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punk’s upper body was slick and slightly sticky from the beer poured over him less than an hour earlier. worse than that, the blood from his busted-up forehead had dyed his bleach-blond hair a deep maroon. the beat-red pattern of chain links strewn across his back would undoubtedly grow into nasty bruises in the next few days.
overall, he looked wrecked.
the ride to his hotel was one spent with punk groaning each time he shifted against the seat. there was no doubt that he was smearing blood along your headrest, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. not with him hurting like this. he initially planned to ride with some of the other guys, but you knew he'd just wind up passed out on the floor of his room once the adrenaline died down.
you could feel his eyes on you as you made your way across town—opening and closing his mouth a few times as if to say something, but the words never left his mouth. what was there to say? did he have to apologize to you every time he let himself get roughed up like this? the dog-collar match with raven was one he willingly walked into, and one you were fully aware of. there was absolutely no reason for you to be feeling how you felt. was it anger? was it fear? whatever it may be, it was unnecessary.
“are you mad at me or somethin’?”
your hands gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter as you willed yourself to keep your eyes on the road. you didn’t look at him, nor did you answer him. not to be petty, but because you weren’t quite sure how you felt. maybe your choice to remain silent was your way of preventing yourself from seeming more concerned than a friend should be.
punk huffed, and shifted again to lean against the passenger door. only then, when you knew he wouldn’t be looking at you to read your expression, did you glance at him. blond strands stuck to his temples and cheeks, blood beginning to crust along his hairline, and a small (but deep) gash on his forehead. he’d remained shirtless after his match, using the shirt he’d planned to change into to rub off as much blood as he could as to not completely ruin your passenger seat. that thoughtfulness even through his pain was enough to have your heart aching a little bit, but not enough to shake this nasty feeling you had.
you had been worried. it was only a few minutes into the match before he started bleeding, and it only got worse as time went on. from your seat in the back corner of the venue, you listened to the crowd cheer as punk was launched into the barriers. you felt a little sick watching the blood flow from his head as the crowd chanted for raven, but you knew he knew what he was doing.
he knew how the match would pan out, and that should’ve been all the reassurance you needed.
as you turned into the hotel parking garage, you mentally prepared yourself for the questioning that was soon to come. admittedly, you had never been this… reserved with him before. there were obviously a lot of feelings you weren’t exactly honest about, but never had you ever completely shot down conversation with him.
pulling into a spot, you quickly turn the car off and make your way around to his side. opening his door, you lean down to grab your bag that was sat at his feet. before you could step back, he grabbed your arm, keeping you bent at eye-level. only then did you meet his eyes, his grip leaving you no other choice.
punk gave a shaky exhale, "can you jus’ tell me why you’re acting like this?” he looked defeated. here he was, exhausted from tonight’s match, and yet you couldn’t muster up even a lie to ease his mind right now. “let’s talk upstairs,” you sighed, shaking off his grip and stepping back to guide him out of your car and up to his hotel room.
⋆˙✮
you were right, he did damn near collapse once he entered his room. turning your back to him to lock the door, he let out a groan as he leaned against the closest wall for support. when you turned back to him, punk had just managed to kick his shoes off before finally sliding to the floor. you followed suit, your shoulder pressed against his with every breath, and each inhale brought the scent of blood. when you glanced at him, you found punk already staring at you with his head resting on his arms.
“i was worried,” you admitted, “i know you know what you’re doing, i know that this is your job and you understand it all far better than i do, but i still worry.” you felt hot; you felt like you admitted to more than just friendly concern. “it was… i just didn’t enjoy watching you get busted up like that. you were bleeding like crazy from the jump.” punk hummed, offering a tired smirk, “y’ could’ve said that sooner… had me thinking i did something wrong over here.” you smiled along with him, giving a dramatic eye-roll as you bumped him with your elbow, “yeah, well. needed to make you sweat a little after making me watch you bleed all over the mat.”
the air felt lighter when he laughed, and maybe that's what gave you the confidence to reach over and brush his bloodied hair from his face. when you pulled away, your hand was a matching shade of red. "i'm thinking it's time to wash that off, punker," you sighed. standing up, you heard punk groan for the umpteenth time that night as you offered him a hand. he took your hand but remained folded on the ground, "i don’t think i have the energy for all that tonight.”
you hummed, thumbing over his knuckles before reaching down to help him up. he stood, but quickly slumped against you. his bloody forehead pushed into your neck as his hands gripped onto your hips for balance. each breath came out ragged and warm against your chest, your hands quickly found his biceps in attempt to keep him upright.
“hah,” punk breathily laughed, “jus’ help me back down… ‘m gettin’ you all bloody.”
you ignored him, instead wiggling your arms under his to wrap around his torso, shuffling the two of you into the bathroom behind you. punk winced when you switched the light on without warning after managing to push him up onto the counter. the harsh lighting did him no favors, but you didn’t mind. he found a way to look pretty despite the bloody mess raven made of him. he leaned back, propped by his arms while he watched you run the shower and dig through the stack of towels under the sink for smaller rags. when you rose up, you cradled an armful of white rags—soon to be stained. punk looked at you with a face full of confusion, "angel, 'm seriously not sure i'll be vertical long enough to get all this—" he dramatically motioned to his head, "—off." you side-eyed him as you picked up some of the travel-sized soaps from the counter, "i'm not making you do anything, you're just gonna lean your head into the tub so i can wash your hair. or did you want to explain the bloody bed to the receptionist tomorrow?"
that was apparently all the convincing punk needed. you quickly found yourself kneeled beside him and pressed into his side as you used the shower head to wet his hair. there was intimacy in the way you willingly took care of him; washing away the evidence of violence, gently scrubbing until the water ran clear. you didn’t comment on the way he moaned when you massaged the shampoo into his scalp, and in turn he pretended not to notice you were pressed closer than necessary. you rinsed and repeated with the conditioner and ran back out to the entryway to grab a brush from your bag.
he made it all too easy to feel this way, some loving feeling that couldn’t quite be described with words. whatever it was, whatever spell he cast on you, it made you into someone gentle.
once his hair faded back to an obnoxious yellow, you wrapped a towel around his head. “you’re looking like a mom right now,” you joked, to which punk dramatically rolled his eyes. assuming you were done, he moved to stand but you pressed his shoulders back down. you guided his back to lean off of the tub, and began wetting the rags you grabbed earlier. punk found himself confused yet again; he opened his mouth to question you, but the words left his brain when he felt the warm rag drag across his back. he could’ve cried right there beside you, but screwed his eyes shut before the sting of tears could begin. you didn’t notice, too focused on softly wiping the dried blood from his skin.
punk thought he saw heaven there on the floor of his cheap hotel bathroom — some angel from above, one he certainly didn’t deserve, doting on him like he was something special. and maybe that’s what he was, what they were. something more than just platonic. something more than romantic. something special.