Work Text:
2004
Picking out a wrestling name before going to a tryout is arrogant. He can’t decide if this is one of those situations where luck favors the bold. His scratched up iPod and the From First to Last album on repeat on a Greyhound bus says it is. He turns a few over in his head before the waiver they make him sign has his real name on it anyway.
It takes him out of it, reminds him that this is only a maybe. This is a test, he needed to see where he stands. In this crowd, does he break a mold? If he doesn’t, it’ll kill his dream before he can even call it his own.
That thought can’t materialize. He pulled his elbow pads on earlier and felt like he could pin the whole world if he wanted. His brother helped him practice a drop kick until he could do it from a dead stop on solid ground. This is his future. These coaches’ll tell him what he already knows.
He graduated high school in June, but that pales in comparison to where he sees himself in five years.
He doesn’t have anywhere to sleep tonight.
They’re all stretching, the chatter too loud for his liking, anyway. His focus is narrowed to the pull of each muscle he flexes through.
He sees CM Punk from far enough away that there’s room for doubt. Bleach blonde, tattooed guys aren’t that unusual. The guy climbs into the ring in the center of the gym, and when he turns, the letters P-U-N-K ladder down the side of his shorts.
Oh shit. That’s really him.
From his spot on the concrete, he can read the words curved over Punk’s abdomen. There’s no mistaking it. His throat gets a little tight, suddenly nervous. He watches Punk take his taped up hand to push his stringy hair, yellowed with aged dye.
His staring bites back, because CM Punk meets his gaze. The second before Punk looks away is an eternity, because it's impossible for him to kick his brain into gear. It's grinding, chain caught up in knowing Punk's taller than he thought. He's thinner, too.
His mom bought him Ring of Honor's last three special events on DVD for his birthday. CM Punk's hair was freshly blonde, then. His friend had scratched one when he borrowed it.
Someone claps and says, “Alright.”
The organizers explain that the entrants each get three minutes with Punk in the ring. Immediately, he stands straighter, shoulders tensing in anticipation. He’s been a coiled snake for weeks waiting for this. Though, he never imagined it would be opposite the guy in his forum profile picture.
He raises his hand. When they have him speak he says,
“I’ll go first.”
He moves to get up, adjusts his knee pads and grinds his heel into his right shoe. CM Punk is raising an eyebrow.
He didn't come here not to stand out.
The other ROH guy in the ring is smiling as he hoists himself through the ropes. The give of the mat under his boots is already transcendent. It puts him and Punk on equal footing, in more ways than one.
Punk blinks knowingly. He exhales through his nose, short, a mockery of a laugh.
“And, you are?”
Punk doesn’t stick his hand out, instead shaking his head subtly as he says it.
“Tyler,” He blurts, the name near the top of the list he'd been considering.
“Alright, Tyler,” CM Punk says, “Let's see it then.”
Tyler decides then that Punk’ll have to work to forget him.
The bell rings, and then he’s grappling with CM Punk. Up close, like this, time stretches just enough for Tyler to notice the color of Punk’s eyes. They’re like looking into the forest behind the train tracks back home. Sunlight through fall leaves.
His hand slips, and Punk gets the better of him, reversing his hold. Punk’s pressed to his spine, sweat beading between them. Tyler drops to his knees and uses the momentum to fling Punk over and land him on his back. The noise echoes in the high ceilings. Tyler catches Punk looking back at him.
Two minutes. Plenty of time.
Tyler runs, bounding over Punk’s prone body, and jumps the second rope before he arches backward to flip onto Punk. He remembered to extend his back, raise his chin to bare his neck. He’s watched the videos. He knows what he looks like.
Punk gets his knees up, shoves Tyler off, sending him tumbling onto the mat.
Tyler yells, but he’s grinning. He gets up, whips around in time to only see Punk’s forearm when it catches him in the chest. The force of the impact is so loud in the room. People have started to cheer for Punk. It’s real wrestling, now.
Tyler won’t be outdone. He still has a minute and a half.
Punk drags him up off the mat and whips him the opposite way. Tyler ducks under Punk's swing, and on his second pass, he can’t help himself. He dropkicks Punk, their synchronized collision with the mat imprints this onto Tyler’s bones.
He crawls over, and covers CM Punk in the middle of the ring.
No one’s even fucking counting, but before Tyler can protest, Punk gets his shoulder up. It’s a second, maybe two.
