Chapter 1: Poison and Wine

You only know what I want you to…

Max isn't sure why he's made the choice to be the absolute idiot calling his kind-of-technically-an-ex because he just got dumped quite publicly. He thinks the rather considerable intake of alcohol probably has a little something to do with it, which will unfortunately, be thrown back in his face when the man at the other end answers.

I know everything you don't want me to.

The phone buzzes in his pocket, and CM Punk takes it out to see who's calling him. The name that pops up, though, is the last one he expects to see. He hasn't heard from Max since – well, since a long time ago, and he certainly wasn't expecting to hear from him tonight. Not when he's halfway across the country in his hometown of Chicago. He's about to feed Larry when the call comes, and the wisest part of him tells him to send it to voicemail. The last thing he needs right now is that kid's voice in his head again. It's been a long time, and he's been doing his best to take care of himself and put all that behind him.

Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine.

Max is about to hang up, sure that voicemail will kick in any second, when he hears the familiar voice on the other end of the line say, "Hello?" Max still knows Punk, and he knows him well enough to hear the practiced nature of his relaxed tone. It's been a long time since they spoke. Too long, Punk might say. Not long enough, Max might say. But tonight, the only thing Max can think about is how Punk always looked out for him… at least, in cases where the danger came from anyone but Punk himself.

You think your dreams are the same as mine.

"Hey," Max says softly, hoping it's not obvious to Punk that he's been crying. "How are you?" How are you? Seriously, Max? After 5 years, how are you? His mind scrambles for something to say to try and make this phone call make sense… to make reaching out to someone who'd spent way too long in Max's life, both of them doing what they were best at – hurting each other – all along the way, make any fucking sense.

Oh, I don't love you, but I always will.

"How am I?" Punk asks, making it clear that his thoughts are exactly what Max had assumed they would be… which is to say, What in the actual fuck? "I don't know, Max… It's been five fucking years. How do you think I am?" He's already regretting answering the phone in the first place. This is a bad idea. One of the worst ideas, honestly. But he's committed now, so he finally answers. "I'm fine, Max. Did you call me by mistake?"

Oh, I don't love you, but I always will.

The temptation to answer yes and hang up is strong, but Max can't do it. He's made this call to Punk for a reason, even if he himself isn't sure of what that reason is right at this moment. "No. I didn't call you by mistake. I was just… um… thinking about you, and it's been so long, I wanted to check on you. And Larry." It's a stupid excuse. Max knows it. Even with ADHD brain, you don't forget someone for five years and then suddenly care again what happens to them. And CM Punk is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. Hotheaded? Sure. Sharp-tongued? Definitely. Sometimes downright scary? Absolutely. But stupid? Never.

I don't love you, but I always will.

Punk barks a laugh, though it's not what Max would call mirthful by any stretch. More like sardonic. "You called to check on me and Larry? Are you drunk?" He shakes his head. "Spill it, Max. Did Daddy cut off your trust fund, and you need to get back at him? Because I can guarantee you there's somebody in New York you could do that with. Don't feed me some bullshit about me and Larry. You don't even like dogs."

I always will.

"No," Max says firmly, his tone sharp and angry, but more hurt than anything. Punk knows it. He knows when Max is hurt… and he knows how to push him to that point, too. The terrible thing about two men like Max and Punk is that they both know each other's buttons and triggers, and they know how to push them to the edge, to make sure to create the most possible damage and leave the other person in a hell they didn't see coming. Only this time, he doesn't think he's the one that's hurt Max. This time, there's someone else behind it. "My dad and I get along great, and even if we didn't, I wouldn't need an old wannabe punk rocker who's 20 years past his prime to piss him off."

I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back.

There's the fire Punk knows and loves… or at least once loved, a long time ago... and it's so sharp that Punk could almost believe Max was sober if he didn't know better. "Awww, there's my Max," Punk replies, more amused than irritated at Max's response. "I was starting to think the Hamptons had finally sweetened up that smart mouth of yours. I'm glad some things never change. But for the record? You didn't think I was past my prime five years ago. In fact, if I remember correctly, you just thought I was prime."

The less I give, the more I get back.

The sharpness in Max is back with a vengeance, and Punk can't help smiling. That's what he misses about Max. The way the younger man never backs down from him… never once. "Jesus Christ… Call up an old friend to check on him and get this kind of bullshit? Remind me never to be nice again."

Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise.

"I never had to remind you before," Punk says, in a voice so sarcastically Punk that Max swears he can hear the smirk behind it. "You were unbelievably good at being an asshole all on your own. Did my little Max grow up and go soft? Must be those hot rich bitches Daddy's trying to marry you off to, right? Because I never had any problems with you going soft on me." He's a little too pleased with the way Max stammers at that, caught off guard. "Awww, Max… Did you forget who you're talking to or something?"

I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.

Max huffs into the phone, and Punk laughs again. It's mean, and he knows it, but at the moment, he doesn't care. Max is the one who had to call him out of the blue and interrupt a night in with Larry and the Blackhawks game. "Tell me the truth, Max," he says finally. "Why are you calling me? And don't you dare say to see how Larry and I are again because you're full of shit, and you're a damn good liar, but I've always seen through your bullshit, and I don't think I've lost my touch there. And you're fucking wasted, so you're not on your game. What's going on?"

Oh, I don't love you, but I always will.

"It's nothing," Max says finally. As much as he wants to spill everything to Punk, this call has already started off wrong, and he can't see it getting any better. And he doesn't want to throw his heartbreak at the feet of the man who knows every little button to push to break him in two. "I don't know what I was thinking. Have a good night."

