A/N: REUPLOADED FIC. Yup. Because I am still planning on continuing this. Didn't realize that I posted this last year in Punk's birthday. And so I decided to publish this again at the same day. Reviews are welcome!

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. If I did, they would have been together a long time ago.

People are so easy to read. They're simply predictable, like one's every movement has a certain description tag floating around him. A flick of a finger, a tilt of the head, they all mean something. That's why it's so easy to manipulate people; to make them do what he wants them to do. It's like he's spurting out this pheromone that makes people fall for him. An instant brainwash, he likes to put it. And almost all the people he has met had fallen into his control. He's able to read almost all of their actions. Almost all of them.

Except for one.

"Hey kid, you want to be on a PPV?"

Punk paces around the room, a can of Diet Pepsi trapped in his right hand. Back and forth he goes, walking around like he's never been uneasy in his life. A sigh escapes his lips, tongue clicking every now and again. He doesn't know what else to do so he approaches the window and slides the curtains open, the open view of the Chicago night sky hitting his eyes. At least this makes him less impatient than how he is feeling at the moment. 'Cause seriously. He's the type of guy who doesn't like to wait.

Seconds later, there's a knock on the door and this time, the unemployed WWE Champion lets out a sigh of relief. Finally, his head shouts in a mock Rock-voice as he walks to the door. He swings it open and finds the pizza delivery guy on the other side.

Punk glances at the clock, narrowing his tired eyes when he sees it's almost three in the morning. Not speaking a word, he turns to the delivery guy, snatching the pizza box from his hands and throwing twenty bucks in the man's palms. Then he closed the door, not even looking at the guy's reaction for slamming the door in his face.

Placing the box on the table, there's another knock on the door and Punk sighs impatiently. Seems the guy didn't understand that he didn't want the change to his twenty bucks. Feeling a little bit irritated, he opens the door again.

"Dude, just keep the change, would you?"

"What? You paying for hookers now, Punk?"

The familiar voice makes Punk lift his head up in surprise. There's no doubt about it; that voice belongs to the former owner of the WWE Championship belt. John fucking I'm-always-a-happy-guy Cena. Just then, a sudden curling sensation twists inside Punk as he stares at his sudden visitor's face, and he doesn't really have an idea why. Although he's pretty sure that he wants to punch the stupid smile off the man's face, even if it had only been twenty-four hours since he had laid his eyes on John Cena's ridiculous mug.

"What are you doing here?" Punk asks, crossing his arms on his chest. Cena calmly leans on the door frame and continues to grin like a douche.

"I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to see you."

In an instant, Punk's eyebrows rise in humor. "Okay, so let me get this straight. You flew from Minnesota back to Chicago just to see me?"

"It's a long ride," the older man replies with a shrug. "Wanted to see if it's worth it."

This time, Punk's mouth hangs open in disbelief. Only an idiot would actually waste his time on spending hundreds of dollars for plane tickets just to see the guy who took his title. Then again, Cena has always been an idiot. Other than that, Cena's out of his fucking mind.

"So you got what you wanted. You got to see me, now scram before I kick your ass again."

It's normal to expect that John will refuse and forcibly enter Punk's apartment, but instead, the Massachusetts native nods without hesitation and turns around. Punk's hands fall to his sides when he sees John walk away.

"Are you a goddamn idiot?" Punk bellows in sudden anger and then John stops, turning his head to the side so Punk can see the side of his face. "You wasted money just to see me shoo you away? You're not even gonna try to steal the belt from me?"

"I told you I only wanted to see you," the older man answers, tipping his head to the side. "And you defeated me so you have the right to own that belt."

"Alright, that's it," Punk impatiently calls out, raking his hair with his fingers. "Get in here. Have a seat."

The former champion smugly looks at him, then asks, "You sure?"

Another sigh from Punk. He really is an idiot. "Get your ass in here, you son of a bitch."

"Geez, Punk, you got a dirty mouth," Cena murmurs as he obeys Punk's orders and shakes his head in amusement. A confused frown plays across the younger man's brows as he watches John get inside his apartment. What in the world does this guy really want from him? Surely John's not serious about 'just wanting to see him'. There's something else and Punk knows it.