Tyler’s expecting Punk to say something, but the sound of Punk’s quickened breaths is the one thing between them.
Less than a minute, and Tyler scrambles to his feet.
Punk runs at him, and cracks a knee into Tyler’s cheek. He goes boneless, and Punk rolls him up. There’s a guy counting now, and he gets to three.
This close, with their time up, Tyler’s helpless. He’s surrounded, run through, with Punk’s weight, his smell, his sweat. The way Punk has him pinned leaves their hips nearly aligned. Tyler turns his head and catches the stench of Punk’s wrist tape. Did he reuse it?
Tyler twists out of the pin and gasps, rubs a hand over his face. His skin is tight, and the compression of his pads and trunks are suffocating.
There’s an abrasive grip on his shoulder, Punk’s pulling him up. Tyler wants to be impressive, wants to look composed, but Punk’s biting near his lip ring. He’s smiling. He smells like three week old laundry.
“Okay, kid,” Punk says, and all of Tyler’s other senses go out the window, “Good one, Tyler.”
Tyler can only mutter t-thanks , as he’s escorted out of the ring. Some guys clap him on the back, and a few others look away.
The name Tyler ’s gotta stick. CM Punk’s said it, twice.
-
Tyler's feet are numb in his boots. His body hasn’t caught up with what he knows now. That he’s good. Worth more than suburban backyards, more than his dad’s second-hand trampoline.
He doesn't have the money to pay for the school, but that doesn't matter.
He exits the building, out into the Philadelphia dusk. The sky is choked with haze in the late summer heat. But, Tyler can ignore all that, because he impressed CM Punk, made CM Punk smile. He said Tyler's name like he mattered .
He leans on the brick wall of the gym, the alleyway between the two buildings impressively dank, so separate from the Iowa grass. He’s gotta call his brother. His mother tucked her own cell phone into his backpack before he left.
Half of the wide double doors creak open to Tyler's left. He glances over, distracted.
Unbelievably, it’s CM Punk. Tyler’s seen him maybe twenty times today, but each has felt vaguely unreal, because there’s still no way he touched CM Punk's skin.
Punk meets his gaze, expression unreadable. He’s not out here for a smoke, obviously . Tyler momentarily can't breathe, so he tries digging through his bag to steady himself.
"Hey," Tyler says, looking up, like a moron. He attempts an easy smile, though there’s no way he managed that.
What would Punk appreciate? Being treated like an equal or larger than life, a myth made flesh, like Tyler believes him to be? He chews on his tongue, and tries to read the face of his hero, god.
Punk’s wearing a hoodie and jeans that are torn at the knees. From under the hood, Punk’s blonde, piecey hair is visible.
Punk hums, and pops his gum.
“Um,” Tyler finally finds the cell phone, though he doesn’t take it out. “Thanks again, man. For, uh, what you said.” He straightens from his crouch. Sweat drips down the small of his back, and Tyler can’t help but grimace at where it pools above his belt. Is Punk sweating?
“Sure.”
Tyler catches sight of the gum in the corner of his mouth as he says it.
“Anyone ever told you you’re pretty, kid?”
Tyler’s ears ring. He’s not sure he heard Punk right. The undivided attention Punk has on him is a magnifying glass. When Tyler blinks, he spares a thought to the stubborn acne under the right side of his jaw.
“Um, no?”
“That’s a shame,” Punk says. “Pretty boys like you oughta be told.”
The sun is nearly set, the bridge behind them hiding the last of the horizon. He and Punk, descending into night across from each other in this alley. Tyler can hear his heart beat in his ears.
In his room, Tyler waits for the dark, too, when he wants Punk. Tyler watches his DVDs in front of his family TV, lips falling open when CM Punk toils, when he bleeds. It’s not until the house is unmoving that he lets the desire worm its way into him. He only touches himself when he’s alone.
Punk’s studying him, and Tyler’s not stupid–he’s fighting uphill to get his brain to catch on.
“Aren’t you gonna c’mere, pretty?” Punk asks, without a shred of doubt, as if Tyler’s answer is a forgone conclusion.
And it is.
Tyler’s drawn to him like a magnet, animal-handsome and perfectly framed in the seedy alleyway. Is Punk doing this because he wants to get off, or does he want Tyler? He’ll give himself an answer and ignore the truth.
