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The bottle says Bloodlust.
Of course Drew found the one nail polish shade that matches the color of Seth's bruises, the inside of his mouth, the raw welt on Punk’s temple from where his boot came down too hard. Drew uncaps it—this little glass vial of violence made pretty—and pats his lap with his free hand.
“Give me your foot.”
Seth shifts against the pillows, legs bare, body still humming from the bath, muscles loose in a way they haven’t been in months. He should feel good. And he does. Sort of.
Drew is warm beneath his ankle. The brush drags a shimmery streak down the center of his big toe.
“This is silly,” Seth murmurs.
Drew doesn’t even look up. “It's not. Your feet are a mess.”
“You’re gonna ruin my gimmick.”
Drew leans in to blow gently across the nail like he’s blessing it. “Sweetheart, this is your gimmick. Betrayal dressed up in glitter.”
Seth turns his face into the pillow, hiding his traitorous little smile.
He likes the way that Drew makes a ritual of care out of carnage, like Seth isn't some vicious little monster who burned two legacies to the ground in thirty minutes flat, but instead something beautiful.
Still, beneath the silk robe, the soft blankets, the steam-warmed air…
He screwed Punk. And it wasn't collateral damage this time, but fully intentional.
Roman too, but that guilt is older. Familiar. He's turned it over so many times it's gone smooth in his hands. Roman's soul is tainted, same as his, and Seth no longer feels the need to apologize.
But Punk?
That guilt is jagged and sharp and sticks in his chest like broken glass. He hasn’t spoken the feeling out loud. He doubts that he needs to. It’s there every time Drew picks up another toe and cradles it between two fingers, painting with the steadiness of a man who doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answered.
Punk hasn’t texted.
Not that Seth expected him to. It's Drew's night—his turn. Custody, they call it. A joke none of them really laugh at anymore. Seth is Drew's for the week, and they all know what that means. He'd wrestled for Drew's approval. He'd come home to him.
Besides, Seth knows that Punk is pissed. He has every right to be. They've been working on it—the compartmentalizing thing—but feelings still get hurt. The one thing they've gotten better about is not letting things fester. Punk will be fine by the time Seth sees him tomorrow.
Hopefully.
He checks his phone anyway.
Drew finishes the second foot and reaches for a bottle of top coat. “You want sparkles?”
“God, no.”
“You sure? It'd match your jacket.”
Seth laughs before he can stop himself. “Fine. Fuck it.”
He’s being rebuilt in real time, and he knows it.
Stitched together from scraps of ash and ego, bathed and kissed and worshipped into something soft enough to hold again. Drew doesn’t force the issue. He just paints his nails and makes jokes about sparkle topcoat and wipes the guilt from Seth’s eyes with a tissue when it gets too heavy to carry.
The room smells like eucalyptus. His body smells like Drew’s soap.
“Do you think he’s okay?” Seth asks.
Drew doesn’t pause. Just strokes one final sparkly coat over his pinky toe and caps the bottle.
“He’s Punk,” he says. “He’s never okay.”
Seth closes his eyes.
He knows Drew’s right. He knows Punk can take it. He's taken worse, from better men, and kept going. Still—he can’t stop seeing the way his body folded. The collective gasp of the crowd. The looks of disbelief in their eyes.
He can't stop hearing Heyman's voice right before it all went to hell.
But right now, Drew’s wrapping a blanket around his legs. Tucking it in under his thighs. Sealing him up in a fleece cocoon, but leaving his feet exposed so the polish can dry.
“You were brilliant,” Drew says. “I've never been more proud.”
Of course he's proud. Drew's a sick fuck. He loves having blood on his hands and now he gets it without lifting a finger while his little attack dog does all the damage.
Drew cups his heel and brushes his thumb over the protrusion of Seth's ankle bone.
“You did what you had to and now you're untouchable.”
Seth wants to believe it.
He wants to forget the look on Punk’s face.
Instead, he stretches out his toes and watches them glint in the lamplight.
Bloodlust.
It suits him.