Author's Note:Lines in italics are lyrics from "Saved" by The Spill Canvas. Also, I am so sorry.
Saved
I am unbreakable, but it looks like I could, sometime soon…
CM Punk has been playing shows at punk rock clubs and the like for a long time now. Too long, really. He's gotten too old for this, he's pretty sure. This shit is for the young guys to do. He's felt this way since the first time he woke up after going into the pit at a show the night before and didn't feel like moving. A lot of people keep going through this stuff with pain killers and uppers, but Punk's never been one for intoxicants. He doesn't even smoke cigarettes, which sets him apart from a lot of guys in rock bands. Not his band, specifically. They're straight edge — some would say to an obnoxious extent. But Punk figures if you have the balls to face life straight, no chaser, you've got a right to say a thing or two about it.
Punk's also a little too into his own schtick most of the time. It's why he keeps his friends around. The people he grew up with and continued forward into life with have always managed to knock him down a peg or two when his ego gets too big for anyone else to have space. And after over 20 years with them all keeping an eye on him, whether the guys in the band with him or his sisters back home, he likes to think he's pretty well-adjusted.
Well-adjusted for a narcissist, his ex-girlfriend Lita likes to remind him when they get together to hang out and watch a game or go to a show. Apparently, lead guitarist in a straight edge band is kind of an overkill on self-important contrarian bullshit. That's why he keeps these people around. They love him, and they're not afraid to hit him with tough love, either.
You are unreachable, about as possible as me touching the moon.
He knows these gigs and the general crew who shows up for them. The hair styles, the clothes, the band t-shirts represented. Which is why his eyes immediately catch it when a guy walks in who absolutely does not belong here. With his naturally brown curls a little too perfectly styled, and a sport coat and pair of slacks that probably cost more than Punk's entire outfit and his guitar put together, he sticks out like a sore thumb in a room full of people with unnaturally colored hair in rooster combs, undercuts, and some just shaved down to skin.
Punk worries at the jewelry in his lip piercing, using his tongue to push it back and forth in the hole. Something isn't right here. This guy is very clearly lost. But he's with friends, who at least seem to know some of the people in the crowd. And like most people, Punk can't resist watching a train wreck go down. An amused smirk on his lips, he runs his hand through his shoulder length, half-grown out, bleach blonde hair. This should definitely be a train wreck.
I am unraveling unbearably empty
Max is one of those people who never ever acts like he's out of place. He's always been that way. Effortlessly confident, at least to outside observers. But inside, at this moment, he's panicking a little bit. His friends had asked him to come out slumming with them to a club, and he's fine with that. But he is pretty damn lost when it comes to what kind of club he's in. It's very obvious that every item of clothing in this building couldn't pay for one of Max's ties. He leans over to his friend, Cody and says, "Are you fucking serious right now? I'm gonna catch the clap by association with these dirty poors."
Cody smirks. "Live a little, dude. Freakiest hookups I've ever had have come from clubs like this."
"And your dick's still attached?" Max asks dubiously. "They probably had to make new antibiotics for the strains of syphilis that crank through these places. I don't even want to touch anything in case there's like… flesh eating bacteria or something. Do these people actually bathe? And like… Wash their clothes?"
Cody can't help a snort of a laugh. "Come on, Max. Guaranteed you'll find at least one person who catches your eye… Like maybe the guy up there on the stage. He's been staring at you."
Max turns to look, and catches a guy onstage, guitar strap slung over his shoulder, looking at him like he has thoughts. Whatever thoughts they may be, Max is pretty sure they're not thoughts a crusty looking poor with a bad dye job should be having in his direction. He catches the other man's eyes and is met with a smirk of amusement. He doesn't like it.
And if this ground gives way I just hope that you'll catch me
Against his better judgment, though, Max strides over to the guitarist, walking like he owns the place. But before he can open his mouth with a smartass remark, the man says, "Are you lost, kid? You look like you were headed to Park Avenue and wound up in a parking lot. Need somebody to call your mommy to come pick you up?"
Max is already pissed. How dare this fucking nobody speak to him this way? "I'm exactly where the fuck I mean to be," he says. "On the other hand, you look like you were headed to a hair appointment and got lost at a peroxide factory."
Punk chuckles. Oh, this wasn't what he expected from his evening, but a little banter with a rich asshole is always a bit of fun, and this kid has rich and asshole written all over him. "Cute. Really. If you'll look around you here, you'll see you're the odd man out with that haircut that probably cost more than my car. So… If I were you, I wouldn't talk too much shit about punks in a punk club. We take care of our own."
Max rolls his eyes, and Punk almost feels for the kid a little bit. He doubts that this guy has ever once felt out of place in his life, and it's worth sticking around just for the hilarity of it all. "If you're feeling inclined to continue trying to insult me, which… Honestly, you probably should get as much practice as you can if these pathetic excuses for shit talk are anything to go by… I'm going to be getting something to drink while the first band plays. You're welcome to walk with me if you don't think you'll get lost doing that, too."
