Chapter Text
Punk’s general savior of any situation will always be his airpods. Especially backstage, when everyone takes it upon themselves to become the DJ and no one feels particularly inclined to tell anyone else that not everybody wants to listen to Eminem before their match.
And yeah, Punk was judgy about what music other people liked, because deep down he was still a straightedge kid at a time where liking Minor Threat and Britney Spears simultaneously wasn’t the norm. That’s not to say that Punk couldn’t acknowledge that there was good in other genres, because that’s just blatant elitism, but everyone is bound to have their hard no’s in music; he just had more than the average person.
There were only two things that really drove him up a wall: country music and any kind of electropop. All of that European house shit was just ridiculous and he just didn’t like hicks. In any other genre of music he was bound to find something that piques his interest, not like he went out of his way to explore other genres. He was perfectly content with his straight edge bands and ska music. Unfortunately, the universe has other plans to throw him into the deep end when he realizes he had forgotten his airpods in his hotel room while at RAW.
He knows it’s really not that big of a deal, that he wasn’t even wrestling so there was no need for him to be near the locker room, where most of the music would emanate from. He could find a spot to sit, and maybe even chit-chat, away from most of the music. There’s loads of other people who feel the same way he does.
When the music starts playing, it doesn’t bother him at first, as it seems it’s some mix of trending pop and rap. Ten minutes in he hears the beginnings of some banjo and books it to the smaller room attached to catering where he knew he would either be met with silence or something close to it.
What he did not expect was Drew Mcintyre.
“Oh, bloody hell, ‘s not enough to bother me in the ring so you’re hunting me down backstage now?” The Scot grumbles, already in his gear, kilt included. That stupid kilt always made Punk feel funny.
“I don’t wanna start anything, I just need to get away from the music clusterfuck of the locker room. I forgot my airpods,” Punk defends himself, and hates that he’s pleading with Drew of all people. “I’ll just sit in the corner, do my little pre-show ritual, and I won’t interrupt yours. Deal?”
Drew seems shocked at the sudden breach of the intense hatred they’d shown for him, but he knew if he denied Punk the fucker would only get more annoying. “Alright, fine. Whatever.”
The first few minutes were peaceful, with Drew stretching and Punk keeping himself sharp for a promo, both doing well ignoring the other. That was, until Drew laid across three chairs and held his phone to his chest. Punk stopped what he was doing to observe the scene, and was plunged into despair when Drew began playing country music from the device clutched to him.
“Is that fucking Hank Williams Jr? Are you serious?” Punk blurts out before he can think, annoyed by the sudden onslaught of music he dislikes.
Drew lifts his head and shoots daggers into Punk’s eyes with his own. “I thought you said no interrupting. This is my ritual.”
“You don’t have headphones or anything?”
“If you hold your phone in the right spot, the music almost feels like it’s vibrating all your ribs and stuff.”
“Is there literally any other genre you could listen to right now?”
Drew pauses, considering, before skipping the current song and the next thing coming from his phone speakers is some highly energetic, over synthesized Europop. Punk audibly groans, putting his head in his hands. When he finally looks back at the other man, the insufferable sound of n-sth, n-sth still blaring, he’s met with a look of bewildered frustration.
“You have shitty music taste, Drew, let me tell you that much.” Punk is going to buy three extra pairs of airpods after this harrowing experience.
Drew scoffs, sitting up from his laying-down position and rolls his eyes. “Oh, like you’re any better!”
“Straight edge is a very dignified genre of music, compared to haus-”
“You literally bump ska.”
And at that, the two were at a stalemate, wordlessly glaring daggers into the other. Drew’s eyes narrow even more, before sighing and hitting skip on his phone one more time. Punk’s mouth was already hanging open, ready to complained, but was met with sounds of Slipknot, and was left slackjawed in surprise. After his first two strikes, Punk was ready to categorize Drew as down and out.
“Is this good enough for you?” Drew keeps glaring, and good God his eyes are blue.
“Is the chest thing true?” Punk answers, his words once again leaving him without consulting his brain. He could see the confusion on Drew’s face morph into knowing at his question.
He nods warily, “Yeah, I always do it before matches. Do you want to…?” He trails off, and Punk realizes he’s gesturing to the spot of ground next to him.
Punk slides onto the ground, laying next to Drew, in a position he’d never thought he’d find himself in. He brings out his own phone, clicking on some random Rancid song, and putting his phone vaguely in the center of his chest. He hears the taller man snort from beside him, and suddenly there’s a tuft of long brown hair vaguely hovering over him.
“You have to put your phone…” Drew’s sliding his phone up his chest, and Punk can vaguely feel his fingertips, “... right here.”
Punk is slightly amazed as he can vaguely feel the music pumping through his ribs. “Guess you really can feel it,” He admits. “How’d you even discover this?”
Drew shrugs, still sitting up next to him, giving Punk a good view of the side of his face and his back. “Some guy in the indies was doing it one time, and he would always go into the ring so full of energy, I thought I might give it a shot.”
He only nods in response, and a silence lulls over them, forgoing the music softly flowing through Punk, before he speaks again.
“Never thought I’d be in this position.”
“Me neither,” Drew shrugs, and Punk can see that coy smile already making it’s way back to his features. “But you’re much easier to talk to when you speak considerably less.” Well, the moment was nice while it lasted.
“Maybe rivals isn’t our final form,” Punk retorts. “People change and all.”
“That is true,” Drew admits. That smile is still dancing on his features, a comment loaded and ready to go, and Punk remembers how much he really wants to punch Drew Mcintyre.
“But nothing beats hating you and your shitty music taste.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re projecting.”
And if the pair laid on the floor and bickered for two more hours, right up until Punk had to do his promo, that was nobody’s business.