"So?" The Straight-Edge savior asks as he closes the door behind him. "What the hell do you need?"

A sheepish, dimpled grin spreads across John's face and he kind of turns away. "I need a place to stay for the night."

"You didn't rent a hotel room when you came here?" Punk asks incredulously. And somehow it pisses him off that John continues to smile.

"I left my things with some of the guys, including money," John replies, lifting his shoulders. "I didn't expect I'd stay longer here 'cause I was only planning on seeing you then going."

Punk rolls his eyes, his arms dropping once more. He lets out a frustrated sigh and walks to the table where the pizza box is. Opening it up and picking up a slice, he points a finger at John and bossily orders him. "You're sleeping on the couch."

"What?" John asks, watching Punk as he slumps on the couch, stretching out his legs and placing the pizza box on the coffee table and when John didn't move, the younger man turns his head back, popping a pizza slice in between his teeth.

"I'm not some heartless guy, John. And I don't think you'll find a motel or a hotel that will let you in this late."

"That's nice of you, thanks," the older man says, quite surprised with Punk's change in behavior. Even Punk is somehow bewildered with his own attitude. He didn't expect he'd grow soft on Cena.

"Where's the couch?"

"I'm sitting on it," Punk replies indifferently and continues to change the channel on the flat screen TV in front of him. Though his head is focused forward, he can feel John's presence coming from behind. It somehow makes the hair on the back of his neck stand but he honestly doesn't know why.

"How am I going to sleep if you're occupying half of the couch?" John asks again and Punk rolls his eyes once more. Why in the world did he let a child in a body of a 34-year-old man inside his apartment anyway?

"Why don't you just sit down on the fucking couch and watch the game with me before thinking about sleeping? Oh, and while you're there, go to the kitchen and get me a can of Diet Pepsi."

There is silence from the other man and Punk actually thinks that he offended the guy, but then he sees him from the corner of his eye, turning around and proceeding to the kitchen with a low whisper of, "Why are you so grumpy?"

"Why are you so annoying?" Punk counters, murmuring like a ten-year-old before taking another bite of his pizza. From where he's sitting he hears the clanging of the door of the fridge opening and a small, sharp intake of breath from the older man. His face breaks into a laugh as he waits for Cena to come out of the kitchen and he turns behind him just to see the man's reaction.

Indeed, John comes out of the kitchen, a can of Diet Pepsi in his hand and a confused but incredulous look on his face. It's an absolutely precious sight. "Dude, my belt is inside the fridge!"

"Okay, one, that is my belt, and two, I think I like it where it is."

He hears John sigh and it makes him snigger on his seat. He didn't really intend to keep the belt in the fridge. He just wanted to take a picture of it and tweet about it. But he completely forgot about taking it out and somehow, he's not regretting it. In fact he's thankful that he forgot to.

The older man takes his seat beside Punk and places the can on the coffee table. Then he leans back, making himself comfortable on the couch and it distracts Punk a little bit, though he doesn't know why. Maybe it's because he's not really used to having company in this kind of hour. Or maybe because this is the closest distance he's had with the other guy. Forcing himself to turn his focus away from Cena, he finally finds the game and he leans back as well, sighing deeply.

And then, silence falls and time continues to turn from seconds to minutes. They are sitting so quiet that Punk already thought John is asleep. That's why he turns his head to the older man and his heart skips a beat in surprise when he finds John staring back at him.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Punk asks, turning away, fighting the urge to place a hand on his chest. Instead, he leans forward as if he's concentrating on the game.

"Can you stop with the 'F' word already?" John says, amusement coloring his tone. And then his voice drops and he leans forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees. "Just so you know, I'm not fired anymore."

"Yeah, I saw the replay. You even called out my name out there."

Casually Punk glances at John and he almost groans when he sees him smiling again. What is it with this guy and his habit of smiling like he's always trying to score women? Not able to take it anymore, Punk looks away again then sighs.

"…it's true, you know."

"What is?" Punk asks indifferently, gulping down his Diet Pepsi like he's not caring at all. But somehow he finds himself captivated with John's voice. Just his voice, not what he's saying for he's well aware that whatever comes out of the larger man's mouth is usually nonsense. And usually what comes out of John's mouth annoys him to the end of the world. Not just him. Practically half of the WWE Universe probably finds it annoying, too.