Out of his boots, Punk has to tilt his chin up to look Tyler in the eye. Under his scrutiny, though, Tyler’s never felt smaller. Close as they are, Tyler can smell him. It hasn’t improved much since the ring. At least his rancid wrist tape is off. Tyler wishes he cared, even a little.
“How ‘bout you get on your knees for me, kid.”
Tyler swallows down a noise he’s not sure he’s ever made.
“O-okay.” The tips of his ears are hot, and he misses the comfort of his kickpads.
“That good with you?”
“Y-yeah,” Tyler bites his lip. He goes down, bare-kneed, in the alleyway. His shorts skim the asphalt.
Punk’s arm lifts, and he brings his hand to Tyler’s hair. Strands of it brush his neck as Punk pulls his hairtie out. Punk stretches his fingers out to roll the tie onto his own wrist. Tyler’s breathing stutters, and he shuts his eyes for a few seconds.
“There we go.” Punk hums, and the pads of his fingers trace Tyler’s forehead when they push the pieces from his face.
Tyler’s lashes flutter, and he licks his lips.
"My wrestling name's Tyler Black," He says, out of nowhere, like he isn’t about to suck dick.
“Whatever you say, princess.” Punk smiles, easy. He unzips the fly of his jeans.
“No,” Tyler presses, “I want you to remember me. It’ll be different, next time.”
Punk laughs at that, but Tyler feels warmed by it, full.
“I certainly hope so, kid.” Punk pulls his cock out, rubbing at the glistening head. “You did good.”
Tyler gets a rush of pride, salivating in anticipation.
Punk feeds it to him, hand still in Tyler’s hair.
He’s determined, even here, freshly baptized in his victory. Inexperience or not, Tyler’s damn good at putting theory into practice.
The smell is distracting, distantly, the acrid scent of Punk’s sweat evident here. Tyler can taste it on him, too. His cock is almost sour on his tongue, and it should be off-putting, should be disgusting, but, but–
How else was he supposed to taste? Would Tyler want to be here if it was any other way?
His senses, overwhelmed as they are, ground him to the abrasive street. His knees hurt, but the pain is a part of it.
Tyler bobs his head, gliding over Punk’s cock, and the fingers scratch over his scalp. Tyler sucks, nose bristled by the wiry hair at the base, as he loosens his throat. The noise is obscene, and only gets worse when Tyler pulls back to wrap his hand around Punk’s shaft. He doesn’t want to gag, can’t imagine anything worse, resolving to work his grip over what he can’t fit inside his wet, warm mouth.
Above him, Punk groans. It sends a bolt of ambition through him, fearless trepidation overtaking him in waves. There’s no end to this where he doesn’t make CM Punk come.
“That’s it, pretty,” Punk’s resting his head against the wall. Tyler’s a little disappointed he can’t look in his fall-forest eyes. He keeps adjusting his hand in Tyler’s hair, tugging, stroking. It’s making Tyler’s skin tingle all over. “Knew you’d be good at this, right when I saw you.”
Tyler moans, then, helpless, thigh muscles trembling from the day’s exertion.
Punk’s hips twitch, driven by the vibration.
“Gonna be a big shot someday, huh?” Punk pets down to his jaw, face tilted towards where Tyler’s working over him. “But for right now, you’re just a cocksucker, baby.”
Tyler salivates, wetter, makes the slide messier, the sound of it louder. The jump of Punk’s hips meeting the movement of Tyler’s head. It’s taking everything in him not to float away.
Punk’s groans twist higher, the noises becoming bitten off keens, and Tyler knows he has him. He sucks down, lower, as far as he dares. Gambling on himself, trusting his born-talent, like always, plunging before there’s any guarantees. It’s what’s always been best about him, what people think is his biggest flaw is what’s gonna help him make it. The Philadelphia summer heat could be arena lights.
The sour taste amplifies, Punk coming in sticky spurts, unfamiliar enough that Tyler rears back and catches a few strings on his lips, chin, cheek. He licks up what he can reach. Punk’s looking right at him.
“I’m rootin’ for you, kid.” Punk rubs his thumb over Tyler’s left eyebrow, his touch a type of brand. Tyler knows he’ll see the ghost of it in the mirror for the rest of his life.
“See you out there.”
CM Punk leaves, disappearing back through the cracked double doors. Tyler’s still on his knees, and he couldn’t say a word.