A/N: Lyrics are from "I May Hate Myself in the Morning" by Lee Ann Womack

Chapter 8: I May Hate Myself in the Morning

Punk's feeling a little more sure on his feet as they make their way to Max's room, but that doesn't change the fact that Max has his arm around Punk's waist, ready to take on the other man's weight at a moment's notice if needed. It's kind of cute seeing Max so attentive and caring. It's not the first time by any means, but it's certainly the first time in recent memory. Almost without thinking about it, Punk lets himself lean in a little, letting some of his weight rest on Max despite being pretty sure he's got this on his own if he needs to.

Ain't it just like one of us
To pick up the phone and call after a couple drinks?

In Max's room, he makes Punk sit on the bed before he moves away from him, helping him out of his t-shirt and jeans. "Lie down, okay?" He has his phone in his hands, typing away quickly, and Punk tilts his head, wondering just exactly what's suddenly distracted Max.

"What are you doing?" he asks him softly, shifting his body back a little to rest his back against the headboard.

"Googling how to take care of someone with a concussion," Max replies, rolling his eyes. "Since I apparently can't trust you to do what you're supposed to do."

And say, "How you been? I've been wondering if
Maybe you've been thinkin' about me."

"Awww," Punk says, shaking his head. The tone is almost teasing, but there's a sweet fondness in it, too, and he's not sure if Max caught it or not. "Little Maxy taking care of the old man, huh?" he asks, and if his tone hadn't told on him, the softness of his smile does.

"Somebody has to," Max replies, but the hint of a smile is teasing his lips, too. "Because god knows the old bastard's not taking care of himself, is he?"

And somewhere in the conversation
An old familiar invitation always arrives.

"Fair," Punk says, running his hand through his hair and wincing when his fingers brush against the spot where his head hit the floor. Well, that's gonna be something he's gonna wanna keep an eye on, clearly.

"You okay?" Max asks, tossing his own shirt into a hamper and following it with his jeans before he climbs into the bed next to Punk.

"Oh, you mean aside from the concussion your best friend just gave me? Yeah, aside from that, I feel like a million bucks." His tone is soft, though. Warm… The way it used to be on those rare occasions when everything had gone right and they were together, enjoying their time with each other instead of finding a new thing to fight about every day.

"Yeah, aside from that," Max replies, shaking his head. "Asshole."

And I may hate myself in the morning,
But I'm gonna love you tonight.

Punk turns to look at Max in the dim light of the lamp, which is the only thing illuminating the room, and his hazel-green eyes seek out the brown ones that still feel so familiar to him. He can see the worry there, and he really doesn't want Max to worry. Not about this. Not about him. "Hey," he says softly, cupping his hand against Max's cheek. "It's okay, Max. I'm fine. Little rattled, but… But I'll be okay. Not the first time I've taken a hard bump on the head, and if experience is anything to go by? It won't be my last either."

"Not with the mouth you've got on you," Max says, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, I always figured there's probably like… at least a good decade you've cut off your lifespan just by not knowing how to shut the fuck up."

Everyone's known someone that they
Just can't help but want

Punk's hand is still touching Max's face, and he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to lose this moment where, yes, he has a concussion, and yes, he's in pain, but Max is here. Right here, close and warm, and gentle, and all the things that had made their time together worth the hell it brought with it.

It's been a long, hard five years living without Max… and it was a long hard… however long it was before that, living with him, but in these quiet moments they have together, he can't help thinking that the time with Max was still better than the time without him. He knows it's rose-colored glasses that he's looking through, but everything looks so much better in their light… and in the comfort of the presence of this man that has always and will always hold onto a part of him.

Even though we just can't make it work out
The want-to lingers on.

Max turns his head, almost like he knows what Punk's thinking – almost like he's thinking the same thing, and there's nothing Punk can do but to close the small amount of space between them and kiss Max hungrily – almost desperately. He can feel Max's hand feebly pressed against his chest, as if he's going to push him away, but before it has even fully registered, that same hand has curled around the back of Punk's neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He wants to hold on to this, but Max breaks the kiss and tucks his head in under Punk's chin where there's no chance of them kissing again – not in the position they're in anyway.

So once again we wind up in each other's arms
Pretending that it's right.

Punk's heart is racing, and his mind is right behind it, but this feels right. This has always felt right. Even when nothing else feels right in their relationship, the physical has always felt right. The chemistry has always been there – and Punk was never much good at science, but even the dumbest motherfucker in the world knows that chemistry can make life better for people, or it can make a lot of toxic mixtures that destroy everything they touch.