"What I said about our match. That was by far the best match I've ever had." The former Champion darts his eyes at Punk's and he shakes his head, letting out a hearty chuckle. "You know I won't hesitate to have a one-on-one with you again."

The Chicago native, all surprised with the words he is hearing from his former rival, lowers his hands and takes a deep breath as he looks into John's bright blue eyes. He slowly sticks his tongue out, brushing it across his lip ring, simply not knowing how to react. It seems that all the sarcasm and the mocking he's expert of is suddenly gone and for the first time that night, he smiles fully, shrugging at the CeNation leader.

"Thanks. Guess I have to say that's the best match I've had in a while, too."

Another grin flashes across John's face and he looks away, face suddenly turning bright red. Punk watches him in confusion, still unconvinced and puzzled as to why the man is really here. There is a catch; of course, there will always be a catch and Punk's not the type of person who's going to let it go that easily.

"Come on, John, you can drop the act now." Punk leans back on the couch and gives John an unconvinced smile. "Why did you really come here?"

John's bright smile drops as soon as Punk asked the question and the younger one instantly read the disappointment on the man's face. What, did he say something wrong?

"And here I thought you were the smart one," John exclaims with a sigh. He takes off his baseball cap and keeps his eyes on it as if he takes more interest on the design of the red gear. "I just wanted to see you one last time before you finally go. Should there be more than that?"

It takes Punk a few seconds before he realizes that he's gaping at John in disbelief. What the hell is this guy talking about? It somehow pisses Punk off at how this guy is so unreadable. "When I defeated you for the WWE championship, I was sure that no one in the WWE will want to see my face in any arenas ever again. Why aren't you one of them, huh, Cena? Why can't you be one of the normal guys for once?"

The former champion raises his head and looks straight into the younger one's eyes. And then he shrugs casually.

"Maybe it's because I fucking respect you so much, Punk."

Blinking a few times, the words slowly registers in Punk's head and he rolls his head wearily. I give up, he thinks. He will never try reading this guy ever. He turns his attention back to the game on the screen and in the corner of his eye, he sees Cena leaning back on the couch with his arms folded across his chest. They fall silent, like nobody wants to speak a word anymore, which is more convenient for Punk 'cause he doesn't want to hear John's side anymore. Maybe he should believe what Cena was telling him for once; where's the harm in believing him anyway? But if he doesn't find the man and his championship belt when he wakes up, he's going to hunt him down and kill him.

Focusing back on the game, Punk doesn't notice that his companion is already dozing off beside him and when he finally does, the game is already over and John's chin was already touching his own shoulder. Somehow the sight makes the Straight-Edge savior's heart melt and he shakes his head. Getting up from his seat, he dusts off the crumbs on his shirt then he approaches John, gripping the man's shoulders and gently pushing him to lie down on the couch. Once he looked comfortable enough, Punk fetches some extra blankets and throws them on Cena's body.

He doesn't know the reason why but Punk stays on his spot, hands deep in his pockets as he watches the CeNation leader sleep peacefully on his couch. Mouth slightly parted, eyes shut, body curled up comfortably on the soft cushions of his couch; Punk had to admit, the guy looks like an innocent man. He steps away when he finally realizes that he's acting like creeper for looking at Cena like that and then he turns off the lights.

Walking to his room, he stops at the doorway when he hears the older man's rough voice speak.

"I owe you one, Phil."

Giving his couch one last glance, Punk shakes his head and chuckles quietly. "This doesn't even make us even."

"What's in it for me then?" He asks with his cocky tone. There is a catch; surely there will always be a catch.

The man merely gives him a beautiful, dimpled smile. "Be one of my goonies for my entrance for WrestleMania and I can help you with anything you need – a job, women, money, you name it."

He never knew who this guy is, but there's something in his gut that tells him to trust him. To believe what he is saying. He had to follow him, to read his actions, to know what he's thinking, to predict what he's about to do. There's something in his smile, those blue eyes that are promising something more.

People are so easy to read. They're simply predictable; a flick of a finger, a tilt of the head, they all mean something. He's able to read almost all of their actions. Almost all of them.

Except for one guy.

Except for John Cena.