You came and saved me tonight
"You got a name, rich kid?" Punk asks, before pushing through the crowd to make his way over to where a girl with huge tunnels in her ears is serving up drinks – non-alcoholic drinks, since this entire club is straight edge. There aren't many such clubs.
"It's Maxwell… Max," he says, acting annoyed that the other man doesn't know who he is. "You?"
"Yeah. It's Punk. CM Punk."
"Are you some kind of punk rock James Bond wannabe? Because I have to tell you, dude, James Bond wouldn't be caught dead in…" he gestures vaguely at Punk's entire body. " Any of that."
Defending all my life
What Max doesn't notice as he's gesticulating is anyone besides himself and Punk standing around. He very nearly bumps into someone, and Punk grabs his arm to pull him out of the way. "Watch where you're going, kid. Damn. I know you think the world moves out of the way for you and your…" he returns the vague gesturing. "...whatever the fuck this is… but I can tell you here and now? Nobody in this club gives a fuck who your daddy is. We kick each other's asses for fun. And you look like the kind of asshole we all tend to hate, so it's not going to go super well for you."
Whoa, now I'm content with my breath 'cuz I'm alive
When the first band finishes playing and Punk's band is up next, the older man gives Max an evil grin. "Try to stay out of the way, kiddo. I'd hate to see you get hurt."
Max doesn't even dignify that with a reply, but when the band starts playing, he can't tear his eyes away from Punk… the charisma of the older man is just – intriguing. Max needs to know more about this enigmatic man who matched (maybe bested? Probably bested, but Max will never admit it) him in a snark off. Cody makes his way over from where he's been flirting with a girl who… despite Max's insistence that they're in the lowest depths of antibiotic resistant infections… is very cute. He leans against the wall next to Max and smirks at him. "Told you you'd scare up some fun if you looked for it."
"Scare's the key word," Max replies, though he still hasn't looked away from Punk. What exactly is it about a guy who is too old to be strutting around with his lip pierced and sweat soaked bleach blonde hair that has Max's rapt attention? "What the fuck is with these people?"
"You tell me," Cody teases. "I'm not the one drooling over the guy onstage. You tell me what the fuck is with these people, because apparently? It works for you."
"He wishes," Max shoots back, finally turning away from Punk to look at Cody again. "It's cute, really. I think he was hoping I was going to take him out of this place to get a real haircut. And a shirt that doesn't look like it was around in the 70s."
"You've seen way too many movies, Max. Besides, he's a guitarist. Not a stripper."
"You don't know what he does between music gigs. If whatever the fuck this is can even be called music. I would challenge the use of that word."
"Go tell him that," Cody dares Max… and Max has never been one to back down from a dare.
This is the epitome of everything you see in the movies
As he approaches the stage to catch Punk when the band goes on break, Max is pretty sure he'll get a broken jaw for his efforts. But Punk's still wearing that obnoxious, completely cool and collected smirk, and it's driving Max crazy. And when he drops down from the stage in front of Max, he raises an eyebrow in question. "Miss me already, Maxwell?" he asks, loving the way it almost… not quite, but almost… shuts the younger man up.
Almost, though, because as soon as he hears the question, Max comes back with a shrug. "No. I was just worried nobody would tell you that you sound like shit."
Punk snickers, and shakes his head. "Well, if you were looking for Mozart, you got off at the wrong stop for the Philharmonic, and I'm pretty sure it's past their bedtime anyways. So I hate to break it to you, but your options are us, or going the fuck home to whatever lullabies your mommy sings when she puts you to bed. Right before she turns the nightlight on."
This world is a time bomb ticking and I think that I could stop it, if you help me
Max is getting really sick of this guy staying a step ahead of him. He isn't used to it, and it pisses him off, and yet he's still here, digging his heels in and falling deeper into the bullshit instead of extracting himself. What can he say? Max has always been just a little too rash to slow down and think about things. And right now, if he was thinking about anything? It wouldn't be with any level of logic involved.
"How old are you anyways?" Punk asks him, sensing that he's stepped on a nerve, and deciding the only thing to do about that is to now proceed to tapdance on it until Max snaps. "Twelve? Thirteen? You know you're supposed to be an adult to be in a club, right?"
"What the fuck point is there in bringing an ID to a club where I can't get a drink anyways?" Max demands, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a fucking child. But I don't need to be carded to buy gatorade regardless."
"Oh, you're one of those people," Punk says, wrinkling up his nose at Max… which serves to push Max's fury button right up to the edge. "Gotta have a drink to have a good time? I should've figured. You don't belong here, right? Who made you come?"
