The sky turned a green-purple-gold bog of clouds and lightning when he left the hotel. Rain fell like it should, pounding cold fat drops that splattered little mud bombs on the ground as he ran. And the thunder roared louder than any crowd Punk heard in his lifetime.

He caught his reflection in an empty store's window across the street. Mud on white shoes, splotches on his shorts, wet pale arms, wet lashes—and John's white shirt, clinging to his chilled torso.

Shit.

Punk ran on, away from the stores. No people littered the streets, to his relief. Somewhere, five or so blocks back, John was safe from the rain. Safe from the lightning shooting across from east to west, illuminating the buildings. He wasn't here to stop him, to tell him, "Come back, I'm sorry," like he had earlier, on the heels of the argument. If he was there, here and now, the thunder would've ate up his mediocre pleas.

When the buildings receded and the countryside nothing swelled up in the horizon, he finally stopped and headed for the mouth of some beach.

The ocean came close, roaring waves that match the thunder above. He stood at the edge, raising a hand to his face, wiping the rain from his eyes to see clearly what lay before him: a dead city, its little lights consumed by fog and grey.

His feet hurt. His fingers hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

It felt good. A good hurt.

I've ran far enough.

The sky turned darker. More thunder crackled. Reason told him you scared him enough, time to go back, this is stupid, don't be an idiot, don't hurt yourself because of him, but his mind and his heart disagreed too much. There were a million directions to take, a million worries to address, and he needed to ignore and live in a state of nothing, just for a little bit. Just for now. Away from John. Away from the world.

"Punk..."

He gasped. No. It can't.

One glance over his shoulder showed him the truth, and he turned fully around, his jaw dropping open.

John stood a good distance away, leaning heavily on a tree. His wheezes overpower the next crack of lightning.

And then: "You okay?" He pushed himself up, stumbling forward to him.

His vision blurred over. You asshole. I told you. John closed the distance between them. What are you… how did you fucking…

Cold hands grabbed his cold shoulders.

He stood still as John embraced him, resting his head on the crook of his shoulder.

His body jolted at John's whisper on his neck. "Thank God you're safe."

Punk shut his eyes. In the cold rain, his hot tears scald, slipping out and down his cheeks.

Hands slid down his forearms, only to wrap around his waist.

He buried his face into John's neck, returning the exact embrace.

His heavy breathing heated up John's skin quick. His fingers dug into John's windbreaker, his nose and teeth and lips smushed into his safe hiding place, away from the world, from the rain, from everything.

After a heavy gust of wind, Punk finally spoke. "How'd you find me?"

John's voice rumbled in his ear. "I followed." His small chuckle made Punk smile a little. "Didn't expect you to run so fast."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. You told me not to."

"No." He pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "I'm glad you did."

"Yeah?"

The hesitance and need in John's voice demolished whatever remnants of anger he felt. "Yeah." Punk sighed, squeezing John in his arms. The thunder ate up his soft whisper: "I love you."

He knew John heard it when he felt them pull apart, and then lips quickly pressed against his.

The rain finally came to a stop as they left side-by-side, back to the hotel.