#gd writes

He doesn’t know them by their real name, only by their handle. And if anyone found out he had notifications enabled for an anonymous thirst account devoted solely to him, he’d never hear the end of it, but the facts are, he is one of the hottest guys on the planet, he is one of the best wrestlers alive, and it’s about damn time somebody appreciated him for it.

Plus, it’s such a nice ego boost to have someone retweeting his selfies, his merch, his televised appearances and his non-wrestling shows. Calling him gorgeous, calling him a king, wanting his dick inside them. He likes to read through some of their posts when his own appreciation for certain other hottest guys on the planet, best wrestlers alive, goes unnoticed. Unappreciated.

It’s thankless work, sometimes, being MJF’s devoted boyfriend, but then, he thinks, the course of true love never did run smooth.

He’s expecting to wait a little while, but it’s not even five minutes before he gets the ping. A new tweet.

It’s with that thought in mind that he grabs his phone. Heads to his bathroom, takes his shirt off. Figures out the best angle to show off his abs, pushes his shorts further down his hips, not quite into dick territory, but the bulge of his cock is visible under the fabric regardless. Puts on his best pout, snaps a few pictures, fucks around with the lighting a little, aaaand… perfect. Finds the best one, posts it up online.

[On my knees for you king 🤤🤤🤤👅 hottest wrestler alive!✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️]

There we go. That feels better. Nice little ego boost before bed, and—

Huh.

Something’s... off.

Something doesn’t quite look right.

Looks like he’s changed his icon—

Wait.

That’s—

That’s Max’s icon—

That’s Max’s icon, along with Max’s handle, Max’s name, and sure enough, one of Max’s tweets right underneath, neatly eviscerating some idiot who’d said all his matches were garbage—

Oh, no way.

No fucking way, that can’t—he can’t be—

He laughs, surprised and delighted. Runs to his bedroom, flops onto his stomach on his bed, kicking his legs in the air. He screengrabs the tweet because this is going to be gone in seconds, he knows it is. Refreshes Max’s twitter page, and yeah, sure enough—

His heart’s pounding in his chest as he navigates to his DMs. He’s never slid into these ones in particular before, doesn’t want to risk Max actually blocking him, but he thinks there’s no better time, even as he gets another notification on his phone, Max sending his thirst post to the right account this time.

He sends a copy of the screenshot, cropped to include Max’s handle.

[IT WAS YOU THE WHOLE TIME? 😳🥵💦😈😈😈😍]

He’s barely even sent it before he sees the dots indicating Max composing his reply. Wonders what he’s going to get—

[Fuck you fuxk you fuck yuo I fucking hate you Caster I will kill you!!!]

About five seconds after that, he’s blocked.

Hah, whatever he says. He knows the truth now. Max wants him. Wants his dick, thinks he’s a king, has secretly been just as devoted to him as he’s been to Max this whole time.

“—I mean, they cheated to win, pal, it isn’t fair—” he says, and Max has to really fight the urge to remind him of how the Acclaimed got the titles in the first place, because he’s trying to be nice to him for once, take him out to cheer him up, be a… ugh, a friend.

But apparently Caster is more content to vent about the ass boys, and how their body glitter was so distracting, and how Colten’s hair sucks, and Max just looks over despairingly at the monorail, because if he’d come at a sensible time of year he’d at least be able to sit down while Caster vented. Contemplate jumping out into the river or something to distract himself.

“Quit dwelling on it,” he says eventually, when there’s finally, finally, a blissful moment of silence. “You lost, big deal. You have a rematch clause, go challenge them at Revolution and stop whining to me about it.”

He feels like he deserves credit here for being far nicer than he could have been. For not laughing in Caster’s face that they got beat by the fucking Gunn Club, cheating or not, but instead, his kindness is being repaid by being forced to listen to Caster complain.

He should be on his knees thanking Max for deigning to bring him out to the fucking zoo, in February. Not talking about Austin and Colten, the thought of which is just making him angry, because he has his own problems with them and they could be bitching together, but the fact is, he doesn’t want Caster to complain, he wants Caster to—

“Let’s go see the lions,” he says abruptly. “Maybe we can watch them eat a goat, and pretend it’s Austin or something.”

He sees a minute twitch of Caster’s lips, which is more than good enough for him.

