Watch Me Turn Your Mind Into My Home Chapter 6: Irresistible, a wrestling fanfic

A/N: Lyrics in italics are from "Irresistible" by Fall Out Boy

The next day, Max takes Punk shopping for a few basic things to get him through the day and change before he gets back to his place in Chicago. They start off at a Duane Reade, where Max effectively pushes Punk around the store insisting that he pick out the shit he needs. The cash in Punk's wallet from the show a couple nights ago is thinner than he'd like for it it be heading into traveling back to Chicago in a semi, but Max has a point that being in a truck next to a dude he doesn't know for hours on end will probably go easier if he's got basic hygiene products on deck.

Punk has lived a lot of his life on the road with other dudes, and he's learned to make do with what he has access to in tight spots, but having what he actually needs does kinda work better in the long run. He grabs a cheap bottle of shampoo, a bar of Irish Spring, one of those toothbrushes that folds in on itself to pack easier. Max raises his eyebrow at the shampoo Punk uses (much to Max's surprise, he does actually wash that ridiculous hair sometimes), because he's pretty sure the price tag says 99 cents, and the label says 2-in-1. "Are you literally a fucking feral animal?" Max asks, brown eyes twinkling with mischief. "This must be why your hair looks like…" He waves his hand in a circle at Punk's head. "Like that."

Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile,
I just follow your scent, you can just follow my smile.

"Unlike some people," Punk says, eyeing Max's perfectly styled curls. "I don't have a separate trust fund just for my fucking hair products."

"You don't have a trust fund for anything, Punky," Max replies with a smirk. "Unless you have a jar you toss pennies in that you call 'trust fund' for laughs, or whatever. But seriously… you bleach your hair and then use this shit on it? It's gonna fall out and I'm gonna laugh at your bald ass."

All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine
Cutting me to the bone, nothing left to leave behind.

Max throws an extra toothbrush into the basket, and when Punk gives him a look of confusion, he replies, "I don't trust you to remember to bring the shit you're supposed to bring next time you're in town, so I'm setting you up to succeed… because the thing you did with toothpaste on your finger? Does not cut it."

Punk is about to speak up, ask Max how the hell he knows what Punk does with toothpaste, and Max puts his hand up to stop him. "Nope. Your whole hand smelled like Crest, Phil. Don't bullshit me. You need something, fucking ask me. I'm sure I have it or can get it."

"A less irritating personality?" Punk asks.

"I can't help you get that, Phil… I think you're too old for a new personality at this point."

"I meant yours," he replies, pissed that Max caught him up in his own smartass remark.

Max smirks. "I knew what you meant. But you fucked up with what you said."

You ought to keep me concealed just like I was a weapon,
I didn't come for a fight, but I will fight to the end.

After the pharmacy, Max drags Punk to Nordstrom, against his protests that he doesn't have Nordstom money or Nordstrom style. Max refuses to allow them to go to Target for cheap shit, and insists he will pay for clothes for Punk before he lets anything else in his expensive apartment come in contact with the cheap fabrics that make up Punk's wardrobe. "You didn't seem to have a problem with any of it the last couple nights," Punk challenges, and Max rolls his eyes. "That was a one time deal. If you're gonna be coming back around, I have to make sure you own at least a few decent items of clothing."

Punk's hackles are raised at that, and he gives Max a glare that would melt a lesser man. "How about you mind your own business about what the fuck I wear. If it's a problem, I can easily make it so you never have to deal with my poor person clothes again. I'd really hate to make you touch an offensive fiber."

This one might be a battle, might not turn out okay
You know you look so Seattle, but you feel so LA
LA-Ayyyy, Ayyyy-Ayyyy
Ayyyy-Ayyyy, Ayyyy-Ayyyy

Max rolls his eyes and glares at Punk. "You know, the ego thing? It's not cute on you. You're way too full of yourself for a guy in his 40s still making his living in a punk rock band. Peter Pan's a cute movie when you're five, but I wouldn't call it a life plan."

