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“Punk!”
The yells of the younger man downstairs however goes unnoticed, so an equally loud yet sterner repetition follows soon after.
“Punk! Come getyer’ dinner!” Drew yells once more, and granted punk is tempted to go down and eat- but Twisted Metal was definitely more deserving of his attention! He doesn't mind that his tummy is growling or whatever Drew made downstairs is making his mouth drool, he's Darkside, and his car is so much cooler than not being hungry.
Drew finds it wise to meet Punk in their game room, the elder sat on the floor in front of his own childhood game console. “C’mon ya wean, yer’ dinners gonna get cold!” He says, a lilt of only what can be described as strategic happiness to pull the boy from the floor.
“Ugh, just hold on! I'm almost done!” He huffs as he steers his car with the flat buttons of the d-pad.
Luckily, one of them has the mind of an adult, and Drew can very easily tell that he's just started another game. “Look Punker, you shouldn't have started yer’ game if ya could smell dinner cooking.” He says as he leans in to pinch gently at Punks shoulder.
“Can we at least play after, dado?”
That is in fact how Drew knew the conversation would end, any discussion with Punk in his little space always came back to video games or wrestling as a bribing tool.
Drew nods curtly with a smile, and Punk shuts his play station off and brings himself to follow alongside the taller. Punk still wishes he were playing his game, but he figures he can settle enough for dinner with Drew. He can, and he does; he's as still as Punk can be and he doesn't elope up stairs like he's so prone to doing.
The two talk though, Punk increasingly excited as Drew plays into the topics at hand. The two get into a tiff of “My figure is cooler than yours” when the subject is brought upon by an unrelated tangential thought.
“Maybe, but maybe you haven't thought about how it's just my sick skills that make little Drew so strong!” Drew contests, hands raising in a dramatic flair solely for the boy.
Punk giggles and shakes his head vigorously, “Nuhuh! I play them better, I could beat you in a match!”
And so they do just that, they pull out Punk's ring and the footlocker stuffed to the brim with figures by just about every brand associated with any mainstream promotions. Their coffee table barely held the ring itself, so Punk was only able to sparsely litter a crowd of spectators for their event, and to block them from the ring with plastic barricades. He's sat on folded knees, holding a figure of himself in one hand (though this one is a depiction of him ten or so years younger than the moment,) and in his other he holds a much newer figure of the scott; which he pushes out enthusiastically as Drew settles down himself.
Drew counts them down, prepares them for one-fall (so Punk can do the two-fall jeer,) and Punk plans on playing as the ref too. Plastic nesting against plastic in a less than rhythmic or dynamic rhythm makes for worse writing than it does entertainment when you're not in the headspace of a child. No matter what game though, if Punk thinks he can best or beat someone at it, he'll find a way. Even if that's cheating by covering Drew's hands so his figure can't break free from the “pin” he's under. He counts them out, and he wins and immediately his hands go in the air with an abrupt “I win!”