Phil Brooks likes to jump around wildly when his current favorite song is blasting over the radio. His jet black hair swishes with the beat of his hips and John tries his best not to laugh when he walks into their bedroom, and ends up dancing along side him until the brilliant idea to buy a stripper pole crosses his mind.
"I want you to wear a dress," John said, causing his soon-to-be-wife to look over his shoulder, and around the room before responding, "Are you talking to me?" John laughs and sweeps him into his arms, and Punk can't help but notice how much his fiancé has contemplated this.
John's laying in bed, bored while Phil takes to some afternoon spring cleaning in John's closet. "I still want that tie," he adds every couple seconds – until Phil is dying of laughter clinging to the closet door frame, "Oh god, what the hell is this?" he laughs, holding up, "Justin Hawk, if you can still fit in these, we're not having sex tonight," he manages to say through his laughter as he holds up a pair of leather chaps.
Tattooed fingers try to wipe away tears, hunched over the side of the bed for a mere second before the Texan awakens and takes him into his arms. "I love you," he whispers. The Texan holds tightly, assuring his younger lover that he could tell him anything.
He wakes up with a splitting headache, unsure of what happened last night; Punk is staring down at him with a grin, so he's certain whatever it was had been good. He smiles back through the pounding migraine, aware of the oncoming snarky voice of Phil telling him he deserves it, he demands he shut up. "That's what you get," he quips, laughing and walking away.
Phil is sitting alone in their longhorn bedecked limousine alone, while John was in a meeting, suddenly unprepared and having to rely on his promo-skills while CM Punk was having to "think about what" he "had done" he felt like a child, sitting there with his arms crossed, his favorite band blasting over the speakers. He would just have to make up for accidentally opening the window and letting John's proposal papers litter the George Washington Bridge.
All day the self-made millionaire had been hard at work. On the phone, fucking up the computer, and ending up on the phone again, on the phone, and on the god damn phone, and ignoring his husband impatient to finally spend some time with him. Phil hissed, sneaking into their home office and unplugged the computer, and hid the phones. The computer alone would cause him enough grief to give up.
John Layfield always gets whatever he wants. For four months he had practically stalked the young Phil Brooks. Finally, shortly after his debut on ECW, CM Punk finally agreed out of annoyance to have one date with the the Texan – and then he fell in love. Six days later, they moved in together – and now, at the end of that very month, he was wrapped in JBL's arms, wearing his ring and making wedding plans.
This week, John has been undeniably sick to his stomach, vomiting up his insides usually on the floor, much to the maid, and Phil's dismay, getting it in the waste basket just wasn't about to happen. Phil, hard at work in the kitchen making soup had come back to an empty couch – where the hell did John go? Phil grumbled, storming up to the office and dragging him back downstairs.
The sunny afternoon on the shore disappeared quickly, settling into the night with various activities going on around the two nestled tight in a hammock for what was literally hours and hours on end.
Phil Brooks had left John Layfield years ago. His favorite band however, had not died out, and still routinely played a show at generally the same time each year in Chicago... and every year, Layfield has gone. He comes to win him back. And Brooks has never showed up.
Phil Layfield yawned as he crawled out of bed, and headed toward the bathroom, immediately trying to suppress laughter with his newly ring-garnished hand over his face. John, instead of using his comb to style his hair, had been singing "Wild Thing" into it. This was shaping out to be a great honeymoon.
"Why don't you go do something?" John scowled, his hand shielding the phone from his voice, although it had been in a failed attempt as Phil's hand threw back and slammed hard into his face, sending the phone, and John crashing to the floor.
"I like the name Wednesday," Punk sighs happily, his fingers playing with John's soft brown hair, until John stops lovingly caressing his husband's round belly and looks up at him his voice almost mocking him, "Wednesday? Like, The Addams family?" he laughed while Phil's expression looked rather unamused; John sighs with thought, "Middle name." It's settled.
