A/N: Lyrics are from "Against Them All" by Stick to Your Guns

Against Them All

Punk's dressed and ready to go long before Max, which doesn't surprise him in the slightest. Even less so when Max comes into the living room after his shower with his curls perfectly tamed, wearing an expensive shirt, slacks, and a tie. "Man, if everybody else is dressed like that? You're really gonna shock the shit out of your folks walking in with me." He knows that's the point, and he's always loved being at the center of controversy, but he also isn't really comfortable with hanging around a bunch of rich fucks. Despite his facade of self-confidence, Punk is still, at heart, that kid from a shitty family that grew up desperately searching for a place to belong. Punk rock and straight edge saved him from a life as a loner, and they still give him a level of confidence he didn't have before, but he admits – at least to himself – that in this situation, he's out of his element. Especially if the Rancid t-shirt and well-worn jeans with a pair of beat up Doc Martens (his preferred shoe for shows) are any indication as compared to Max's expensive everything.

"You look perfect," Max tells him with a smirk of amusement. "My parents are going to shit themselves, and it's going to be beautiful. Plus, they're paying for a ridiculously nice dinner that I seriously doubt gets served anywhere you've ever been, so eat on their dime and piss them off the whole time."

Punk shakes his head, but he's grinning. This is the role he was born for – pissing people off. Especially rich, snobby fuckers like Max's parents.

I know you, because you're just like me
Always questioning every single thing

This might be the most fun he's ever had when all is said and done. Max tells him it's time to go, and Punk grabs his jacket, pulling it on over his t-shirt. Max looks him up and down and laughs at the ratty denim jacket, covered in patches of different bands that he has never heard of before, and feels pretty sure he doesn't want to hear of either. When Punk turns to grab his phone and wallet, Max realizes there's also a HUGE black X drawn across the back of the jacket in what can only be Sharpie. Max looks absolutely horrified and a little bit amused at the same time.

Punk raises his eyebrow at Max. "What's the matter?" he asks, trying to figure out what he's getting that very specific look for. "You rethinking your little plan?"

Max shook his head. "Oh, no… I'm just trying to figure out why the hell you're 40 and look like you robbed an emo kid at a high school for their outfit."

Never giving up without a fight
Because for you, your resistance is a way of life

"I'm not fucking 40," Punk spits back. "And this isn't emo. It's punk."

"I think the line between those two is a lot finer than you think it is, Punky," Max says, rolling his eyes. "I haven't seen anybody with a Sharpie Marker motif on their jacket since high school, and that was definitely on an emo kid."

Punk seriously hates his life right now. What the hell was he thinking? This kid is going to drive him batshit insane. "Max," he says slowly. "I've been dressing like this since…"

Max interrupts, "Let me guess! Since before I was born… because you're old as fuck. But old or not, you still look like an emo kid, and it's really not cute anymore."

"That's not what you said when you asked me back to your place," Punk counters with a dangerous smirk. He's pushing Max, and Max knows it, but he also knows that neither of them is going to make it to this dinner if they get started doing… whatever it is they might do. Either way it goes, Max is pretty sure they'll both need a break afterward. So for now, they have to go.

"Don't look at me like that," Max says, rolling his eyes. "We have to go, and I don't want to have to wipe that smirk off your face before we do."


When they arrive at the restaurant, even from outside, Punk can tell this is a place he probably wouldn't even be allowed into without his current date and that thrills him. He's long accepted his place in life as the guy who shows up anywhere he wants to be, no matter how much other people may not want him there. The host at the door of the restaurant gives Max a huge smile. "Ah, the young Mr. Friedman. What a pleasure to see you. Your father and mother are already in the private dining room. May I take your coat?"

The host is taking Max's coat when he looks up to see Punk walking in behind Max, quite obviously dressed in such a way as to be glaringly out of place in this restaurant and he looks terrified. "I'm sorry, Sir, can I help you?"

"I'm here for dinner," Punk says with a lazy shrug.

"Sir, we do have a dress code here, are you sure this is the right location for your meal?" the host protests, before Max looks over his shoulder at Punk. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Friedman," he says to Max, who immediately starts laughing in a deeply threatening way that kinda turns Punk on.