"Are you seriously giving me shit about my ego?" Punk asks, before the rest of Max's words hit him directly in the face. "What the fuck? I already told you I'm not 40 yet, and my band is doing just fine, so mind your own business."

The snicker Max lets out gets under Punk's skin that much more, but he can't walk away from him despite how much he might want to. And not just because he doesn't have a ride home otherwise. "Come on, Punky," Max teases, knowing the nickname on top of a nickname drives the other man batty already, and knowing just as much that he wants to do that… to get under Punk's skin and drive him crazy. "Worst case scenario, you get the nicest underwear you've ever owned and your balls will thank you later."

And I love the way you hurt me,
It's irresistible, ohh-yeah
Ohhhhh, Ohhhhhhhh yeah
I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me, baby
I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me, baby.

As much as he wants to argue with Max, Punk realizes that he kind of owes the dude, so if Max decides he wants to collect payment by spending money on Punk? Who is he to say no?

As they walk through the store, Max throws way too many things into their shopping cart, and Punk genuinely can't figure out how the hell he's supposed to wear all of those things over the course of the next 24 to 48 hours. He cocks his head to the side looking at Max, then the cart, then back at Max. "You… You do understand I'm leaving tomorrow, right?" he asks Max. "Like… not sure when I'll be back and don't plan to ever be here long enough to need a whole fucking wardrobe. If I'm gonna stay with you when I'm in town, at most, I just need a couple changes of clothes, and I'm literally not going to need anything you can buy here… unless it's these supposed god-tier underwear you speak of."

I'm gonna get you to burst just like you were a bubble,
Frame me up on your wall just to keep me out of trouble.

"You're coming back at some point, and when you hang out with me, you're going to wear clothes that don't make me itch," Max replies easily. He's used to getting his way – at least from anyone who isn't his parent – and Punk can tell. All that does is make him want to break this little rich boy and put him in his place – teach him some fucking respect. Not that he really expects any respect out of this asshole kid.

"How bout I just don't wear clothes when I hang out with you, and we don't have that issue at all?" Punk counters. Max shoots him a glare, but doesn't bother with a verbal reply.

Like a moth getting trapped in the light by fixation
Truly free, love it, baby, I'm talking no inflation.

When all is said and done, Max and Punk have met in the middle – underwear and undershirts, socks, and that's it. Although Max insists on designer whatever the fuck even for that, and Punk knows there's no arguing the point. At least the clothes are nice and should last a while… And as much as he hates to say it, after they get back to Max's place and he takes a shower, Punk puts on the boxer briefs Max chose for him, and has to admit that they are obnoxiously soft and comfortable.

Punk almost feels bad that Max is doing so many nice things for him. Almost. Horseshoes and hand grenades. When you're on the road all the time, it's kind of nice to have soft places to land. Punk's been through a lot of things, and he finds that, when he has somewhere to go after a show, someone to pass the time with, it helps keep the emptiness at bay.

Too many war wounds and not enough wars
Too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores.

If he weren't straight edge, Punk honestly has no doubt that he would be dead already. A long time ago. He's heard way too many stories of people filling the emptiness inside them with drugs or booze. Hell, he's lived through it with other people himself – and it never ends well. It always turns into a hell you can't get out of. He's made it through without killing himself with drugs, and he feels pretty good about that. But still, the emptiness remains. The feeling of never quite having what he needs just to survive, but pushing through anyway, because it's the only goddamn thing there is. When the hole inside you is all you have, it starts to feel something like home.

Punk's not sorry for the things he has chosen to fill the emptiness with. That might make him an asshole, but he's never been accused of being anything less than that. His greatest need is to feel wanted, loved, needed… like he fucking matters. And there isn't much he won't do to achieve that, despite the fact that sometimes, the results are less than preferable… Sometimes people get hurt… more often than not, really. He's never quite learned how to have people love him without destroying them in the process. He hates it. He always has. But he's never figured it out, and that hasn't been enough to keep him from trying – and leaving a string of heartbreaks in his wake.

