of his shiny wingtip shoes as he felt a firm hand whack against his ass. John hadn't done that in months... and he had to admit, he loved it. He turned around laughing, surprised to finally see a smile on John's face for the first time in weeks. He'd been so sure that this relationship had been coming to an abrupt hault and one day soon he was going to get dumped.
He took a deep breath, finding the white drug store bag and taking it to the bed to open.
"I bought that yesterday, that's what I went out for."
Phil nodded: suddenly feeling awful for thinking JBL had been cheating on him. He took the small box and little glass tube from the bag, gasping outward at the sight. "What is all this, John?"
"I mean it."
"....You want me to use these?"
"I didn't buy it to look like a straight edge god my self."
"Especially with that cigar hanging from your lips and that martini in your hand."
"Does this mean what I think it does, John?"
"Baby," his eyes closed with a heavy sigh as he moved to sit beside him on the bed. "We need to talk."
Punk was looking up at John, eventually settling into his arms and as dreaded by many.... listened to him talk... for a long while, feeling like a teenage girl when he felt his eyes watering at his lover's words. John really wanted him to change - again. He couldn't believe John was saying that he was wrong about something. He found himself being leaned against, which had made him lean back and eventually on his back, supported up by his own arms the best he could be, their lips met in gentle kisses, and a flashing pain through his lip as he let John stab the ring through his lip again; enjoying the small laughed he earned from him when responded by telling him that a professional would be re-piercing his nipples - if John wanted them to be.
Layfield worked as fast as he could to get that damned tie off of Punk and back into his closet, and the blazer on the floor - Punk could keep that... tear it up, throw supportive buttons and do whatever it was goth kids did with their nice clothes. His lips gently ghosted over the piercingless pink skin of his chest as he tore the buttoned up shirt in half, he wanted every inch of his tattooed flesh more than anything, god, he missed it so much. He'd been denying himself every pleasure of having this younger man the way that he was supposed to be - and John Charles Layfield got everything he wanted and more. This - Phillip Brooks: he was that more; and he belonged solely to Layfield.
"Not now," he breathed hard against his neck, pulling back with his eyes almost black, "Not now," he repeated, "Go in the bathroom and come out normal."
"Your definition of "normal" totally blows my mind sometimes."
"I know what it means now. That's all that matters."
Punk laughed, collecting the items in his arms, "Only if I can manicure your nails."
"I get them professionally done."
"Suit your self, love."
"I'll be out of this suit when you're done."
"You got thirty minutes according to this dye."
John gave him a confirmation nod. Their lips met once before he was off the bed and set to getting his blonde hair back to a deep black.
Punk exited the bathroom, black polished nails and jet black hair. He couldn't imagine the site of John buying it, laying down an excuse along the lines of "My daughter is one of those gothic things." He couldn't wait to discuss the matter of children once he felt John was ready for it, along with himself. The fact that he was one of Vince's favorites however, and John was a good friend of his secured both of their jobs in The Business if they had a child to look after.
"John?" he purred the best he could as he crawled towards him on the bed; completely thankful that he wasn't hushed like the so many weeks before this, and told he wasn't to bother the older man while he watched the news. He'd roll his eyes and crawl into bed and go to sleep - he didn't need sex like every other wrestler at the hotel. John could fuck his stocks for all he cared. The first step to loving someone is to get over your self - or find someone that's so into you that you that they can't get over you.
The television went off.
"That's more like it," he whispered, running a hand through his own hair and licking over his newly pierced lip, "How do you like it?"
"I love it," he grinned so wickedly sometimes. "I want to feel it against my lips."
"Oh?" he chuckled, sitting in front of him, "if black hair and black nails get you turned on."
"Opposites attract, my darling," he smiled and picked up Punk's hand, placing a gentleman's kiss upon it and looking into his dark chocolate orbs, "I'm damn glad that they do."
"For you..." he whispered, taking his hand back to wrap both arms around his neck, leaning in and listening to him talk.
"The world revolves around us," he kept things simple, but the feel of his kisses hadn't felt simple - they felt extraordinary. High school had all returned, and John was the star football player -- and unfortunately he had been the cheerleader.
He laughed, "That it does my darlin'."
Punk wrestled against John as he was pushed against the bed, toppling over with John on to him and pinning him instantly.