They’re a little too early to watch the lions eat, but they’re awake, at least, and the couple of cubs they have are playing in a way that makes him think of Piper and the way she flops down on her side when he comes home, and he thinks once again that Caster should be thankful he’s out here with all the poors, surrounded by animals, in February. 

He buys them both a coffee after the lions, because his hands are cold and he doesn’t have his gloves. Even lets Caster order some horrific sounding drink with far too much sugar and a colour not found in nature.

It perks Caster up out of his funk a little more, though. Enough to get him dragging Max around the next few exhibits, from the giraffes, to the gorillas, then to the reptiles, avoiding the bug house at Max’s insistence, but he’s still not completely back to normal.

Normal for Caster, at least, which is being a filthy pervert, but it’s a start. Not that Max wants to be bombarded with his attention again, but it’s just… 

He’s doing Caster a favour. That’s all it is.

He thinks he’s done well enough by the time they’ve done a full loop of the park. They’ve seen just about everything they could, including a couple macaques getting frisky, to which point Caster had finally said something sexual, and Max had thought, great. Job done, time to go home.

His feet are aching by the time they start the walk back to where he’d parked, and he’s thinking about blisters, which means he only half-hears when Caster says something to him.

“Thanks for the date, pal.”

He stops completely in the middle of the path. Looks at Caster, because he sounds… happy. Really happy. For the first time today, for the first time since Wednesday.

And he doesn’t sound the way he does when he does his fake flirting routine, which is the only reason Max doesn’t say “Definitely not a date, buddy,” before kicking him in the dick, walking off and leaving him here, but…

Today he’s being nice. Today he’s being a friend.

So this can be a date, maybe. Just this once. Just today.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, leaning in close. He watches Caster’s eyes widen comically before he presses his lips to his cheek. Just a chaste touch, even as his heart is racing in his throat, and he kinda expects Caster to try something, pull him in, kiss him properly. But he doesn’t, he just stands there looking like his birthday’s come early, so he slides his hand into Caster’s and squeezes as a reward for not getting fucking weird about it. 

It has the added benefit of letting him physically pull Caster to make him walk faster because it’s not getting any warmer out here and Max would really like to get back to his apartment and his cat, thank you.

“You tell anyone about any of this and they will never find all the pieces of your body,” Max says once they’re back at the car, because he still has his reputation to think about. Not that anyone would believe he willingly spent the day with Caster, but it never hurts to put the fear of Max into him.

He doesn’t think about how cold his hand suddenly feels without Caster’s in it as he reaches into his pocket for the keyfob to unlock it.

“Don’t worry, pal. Your secret that you’re really a sweetheart deep down is safe with me,” Caster says. “Besides, what’s to tell? I barely even got a kiss from you.”

Max feels his stomach jump as he glances over at Caster, leaning against his car in a way nobody else would be allowed to get away with. Looking at him with his eyes half-lidded, a smirk playing at his lips. Now he sounds more like he usually does. Now his words feel loaded with intent. Like he’s daring Max to kiss him properly this time.

And… it’s still technically a date, so… 

He reaches up to cup Caster’s cheek. Leans in close again, and this time Caster’s eyes fall shut, and Max hears the slight hitch in his breath before he stops breathing entirely.

He can hear his own heartbeat, racing in his chest.

“Don’t push your luck,” he whispers, before pushing Caster away.

And Caster laughs, gets in the passenger seat, and Max graciously lets him buckle himself in before starting the car, but he doesn’t say anything else, so Max thinks maybe, when they get to Caster’s place, before he gets out of the car, maybe he’ll end the date properly.

He doesn’t know how he ends up on a beach, his sneakers crunching against the pebbles. It smells like a port, in a way that makes him feel a little at home despite being on the opposite side of the country. There are lights flickering on the other side of the bay, and the waves lap gently against the shore, a quiet swash that he tries to focus on until it’s the only thing in his mind, washing everything else away. Calming, just by virtue of giving him nothing else to think about.

The footsteps coming closer on the stones don’t register until they come to a stop right next to him. Until there’s a shadow in his peripheral vision, and in the half-light of pre-dawn, he can just about make out heavily tattooed arms.

He’s too physically tired for this fight right now.