John found himself shopping for no real reason other than the usual – Phil would be off his flight back home soon, and he always had to meet him with some kind of gift or another... Yet another tie had caught his fancy, and he just had to buy it – until Phil's voice popped back up in his head, and demanded he walk away.
"John," Phil whined, wriggling his toes at him, "I don't feel like bending," he pouted, "Can you paint my toenails for me?" he asked, waving the jar at him, "Please, baby?" When John was finished, Punk wished he had just waited and went to get a pedicure with John.
John was sure that he shouldn't be doing this – especially at his age, and weight. Yet, Punk insisted they get up on the hotel bed and dance to the music playing on the television.
Phil's arms are crossed over his chest. He's staring at John, who seems to be decked out in anything and everything he could find at a Hot Topic store, with black hair dye smeared even on his ears. "...I'm trying to impress you," John tells his husband, who promptly answers with a "Whatever" and promptly leaves the room.
"Ow!" Punk yelped, "Get off, John!" he hissed through his teeth, squirming beneath him. "I'm not that fat," John sighs, slightly stressed; until Punk is squirming again,"Not that, you're on my hair!"
Twenty one: Impulse.
John couldn't remember ever sprinting backstage, but once he got there he was glad he had. "I saw the way you looked at me, darlin'," he whispered, standing behind his love and pulling the younger man against him, pressing himself gently against his back, "God, I love you, Phil," he chuckled, taking his hand and placing gentle kisses leading up to his neck.
Twenty two: First.
John moaned like he'd never had before. God, Punk's tongue ring felt good in his mouth. He held him tightly, never wanting to let him go. "I love you, and you have no idea how much," he whispered as they pulled apart.
Twenty three: Love.
When John is suffering from boredom after his radio show, and no one is listening to him talk anymore, Phil seductively struts over, in nothing but his pink or "salmon" dress shirt, John is instantly aroused as the man sits on his lap. "I want you to want me..." he whispers.
Twenty four: Late.
Punk stretches his arms out, revealing he isn't wearing anything under his Layfield Energy tee, as he walks into John's home office and sits up on the desk, "Hey, what's for breakfast?" he yawns, looking over his busy lover. "It's lunch time, kitten. I've been waiting for you to wake up."
Twenty five: Save.
Punk silently sat beside John, his hands on his, waiting for him to say anything at all, but he hadn't. He could see the distance in his eyes, and it hadn't let up in a long while. When John finally looked back over, Phil could see the love, and need in his eyes; there just hadn't been any zest, or want, for life. Phil sighed softly and sank into John's arms, pressed against him close and feeling his stomach rise and fall with each uneasy breath. "Where do think you go you go when you..." John's voice whispers.
Twenty six: Leave.
Phil chuckles softly; knowing that John would have murdered him if he found out that he was riding the city bus. It hadn't been too far, and if he felt like it, he might have just been able to walk and call that his exercise for the day. John hadn't expected to be thrown up against the side of the building as he'd been leaving, lavished in his love's kisses. "Lets get out of here," John laughed.
Twenty seven: Hush.
Leaving the house on one of Phil's off days had been something he absolutely detested – but now that Layfield had a camera set up in the house, he could make out, as much as he wanted to during the break with his love, providing he kept silent off camera – which didn't always happen.
Twenty eight: Breathe.
John was lifeless on the floor when Phil walked in. His fingers jammed the buttons on the phone, and nearly ripped the emergency response's ear off before he brought John back to life himself.
Twenty nine: Shield.
JBL looks like a wet cat when he steps into the arena. Umbrella held close... over CM Punk, and only Punk. Punk giggles, telling John that he shouldn't have done that – because he had to dry off fast and get ready to go "commentate" his "fucking ass off but save some for" him.
John's walking backstage hurriedly; somethings nagging in his mind to check on his new beau; finding a particular superstar getting much too close with his boyfriend, who moves behind him immediately, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Layfield spits at the other man, interrupting a series of stuttering, turning on his heel and escorting his darling Punk out to the ring – after informing the man that he was fired.