"The only thing you have to be sorry about is disrespecting my date," Max says, glaring at the host. "Or do you think your little restaurant here needs to go without the money my family's business contributes to yours, having so many meetings and events here? I would really hate to have to speak to my father about this discriminatory behavior."

Young and angry, with every right to be
Bent but not broken, hanging on by a thread

The color drains from the host's face, and Punk pushes his tongue against the end of the jewelry in his lip in such a way as to catch Max's eye. Max is desperately trying to keep the angry rich boy face on, but Punk knows that he's messing with his head just the same. Punk's tongue darts over the corner of his mouth, but then he's grinning devilishly at their unfortunate host. "I'm very sorry, Sir," says the poor snobby fuck behind the counter (apologizing to Max, not Punk), but Max's face doesn't soften. "I didn't know."

"Maybe you should shut the fuck up, then," Max says, brown eyes boring holes into the man's face. "Now, offer to take Mr. Brooks' coat, uh…" he looks at the nametag the man is wearing, making it incredibly obvious that he's doing so. It says "Andrew" but Max very intentionally says, "Alex, was it?" Nevermind that he's met this host a million times at this point, and knows good and damn well what his name is. "And give him anything he asks for. Starting with an apology."

The urge Punk has to laugh is so strong, but he maintains his composure, just barely. "My apologies, Mr. Brooks," the host stammers, and holds out his hand. "May I take your… um…" Punk can see him trying to figure out what to think about the jacket Punk's wearing before he finally says, "Um, your coat?"

"No thanks," Punk says, his voice so polite as to be scary. "I would really hate for my inappropriate attire to contaminate any of your esteemed guests' coats."

Looked past by most, looked down on by all
We don't need them, it's forever us against them all

"Shall we?" Max says, offering Punk his arm as if he were a teenager at prom.

Punk nods slowly. "I'm with you, Mr. Friedman," he says, his affected snobby tone almost making Max crack a smile. He tucks his arm into Max's and the two of them walk together toward the private dining room that had previously been mentioned.

Right before they enter the room, Max says softly, "Whatever I say? Just play along. This is going to be fucking amazing."

Punk has a bad feeling about this, but he's never turned down the opportunity to make people uncomfortable just by virtue of being himself. In fact, it's one of his favorite things to do. He's not sure why it's feeling so weird to him to do his favorite thing where Max's parents are concerned though. It's not like Max is his boyfriend.

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

"Maxwell!" says Mr. Friedman the older, looking up to see his son entering the room with a smile that immediately fades when he sees the man with stringy bleach blonde hair at his son's side. He doesn't say anything right away, but in her best attempt at politeness, Max's mother steps in.

"Oh, Maxwell, you didn't say you were bringing a friend along for dinner tonight," she says to him with a practiced smile glued in place on her face. None of the designer articles of clothing she's wearing are fake, but that smile? That's CLEARLY not real.

"Not a friend, Mom," Max says, his smile just as fake as hers. "This is my boyfriend, Punk." The way Max says the name makes it hilariously clear that he knows this is going to push his parents over the edge, by virtue of the name alone.

"Punk?" she says as if she's sure she's heard wrong. "That's such an… interesting name. Your parents must have been… free spirited."

Punk snorts a laugh. "Um… That's not exactly how I'd describe them… But I'll give you that it's a hell of a name."

Max smiles, turning to look at Punk. "These are my parents, Punk. My dad, and my mom. And my sisters are probably around here somewhere with their husbands, or will be soon."

Punk is already having fun with this mess, and there's never been an envelope he hasn't been willing to push. "Wow! It's great to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Friedman… Mom and Dad. Can I call you Mom and Dad?" he waits just briefly, so they don't get a chance to answer, and immediately says, "Thanks, that's so nice of you. Max told me we'd get along beautifully. I didn't know what to expect, honestly, but it's a pleasure to meet you."

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

"I'm not sure I'm old enough to be your dad, young man," Mr. Friedman says, already looking overwhelmingly annoyed. "If…" He pauses thoughtfully, and both Max and Punk realize that he was about to say something about if Punk could even be considered young.

