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Drew McIntyre carefully lifts the microphone to his lips, locking eyes with none other than CM Punk. When his eyes lock with Punk’s, it’s like the world fades away, and the only thing he knows is CM Punk. “I don’t hate you, Punk.” Drew’s rugged, Scottish voice says, the words falling freely from his throat. “You… complete me.”
CM Punk bravely breaks eye contact, rolling his head back on his shoulders as Drew sits on the announcement table. As soon as his eyes leave Drew’s, the Scottish Warrior is suddenly reminded that there are thousands of people in the arena watching them, and millions more watching them at home. The rest of the segment is a blur, and Drew slowly uncrosses his legs, sliding off the table so he can head backstage. He sends a smile and a wink Michael Cole’s way, a silent greeting and departure.
Drew walks around the ring and listens to the fans babble about his segment with Punk, hearing one too many voices saying the two of them should kiss (although he’s unsure if the fans are saying so or if the small voice in the back of his mind is saying it for him).
When he gets backstage, he doesn’t bother saying his hellos to Triple H or Michael Hayes or anyone in gorilla, instead choosing to grumble his way back to the locker room so he can get home to his cats. And his wife. His wife, whom he knows and loves. His wife, whom he swore to love through thick and thin. His wife and their cats.
He shakes his head in an attempt to rid CM Punk’s hold on his amygdala and to remind himself of his lovely wife, which proves to be futile. He slams his large hand on the locker room door and shoves it open, wanting nothing more than to stop being in the same building as CM Punk.
His grumbling and huffing come to a stop, however, when he sees CM Punk sitting on the locker room bench, scrolling on his phone. The Chicago native looked up from his phone when the door opened, eyes wide in surprise and shock at the man standing in front of him.
“Can I help you?” Punk’s voice makes its way to Drew’s ears. Drew feels his face warm and grumbles, walking past him to retrieve his duffel bag.
Drew grabs his bag and quickly heads for the door. Before he’s able to get one foot out, however, Punk’s tattooed hand grabs his wrist, halting him in his tracks. Drew’s breath catches in his throat, and he hopes that his hair covers most of his face, not wanting CM Punk to see how red his face flushed.
CM Punk’s voice has trouble leaving his mouth, his mind focusing on how his fingers barely wrap around Drew’s wrist. Eventually, he finds his voice, clears his throat, and says, “Did’ya mean everything you said out there? How– how I complete you?”
Drew inhales sharply, the warmth from Punk’s hand around his wrist making its way up his arm to his chest and into his heart, which is beating harder than it does after he finishes an intense workout. He slowly nods his head yes. Yes, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since the creative team pitched this feud. Yes, I’ve thought about all the times our skin touched whenever we fought. Yes, you complete me.
Those words would be left unsaid, however, despite how badly they wanted to leap from his throat and wrap around Phil’s cortex. Drew pushed them down and prayed that they wouldn’t betray him the next time he spoke.
With his back still partially turned to Phil, Drew clears his throat and swallows his nerves. “It just felt like the right thing to say.”
“Hey,” Phil says sternly, making Drew’s heart pound. “Look at me.”
Drew follows his instructions like a pathetic puppy dog, looking down at him with even more pathetic puppy dog eyes. Phil looks into them, his eyes trailing all over Drew’s face, spending just a second too long staring at the younger’s lips. He closes his eyes softly and inhales, the smell of body oil and campfire infiltrating his senses until his whole body seems to scream Drew’s name.
“You, uh-” Phil coughs, trying to dispel his nerves. “You… complete me, too, y’know.”
Drew’s eyes seem to light up at that, resembling a dog being asked if it wants a treat. “Really?” Drew’s usually brash voice comes out soft, nearly a whisper.
Phil nods, his hand finally falling from Drew’s wrist, making them both feel unnervingly cold. “You’re my muse, Drew.” He takes the hand that was holding Drew’s wrist and rubs his neck with it. “I believe we’re wrestling soulmates, and if things were different- if you and I were, y’know…” Phil trails off, hoping Drew understands what he means to say. “I think we would be good together.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Drew’s inner monologue finally escapes him. “From the moment you returned to WWE, seeing you make your entrance here for the first time in ten years, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I think the creative team saw how I reacted to your return and pitched this storyline to mess with me, or somethin’.”
Drew takes a deep breath in, feeling the weight lift off his chest. As the weight of his words sinks in, he finally realizes what he said and his eyes widen, his mouth opening to take his words back before Phil cuts him off.
“Oh thank God, at least you feel the same.” Phil breathes his words out and runs the hand that was rubbing his neck through his hair, tugging at it slightly to remind himself that this is real. That he’s standing in front of someone seven years younger than him, listening to him half-confess his feelings for him.
Drew smiles, his teeth shining brightly in Phil’s eyes. “You're obsessed with me, aren't ya, Punk?”
Phil laughs, looking down at the floor. “If you consider me counting down the minutes until the next segment with us as obsessed, then yeah, I guess I'm obsessed with you.” He looks back up at Drew and smiles at him, his eyes softening as he takes in his lovesick face. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Drew steps away from the door and closes it behind him, leaving him and Phil inside the locker room. Drew’s burly hands desperately cup Phil’s cheeks and pull him to his lips.
The kiss is soft, so soft. Phil instantly melts into it and wraps one hand around one of Drew’s wrists while the other one rests lightly on his waist. When Phil tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue softly makes its way into Drew’s mouth, making Drew groan into the kiss. Their lips smack and twist around the other’s, all of their pent-up feelings making themselves known in this moment, making up for lost time they didn't know they had.
When they part for just a split second, Phil moves the hand on Drew’s wrist to tangle in his hair and pull him back into him, much to Drew’s delight. This kiss is all teeth and tongue, even more feelings coming to the surface as Drew’s hands trail down Phil’s body, reaching under the hem of his shirt to rest his hands on his bare waist.
Just as Phil is about to reach down and take his shirt off to feel more of Drew, the locker room door opens, making them part harshly and quickly act as if they both hadn't had the best kiss in their entire lives.
“Whoa…” Seth’s eyes are wide as he takes in Drew’s messy hair and Phil’s shirt halfway off his ribcage. “Am I interrupting something?”
Drew nonchalantly wipes his lips and picks up his bag from the ground, trying his best to act like he wasn’t having a sexuality crisis at this very moment. He shakes his head in response to Seth’s question and shoves past him, trying to leave his feelings behind.
Now, Drew walks to his rental car and heads to the airport, ready to see his cats. And his wife. His mind replays the kiss like a song stuck in his head as he goes through TSA and boards his plane and he just hopes that none of his fans come up to him. He knew he couldn't put on his Scottish Psychopath persona in time to act as if everything was fine.
As he sits on the plane, he tells himself that whatever he has with CM Punk is something that won't last long. He tells himself that nothing could ever come from a fling with CM Punk. Their wives are the ones waiting at home.
That night, Drew crawls into bed with his wife. She cradles her head into his chest, and despite how much he reminds himself that he’s with her and that she's real, the only thought that helps him sleep is imagining that she's CM Punk.
He's screwed.