“Little cold to be out in short sleeves,” he says. The figure folds his arms across his chest, and Max shivers involuntarily in his tracksuit because it’s cold out here, on the waterfront, in fucking March. “But then, you spent, what, the whole week in ice baths, right?”

“I’d feign surprise that you’ve been keeping tabs on me, but… well, I saw your scrum performance. Nice look with the towel, by the way. They don't have muffins up here?” Punk says lightly.

Max scoffs, shoving his hands into the sleeves of his tracksuit. It’s not even that cold, Long Island gets worse, but he feels it more today. “You don’t get to this level of peak physical conditioning eating that sugary carb-heavy bullshit.”

Punk looks at him. He can’t see it, but he can feel it, feel his eyes on him.

Punk doesn’t say anything, but with his presence, it’s impossible to focus on the sound of the waves any more. The buzzing in his head returns, which means he needs a new sound to drown it out, and luckily, he has a lot of experience doing that with his voice.

“How’d you find me, anyway? You stalking me, now? That what you’re doing with all that fucking free time?”

What he means is, “Why are you here?”

What he means is, “How did you get up here so quickly?”

“The aura of desperation was just too potent to keep me away, I guess,” Punk says, kneeling to a crouch and picking up one of the larger pebbles surrounding him. It’s flat and angled well, and when Punk throws it with the intent to skim it, it hits the water and sinks like… well, like a stone, and Max can’t help his laugh.

“I could skim a rock better than that,” he cackles. “Then again, I’ve just proved I can do pretty much anything better, huh? Better sixty minute iron man match, better job at tearing off the Dragon’s wings, better championship reign full stop.”

The urge to keep him talking is as strong as ever. Keep him here. Keep him in sight, so he can’t fucking—crawl back to that pool he’s been marinating in.

“All doing your most elaborate impersonation attempt of me, yet. Should I start warning my neighbours in case you rock up at my house with a couple full sleeves of ink?” Punk grabs another rock, and this time, it flits across the surface three times before finally falling beneath. “You gonna start bleaching your hair, swear off the wine for good?”

Max pulls a face at the thought. He doesn’t even drink that much, but the thought of going fully straight-edge, the thought of wrecking his hair with dye, of being as sanctimonious as this asshole—

“You’re acting like nobody’s ever paid homage to someone who’s not around no more.”

He feels the weight of Punk’s gaze on him again. The sky’s getting lighter, fractionally, and he can see in enough definition that the skin on Punk’s arms is prickling with the chill.

“Am I? Not around any more?”

Max finally turns his head to look at him properly. Punk doesn’t look disappointed, or angry, or amused, just… like he’d asked an honest question. Like he’d asked for the time.

“Are you?” Max asks, answering his question with one of his own.

Punk smiles and ducks his head. Max looks away, stomach flipping. Watches a boat make its slow way across the bay, until the waves it leaves in its wake reach the shoreline.

“Guess not,” Punk says, after a long while. Long enough that Max has almost forgotten what his question was.

It’s the longest time he’s spent with Punk in any kind of quiet. Neither of them putting hands on the other. It feels wrong, and he’s still too exhausted to fight him properly, but maybe he can break this unsettling quiet, bring things a little closer to normality.

“You know, I wouldn’t have to, if you just—”

He cuts himself off because whatever he meant to say, it wasn’t that.

“If I just…?” Punk parrots.

Max shifts on his feet, stones crunching underneath, giving away his sudden nerves. 

“Come on, Max,” Punk says, needling him the way he’s so good at. “What are you proposing?”

God, he sounds like he actually wants to fucking hear it.

He turns his head to glance at Punk for a moment. It’s getting lighter, now, the sky turning a deep, beautiful blue, which means he sees every facet of the expression on Punk’s face.

Contentment. Like he’s comfortable here. At peace. With Max.

He bites the bullet. Takes a deep breath.

“Come back,” he says, heart pounding in his throat, and he can only be thankful he doesn’t stumble over his words. “And then maybe I won’t have to play your part any more.”

And Punk’s only answer is another secretive little smile. Max looks at him a moment longer before turning back to the bay, gazing out across the water as the sky goes from blue, to pink, to orange, to gold.

Punk continues to stand there, looking out over the water when Max turns and leaves, when the ache in his knee starts to return.