"I've always said age is just a number," Punk replies. It's a lie. He's never said that. In fact, he's pretty sure Max said that to him a few nights ago when they met. "Some guys are just born to be dads."

He can feel Max beside him, their arms still linked, and Max tenses like someone trying very hard not to laugh at Punk's always-running mouth. "Yes," Max says, and Punk turns to catch Max with a shit eating grin that nearly makes him choke with laughter. Somehow (he'll never quite know how) he manages not to let the laughter out. Max pats Punk's arm gently and says, "And some guys are born to be daddies…"

The fact that Punk doesn't die right then and there at Max's words (and then at how Max's parent's eyes both bulge out of their heads) is a testament to a level of self-control he wasn't even sure he had until he was clinging to it for dear life. "Mom, Dad," Max says, trying very hard to keep himself together.

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

They're saved by the waiter, who comes to ask what they'd like to drink. Max orders some wine with a really fancy French name, and Punk asks for Pepsi. Max's parents look embarrassed as the waiter's eyebrow rises, almost in shock that someone would dare to order soda at this fancy ass restaurant. "I'm… I'm so sorry, sir, we don't have any soda. We do have water, sparkling and still, as well as mineral water… A sparkling ginger limeade, and a number of fine wines and liquors."

Punk looks at Max and mouths quite obviously, "Sparkling ginger limeade?!" He's definitely out of place here, what with his eyes still smudged a little with last night's eyeliner and the piece of metal protruding from the piercing in his lip. He looks back at the waiter and says, "I'll just take water, please… Plain… like… tap water."

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

It's so quiet at the table, surrounded by Max's parents and some of their rich friends that probably pay more for a haircut than Punk pays for a month's worth of groceries. All of the stuffed shirts are looking at Punk as if he's just spit chewing gum into one of the linen napkins. Max gives Punk an adoring smile and squeezes his hand. This is the most ridiculous thing Punk has ever been a part of, and that's saying something, considering he spends most of his days on the road with his best friends at punk clubs doing the stupidest imaginable shit for kicks and giggles.

"So, um… Punk , did you say?" Max's dad asks, trying to hide his disdain for the name. "What is it that you do?"

Max nods encouragingly to his faux boyfriend. "Tell them, babe."

"I… I'm a guitarist. I play in a punk rock band," Punk says with a grin, apparently quite proud of himself.

"Oh, I'm sure that's a great hobby, but I meant, what do you do for a living?" Max's dad asks.

"Oh, that is what I do for a living, Dad," Punk says, putting his arm around Max's shoulders. "In fact, that's how I met this amazing guy. He came out to a bar where I was playing, and it was like… Honestly?" he says, turning his own adoring gaze on and pouring it on thick. "It was love at first sight, really. I've never met anyone like him."


As they head back to the apartment after the dinner, Max is laughing so hard that tears are rolling down his face. Punk can't help but appreciate the way Max's laughter softens his face. Or how fucking infectious it is. They haven't been able to stop laughing since they left the restaurant. "Holy shit," Punk says. "Your dad's face was the funniest thing I ever saw."

"When you started calling them Mom and Dad?!" Max replies, holding onto his sides where his ribs literally ache from laughing so hard. "Oh, god, you gotta stop… I'm gonna crack a rib or something."

Punk reaches out and brushes the tears away from Max's face, still laughing a little bit. "I'm not gonna make it back to Chicago alive if we try anything like that again. I'll laugh myself to death in a second."

A fire burns inside you, fueled by everything
That you've ever been through

When they get back to Max's place, after Max has fed Piper, they get ready and head to bed. As they lie there, Punk's arms crossed under his head and Max quiet and contemplative, there's something kind of comfortable about it. Punk's not looking for anything serious, but he is looking for something fun and comfortable… and weirdly, he seems to have that with Max.

"Are your folks always so…" he pauses, searching for the right words. "So…"

"Such douchebags?" Max offers, turning to give Punk a playful smile. "Yeah. They are. Always. I think they'd sell me for the right price. They practically did with my sisters. Like, no bullshit, they married them to the highest bidder… not literally, but… It was all about business connections and shit. Real old school… almost arranged marriages."