I am unraveling unbearably empty and if this ground gives way I just hope that you'll catch me
Max doesn't know what makes the honest answer come out of him, but he looks over at where Cody's talking to the same cute girl from before and nods in his direction. "My friend. Cody. Some of our other friends. Wardlow's sister comes here sometimes. But like… she's actually gross like most of the people here."
Punk can't help it. The quickness of the younger man's tongue kind of amuses him, and he would be lying if he said that this pretty rich boy couldn't use some dirtying up – and Punk was very good at dirtying up pretty things, and breaking rich people's toys. And with this guy, the temptation was strong. "You've got a smart mouth on you, Maxwell," he teases. "And a mouthful of a name at that. Did your parents want to make sure you were pretentious enough to go to a fancy private school without getting slammed into lockers?"
My faith will never rust
"It's a family name," Max replies, before realizing that probably didn't sound any less pretentious than just saying the name itself. "But at least I'm not going around telling people my name is… what was it? CD Punk? COD Punk"
Punk doesn't correct him, too amused at watching the other man try to come up with a better insult using Punk's name. "At least my parents named me an actual name. Sounds like yours just stuck their hands in a bag of Scrabble tiles and pulled a few out."
"My parents didn't name me CM Punk," he replies with a shrug. "I did."
No longer to prone bust
"Shocking," Max replies, his youthful face far too amused. Punk wants to wipe the smirk off it for him, but he's not trying to throw hands with a child in a straight edge club. He's done some hideously stupid things, but he's not actually stupid.
Still, the urge to get his hands on Max is strong, and he can't even tell for sure which part of his brain it's coming from.
The whole point for him of being straight edge and avoiding intoxicating substances is that it helps him keep a clear head, be fully aware of what's going on around him and his reactions to it. This kid makes his mind a little cloudy — his intentions less clear, and Punk wonders for a moment if this is what using drugs feels like. He's never had any desire really, but this is different. This is a drug that is loaded with temptation, even for Punk, who has made saying no an entire personality trait.
"What did your parents name you?" Max asks, looking Punk up and down like a parent might look at their daughter's boyfriend who is all their worst nightmares rolled into one.
Oh finally I believe…
Punk smirks. "You help my band pack out our shit? I might just tell you."
"And if I don't?"
"No harm, no foul, no government name."
Max looks the other man over thoughtfully, not quite sure why he wants to know his real name so badly. What he is sure of, though, is that this guy could be fun – at least for tonight. And what he's even more sure of? If he's seen in public with him and pictures find their way to the tabloids, his parents are going to hit the roof. Then again? Max has never been super concerned with behaving himself well or making his parents happy, but lately, as he reaches a certain age, they've been pushing him harder to find a suitable partner. Suitable by their standards, and those of their high-society friends. Relationships of business value.
CM Punk most assuredly won't be that, and for his part, Max kinda likes the idea of his mom's face if this makes one of the society columns, and hell – he's bored. Why not?
"Deal," Max says. "But after that? You let me take you to eat. They said you're from Chicago, so I assume you wouldn't know good pizza if it bit you in the ass.
Punk snorts. "What kind of road dog musician says no to free food?" he jokes.
"I don't know. I'm still stuck on what kind of road dog musician says no to booze. There's all kinds of first time shit going on for me here." The challenge in Max's dark eyes would be obvious from outer space, but for Punk, it's just adding to the fun.
"Fine. You help us pack up, I tell you my real name… you buy me pizza… Then what?"
I am unraveling unbearably empty and if this ground gives way I just hope that you'll catch me
Max pauses for a moment. "I buy you pizza, you come back to my place with me."
"I'm not a hooker, kid. And even if I was, my rate would be higher than a slice of New York pizza. Besides, I'm pretty sure I'm old enough to be your dad, so you should probably consider that."
Yet, even as he tries to talk his way out of it, he finds himself deeply hoping that Max won't take his excuses – that he'll push back just enough. Because for the first time in a long time, Punk, the straight edge, would-be rock star, is jonesing for something strong… and he can't get it in his veins soon enough.
'Cuz I'm alive
"I'm an adult," Max says with a shrug. "Age is just a number when it's not creepy and illegal. And I mean… you might be a little creepy, I'm not sure. But nothing illegal is going on here."
'Cuz I'm alive…
Punk is going to regret this. He knows it before he even gives his assent. Something about this kid feels like breaking edge – something Punk has never done before. And he isn't ready to dive into the world of needing a fix, but for the first time in his life, he's pretty sure that he doesn't have a choice. "Fine," he says. "Pack out, name. Pizza, and I'll come to your place. But I can't stay. We're back on the road in the morning."
"Who asked you to stay?" Max challenges.
"Touche," says Punk, and, downing his soda, turns around and strides back toward the stage for the band's next set.