Oh, I don't love you, but I always will.

"You don't have to hang up, Max," Punk says, his voice the sort of calm and commanding tone that Max remembers well. He'd been a wild child of a very rich family when he'd sort of accidentally met Punk while out with friends in New York. Those days were different. Max had been young, rebellious, and tired of his parents trying to set him up with every rich eligible bachelor or bachelorette that they could find. Marriage was meant to be a strategic move, not one made for love, and Max knew that, like his sisters, he was a pawn that would hopefully one day become a king. "What's the matter, really? I'm listening. I already missed the puck drop for the Hawks, so make it worth my time."

I don't love you, but I always will.

Max can't help smiling just a little at that. Punk's fandom of the Chicago Blackhawks is damn near legendary – and damn near got his ass kicked on more than one occasion in New York City. New York area sports fans were really territorial, and the wrong shirt in the wrong bar was a really good way to end up spitting out your own teeth. Not that Punk had ever been worried about that. He was scrappy, and downright dangerous when the time was right for it. "I… um… Shit." He hadn't really figured he'd get this far, so what to say next was kind of throwing him off. "I just wanted to…" pause. "I missed you."

Oh, I don't love you, but I always will.

Now Punk is really confused. "It's been five years, Max. Five years, I might add, where I haven't heard a word from you. Now all of a sudden, out of the blue, you miss me? That trust fund not keeping you warm at night anymore?" The words are sharp, but this time, Punk's not sure if he's cut himself or Max deeper with them. "Max, stop dancing around whatever you want to say and fucking say it. I don't have all night, and you're 5 minutes into a call and already driving me crazy, so spit it out."

I don't love you, but I always will.

"My wedding is this weekend," Max says finally, and once he's told this little piece of the truth, it comes tumbling out of him like an avalanche – too fast, too chaotic, with no sense of where it might go next. "Or… at least, it was this weekend, but it's not going to happen now, and I don't even know why or what I did. I was engaged, and the whole thing was set. My parents loved him. They had this amazing wedding planned… Honeymoon to die for. Manhattan wedding at Central Synagogue… It was a who's-who of a guest list."

I don't love you, but I always will.

"Did you love him?" Punk asks, almost lazily. Almost as if he doesn't care. Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Almost doesn't count. "Or was he trust fund security?" Punk almost hates himself for digging the knife in a little deeper when Max is already clearly upset, but there's been so much time lost between them and so many barbs thrown in the blow up of their relationship. The worst part is, he'd known better way back then. Known better than to date a barely-out-of-college kid in his early twenties when Punk himself was closer to forty than thirty. He had pushed back for a while… tried so hard not to give in to what he wanted. But Max had been shameless and quite set on getting what he wanted. All this time later, he still hates himself for the mistake and the way he'd let it blow up his life. Max was meant to be a hookup – not a barb in his soul that he's pretty sure he's never going to shake off.

I don't love you, but I always will.

There's no point in lying. Not to Punk. And Max realizes it at this point. "I loved him," he says softly. "I was in love with him. I thought he was the person for me. He wouldn't even give me a reason why he didn't want to marry me anymore. He just… Last weekend, at my parents' place in the Hamptons for a party, he dumped me. In front of my whole family and quite a few of Dad's investors. Just handed back my ring and told me to lose his number. No warning. Just… Just like that. He was gone. He won't answer my calls. His friends blocked me on… well, everything. He's just gone."

I always will.

"Did you think I was going to be able to do something to help?" Punk asks thoughtfully. It's not cruelty. It's just a question, because after all this time, he would've thought Max would've had other people he could talk to about something like this. "I mean… I'm halfway across the country, and even if I wasn't, I can't make your rich boyfriend come back. And god knows I've never been any good at making you feel better when you're upset." It's true. Painfully true. Even when he had been trying to do right by Max in the past, it somehow had always dissolved into a fight, and he was tired of the pain and the way they both just seemed to feed it like two idiots pouring gasoline on an already-blazing fire.

I always will.

"No," Max confesses. "I don't… I don't know what I thought. I just wanted to hear your voice. Despite the fact that said voice gets under my skin nine times out of ten and makes me want to murder you with my bare hands."

I always will.

"Hot. Don't threaten me with a good time," Punk teases, trying to lighten the mood a little. Sure, Max is infuriating and annoying and makes him wish he had never met him more often than not, but… still, there's a protective part in Punk that wants to shield the younger man from any hurt the world may throw his way. At least… from any hurt Punk himself didn't cause. Toxicity is a virtue… or something. "You've heard my voice, then. But I got a feeling that didn't really help as much as you thought it might."

I always will.

Max isn't sure what's worse – the fact that he does feel a little better for having heard Punk's voice, or the fact that he actually wants to tell him that. He fights the urge, but he is rebounding pretty hard from a really rough breakup, and he's not sure how much strength he has left. "It's… It's nice to talk to you," he says finally. "Thanks for answering. You didn't have to." Max wishes that he had the words to say everything he wants to say, but they just won't come. "I could always count on you… sure, it was usually counting on you to be a massive, self-righteous pain in the ass, but still… You were consistent. I'm sorry I bothered you. Have a good night. Get back to the Hawks."

I always will.

Punk's voice is just a little more tender than even he'd expected it to be. "It's fine, Max," he says, warmth settling in as he remembers the gentleness that he and Max had shared from time to time – between the fights and the heartaches, the insults and the fury. "Look, do me a favor and don't drink anymore, okay?"

"Can't," Max replies. "I'm all out and DoorDash is on the fritz." Just that, and the line goes dead.