Too many sharks, not enough blood in the waves
You know I give my love a f-f-four letter name
Name-Ayyyy, Ayyyy-Ayyyy
Ayyyy-Ayyyy, Ayyyy-Ayyyy

Max doesn't want Punk to leave yet. He hates it, but he can't help it. Having the older man around has felt kind of nice, despite the fact that they bicker as much as they do anything. He's never had trouble finding things to do, but he's always had a problem with not feeling bored by his life. Punk is the opposite of boring. If nothing else, he keeps things interesting, keeps Max on his toes, and makes for a lot of fun fact is, it feels nice just to have someone that he enjoys spending time with. Someone just a little outside his comfort zone. Or way outside if he's being totally honest.

Max tells Punk to just leave whatever of his clothes he won't need again soon, since it's already been made pretty clear that he'll be back in New York at some point, and Max has "people" to do his laundry for him. Punk is pretty sure that Max has "people" to do just about everything, and it almost amuses him… if it gets under his skin a little bit too. Tonight, though – he doesn't want to think about the things that suck. He just wants to have a good night with Max and appreciate the time they've had together. However that might look.

Freshly cleaned up from his shower, Punk joins Max in the living room on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table, intentionally ignoring the look of disgust Max is giving him from a foot away. "Thanks," Punk says, grudgingly, but he does mean it. "You were right about the underwear."

"Heaven for your balls, right?" Max says, with a goofy grin in Punk's direction.

"Not the way I would've thought to describe it, but fair enough," Punk replies, shaking his head. "You're so fucking weird."

"And yet you're here with a weirdo you don't know?" Max challenges. "Isn't that how serial killer stories start?"

"I thought they usually started with bringing home a handsome drifter with a fake name, but what do I know?" Punk says, smirking as Max shifts closer to him. Without even looking at each other directly, Max ends up pushed against Punk's side and the older man's arm wraps around his chest.

You're second-hand smoke, second-hand smoke
I breathe in, but, honey, I don't know
What you're doing to me, mon cherie.
But the truth catches up with us eventually.

Punk hates the easy familiarity that he's already found with Max. He hates even more that it can't last, and that ultimately, it's going to blow up in his face too. And when it does, it's going to take Max out, too. Collateral damage.

Max is quiet for a moment before he says, "You know… I hope you have another show in New York soon. Or maybe I can come to Chicago sometime to see you. I travel a lot anyways. Might as well meet up and see you when I can."

Punk doesn't want to hurt Max – not when he's already been so fucking nice – in the most asshole of ways. And he doesn't want to fuck this whole thing up in the short remaining time that they have together. There's so much he should say… so much he should explain. But this feels so good right now, and for the moment, what feels good to CM Punk is going to have to come before doing the right thing or saying the right thing. He will come to regret it, he's sure… but the distance will make it easier when the time comes.

Try to say live, live and let live
But I'm no good, good at lipservice.
Except when they're yours, mi amor
I'm coming for you, and I'm making war.

But for now? He's going to lean in. He holds Max close to him and kisses him on top of his head. "I really appreciate you helping me out here, Max. I would've made it back to Chicago, but you made it way less of a pain in the ass. The Greyhound would've sucked."

"As long as I am around, you will never ever take a Greyhound," Max says, nose crinkled in disgust. "You'll show up at my place with some kind of disgusting infestation and smelling like homelessness. I won't let that happen. I'm not opposed to hooking up with dirty bad boys, but… there's levels to this shit, and I draw the line at Greyhounds."

And I still love the way you hurt me,
It's irresistible, ohh-yeah
Ohhhhh, Ohhhhhhhh yeah
I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me, baby
I love the way, I love the way, I love the way you hurt me, baby.

"Do you ever shut up?" Punk asks. "I'm trying to thank you for helping me out, and you're still flapping your gums."

"Why would I shut up when you look so damn good pissed off?" Max teases, reaching behind him to curl his fingers into Punk's still-wet hair. "But you're welcome. I accept payment in sexual favors and pissing my parents off."

"Haven't I already paid you then?" Punk asks, working his lip jewelry between his teeth.

"You had up until the shopping trip," Max replies, turning to look Punk with a smirk. "But you better get to work paying your bills before you leave tomorrow."

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