"So… they're gonna expect you to get married someday to somebody rich?" Punk offers, not knowing why that feels so heavy to say, but very quickly pushing that feeling aside.

Max furrows his brow, trying to think if there's a better way to say it, but… nope. "Yeah, pretty much. Good connections for the family. It's like I'm some European prince back in the day… being married off for money and influence. Only the kingdom I'm inheriting kinda sucks."

Every battle you fight goes uphill
But nothing can ever break your iron will

"Seems like a nice enough kingdom to me," Punk replies, glancing over at Max. "I mean… You've got this huge fucking apartment, more money than god, and parents who seem to care about you, even if it's kinda in a fucked up way. There's gotta be some good in that, right?" He doesn't mention how he doesn't have parents who care. He doesn't mention how as soon as they could get him out of their home, they were ready to be rid of him. He doesn't tell Max how his dad drank his life away quite literally, and how his mom wouldn't stay on the psych meds that made her not do terrifying shit. He doesn't tell him any of that, but he can't help thinking about it.

And if that's the case for Max, Punk doesn't want it to be. He wouldn't wish his past on his worst enemy… much less someone he actually likes spending time with and gives a shit about. "I mean… sure… I do have all of that. But I don't have… I couldn't just hop in the car and go on the road with a band. The fact you get to do that is amazing."

"I'm also older than you," Punk says, trying to string together the thoughts in his head despite how tired he is. "And… honestly, I kinda always did what I wanted because I could… doesn't mean that it was the best way to live."

Young and angry, with every right to be
Bent but not broken, hanging on by a thread

Max arches an eyebrow, his face immediately harder than it had been. "Oh, please, Mr. Wise Old Punk, tell me the life lessons I need to learn before I'm old like you."

Punk sighs. "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that there are lots of ways to have your life fucked up, and just because you can't see the ones in mine doesn't mean they're not there. I'm not gonna come at you with some bullshit about how my life is way harder than yours. I know that you've got your own shit to deal with, same as I do, but… Just know that all you see is what people let you see."

The room is quiet for a moment as Max thinks over what Punk's saying. But he's pretty quickly over talking about the difficulties of life. Right now, he just wants something that feels good – fun and simple and uncomplicated. And for all the bullshit that has already happened, Punk is beautifully good at fitting those criteria.

Looked past by most, looked down on by all
We don't need them, it's forever us against them all

"I got you a ride back to Chicago," Max says, "One of my dad's drivers has a delivery to Chicago the day after tomorrow. He'll drive you there if you don't mind riding in an 18-wheeler."

"I'd ride bitch on a moped with a Hell's Angel if it got me back to Chicago before I miss the next round of shows," Punk says back, a little smirk on his lips.

"That means I've only got tonight and tomorrow night with the best fake boyfriend I've ever had," Max replies. His tone is playful, but there's something in his face that just seems – sad? It seems sad, and Punk can't really say that he isn't just a little bit sad himself.

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

He gives Max a warm smile, running his fingers through his hair before he leans forward toward the younger man. "Sounds like we've got a limited amount of time to make the best of, then," he tells him. "What do you say?"

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

Max rises up just a little on the bed to close the gap between them, pressing his lips to Punk's in a soft kiss that's almost too gentle for a hookup turned weird and wonderful couple of days, complete with pissing off somebody's rich parents.

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all

Punk returns Max's kiss, but when he breaks it, there's something hopeful in Max's eyes. Hope from someone like Max about kissing someone like him is a bad fucking idea, and Punk knows it. But after the way their night has gone, and the way Max has opened up just that little bit to him? Punk can't help feeling caring and protective over the younger man, and he puts his arm around Max, pulling him close. He won't be able to let that hope live forever… but he can't kill it tonight. Almost as if they've been doing this for their whole lives, Max tucks his head in at Punk's shoulder, and Punk brings up a tattooed hand to hold the back of Max's curly head. "Get some sleep, kid," he says finally, wishing that there was anything he could say that would make Max feel better – anything that was truthful and not a set up for hurting them both.

Whoa, whoa
Forever us against them all