Work Text:
In a city like Los Angeles, it’s hard to say that the city ever quiets down, whether it be the blaring of cars outside, the conversations that remain in motion regardless of time, or just the soft whistle of wind blowing through the city. The night sky would’ve enveloped the whole city in darkness if it wasn’t for the amount of light everywhere on the streets: the open stores, the windows giving away the number of people still awake, the lamp posts casting their light onto all the passersby below… “The Entertainment Capital of the World,” it’s called, and it doesn’t end at just movies and performances – to anyone who’s never stepped foot in a city, Los Angeles could send them stumbling trying to keep up.
It is midnight in Los Angeles, and you and CM Punk couldn’t care less about the bustling streets when the two of you had each other’s presence to bask in.
You were currently being held safely in his arms, which were sore from his match earlier this evening. Your back rested against his firm chest, and his chin lay on top of the crown of your head. He was in bed with nothing but his grey sweatpants on, too lazy to change into anything more after his shower. Your hands softly stroked the divots of his hands, loosely tracing around the ink on his skin. Your movements gradually went from lazily following the lines to vaguely running circles around the knuckles. The two of you were reaching the point in the night where staying awake was becoming increasingly harder. The rhythm of his breathing felt like a metronome that lulled you into sleep, your eyes fluttering open and closed. You couldn’t see Punk's expression right now, but he must’ve felt the same wave of tiredness since he hasn’t moved or fidgeted in a couple of minutes.
“Do you have a match tomorrow?” you mustered out, not as concerned with an answer, mostly just wanting to hear him speak. He hummed in response before saying, “No match, jus’ promo.” His voice came out as more of a sleepy slur of words than a fully thought-out answer, but his tone remained as sweet and soft as he always is with you.
It’s not ironic, more so just surprising to people when they see how Punk treats you. Not that anybody would assume he treats you badly, but when the other wrestlers who work with CM Punk (or just know him in the slightest), they’d assume his tough and bold nature carries into everything about him. You suppose it’s easy to assume since his life oozes with conflict right down to his career, but despite that, you know that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He treats you like you’re porcelain, like you’re an heirloom worth millions, like you’re god’s gift to Earth. It’s not out of a belief that he’s better or stronger than you; it’s out of pure, unabashed respect and admiration. He sometimes takes you backstage during gigs, and every time someone sees Punk interact with his coworkers and then you, it’s like night and day. He speaks very matter-of-factly backstage, like he knows what he wants to hear and he will get that answer regardless of who he’s talking to. He could be discussing moves and set-ups with his opponent, and then turn to you, and like someone sucked all the venom that laced his sentences, his icy tone will instantly turn soft and sweet like a marshmallow. You don’t even note the change since you’re so used to it.
You don’t go backstage as much anymore simply because you hate having to see him lose – the stage aspect does not make it any less of a bummer for you – but you look forward to the recaps he gives you when he meets back up with you. Sometimes he’ll take you to go get food so that he can scarf it down and get back all the energy he lost, but usually he just comes home and crashes while you nag him to go shower.
That familiar moment happened roughly 30 minutes ago, and even though both of you probably would benefit from going to bed by now, he was cooped up all day in a venue that is far too distant from the hotel. Now that he’s back with you, you don’t wanna end the time you two have together.
“Had a match today,” Punk started, moving an arm from your waist to rub his tired eyes. “Me ‘nd Rollins… I lost, but it’s settin’ me up for a big win next week..” You listen in, turning to face him while still resting yourself on him. You could smell the hotel bodywash on him, giving him a fresh smell with a faint lemony citrus note. His tired expression lacked any sort of threatening aura that he always exuded in the ring, with his eyes fighting to stay half-open. “Y’should come backstage tomorrow… Rhodes was talkin’ to me about you.”
“Hm?” you perk up, tilting your head up at him. “About what?”
“Something about not seein’ your face in a while.”
You think for a moment before answering. “I’ll go. I barely saw you today, it’ll make up for lost time.” He smiled, holding you as tightly as he could with his limbs heavy with fatigue.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “Did’ya do anything while I was gone?”
“Mm, nothin’ much,” you responded, resting your head to sit on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat thrum in a relaxed rhythm. “Walked around the city a little. I probably hit a million steps.” You sighed and made yourself more comfortable against him, latching onto his body for all of his warmth.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Where’d you go?”
“Some streets… I went to a couple shops,” you vaguely mumble, too tired to conjure up any details besides the bare minimum. “Ask me in the morning, I can’t remember.”
“Maybe tomorrow we can walk around the city together,” Punk says. “I don’t gotta be there ‘till 4. I missed you too much back there.” Your eyes are far too heavy to look up at him, but you smile to yourself and respond with, “I’d like that.”
You could relive a moment like this for the rest of your life. The two of you, sitting in the peaceful quiet, too comfortable to move or speak or even dare to interrupt the serenity right now. Both of you breathing in the same calm rhythm, arms wrapped around the other, Bodies entangled like a ball of yarn. The hotel room is completely still and silent, the only noise being the commotion outside and some faint music from another room.
You could feel his hand move to your face, with his calloused fingertips going along your jaw to your cheekbone to your temple before resting on the top of your head, aimlessly tracing circles. His hands were rough, but his gentle nature offset their coarseness.
Eventually, you fought your lethargy enough to turn your head up and look at him. He was gazing right at you already, his eyes seemingly full of adoration. The two of you didn’t say anything, but when he’s looking at you like that, with one hand holding your waist and the other moving to cup your cheek, you knew what he was thinking.
You don’t remember who closed the distance, but eventually, your lips were on his, and you didn’t dare move away. His lips felt soft against your own, melding to yours like a puzzle piece. It felt almost Shakespearean how tender this moment felt; the pure, unadulterated love taking over and encasing the two of you in a haze like an insect encased in amber. You were so engrossed in the kiss that you didn’t realize both of his hands were holding your cheeks, with your own hands resting on his shoulders. You were fighting sleep a moment ago, but suddenly you felt rejuvenated just enough to kiss him back.
When the two of you pulled away for air, your eyes immediately met again. His facial expression had nothing but intense awe, like he was a pilgrim in the presence of a holy saint. The only sound the two of you let out was your breathing, but no words had to be exchanged. You knew the three words on his tongue already, and he knew you had the same ones on yours.
As you softly dozed off against him and gave in to unconsciousness, you still felt Punk’s lips press softly against your forehead.