And I may hate myself in the morning,
But I'm gonna love you tonight.

Still holding onto Punk, Max tries to catch his breath… tries to catch up with his brain. He can feel his ex's hand threading through his curls, and he feels an aching pang of want – of the overwhelming need to let Punk kiss him, hold him, love him… remind him that he's more than the trash someone threw away – that with everything Adam had done to break him, he's still worthy of being wanted. That somebody in this fucked up life might actually give a fuck about him despite what a piece of shit he's proven himself to be over and over again. That someone might still love him, despite the way that everything in life has shown that's highly unlikely.

Punk's hands slide gently down Max's back, and he playfully gives Max's ass a soft squeeze, but Max reaches back and pulls Punk's hand away, pulling back to look up at the older man sternly. "What are you doing, Phil? You have a fucking concussion!"

"Yeah, and you have a fucking dump truck, so what the fuck do you want from me?" he asks with a smirk.

"Jesus Christ, did you seriously just unironically use the term 'dump truck'? Because I'm going to need you to never utter that term again… otherwise I'm gonna have to murder you in your sleep, and that's just… a fucking mess to clean up." Max's face is completely serious, because there are some people who aren't supposed to use some phrases, and Phil Brooks should never, ever use the phrase "dump truck" to refer to anyone's ass.

And I know it's wrong,
But it ain't easy movin' on.

"I was under the impression that's what the kids these days are calling an ass of the quality that you have," Punk replies. "At least, that's what my nieces tell me, and they're pretty up on the trends and the new slang… Try to keep their old uncle apprised of the situation."

"Yeah," Max says. "The kids these days, Punk. Not the 45-year-old washed up punk band guitarists who are trying to come onto guys that are too young and way too hot for them. I was starting to worry that goddamn concussion had given you a permanent traumatic brain injury. Which it still might, if you don't chill the fuck out. What kind of dude do you think I am? I'm acting as your nurse tonight, and there's fuckin' ethical concerns to this shit."

So why can't two friends
Remember the good times once again?

"Ethical concerns that are cool with you getting in bed with me in your underwear, Nurse Max, but draw the line at a game of grab ass?" Punk challenges, his face very serious despite the overwhelmingly hard-to-resist urge to burst into laughter.

Max wants to scream sometimes, because it has always felt like Punk's just a step ahead of him on the smartmouth bullshit that has made up so much of their relationship and their conversations within it. But he's good at it, and Max would be lying if he said that this wasn't one of the things that attracted him in the first place. All those years ago in that bar, the dude with stringy bleach blonde hair and the incredibly sharp tongue had owned him almost immediately, and even with age and darker hair getting to him, he's pretty sure that Punk still holds onto him in ways he'll never escape.

Tomorrow, when I wake up,
I'll be feelin' a little guilty, a little sad

He opens his mouth to say something to Punk, but the older man puts his finger to his lips. "Shh… Just… You're not a real nurse. You have no ethical obligations here, and I've got a headache, but it ain't gonna kill me. I missed you, Max. You can't tell me you didn't miss me, too."

Max doesn't say anything at first. He's caught in the way the lamp light shines in Punk's eyes. They look a little more green at this angle… or at least the one eye that's not rocking a blown pupil as a result of the concussion. Easy save. "Punk… You look like shit," Max says, shaking his head. "This isn't the time."

Thinking how it used to be
Before everything went bad.

"According to you, I've always looked like shit," Punk counters, curling his arm around Max and pulling him close again. His free hand is cupping Max's cheek again as he continues. "So if that makes you think it's not the time for us to… do anything, you spent a lot of time violating your practiced medical opinion. Do you want to? That's the only thing that matters to me. Everything else is bullshit. I just want to know what you want."

Max looks away from Punk, not trusting himself looking at the man he has loved for so long. Even as he looks away, fighting the urge to give in to what they both want, his hand has already curled around Punk's wrist – holding on, despite it all.

I guess that's what it is in lonely
Late night calls like this that we try to find.

Punk's hand shifts just a little bit to hold Max's chin and turn his face back to meet his gaze. "Please, Max… Just tell me what you want." He's embarrassed that it sounds like he's pleading… maybe even more embarrassed that it sounds like he's pleading because he is. But he feels like shit, and he knows Max feels like shit, though the reasons are different, and he knows that, if they let themselves have this, there will at least be a little time when they're not both focused on the pain.

I may hate myself in the morning
But I'm gonna love you tonight.

Max's sigh is soft – sweet, as he looks up at Punk. He gives him the slightest nod, and then Punk's lips are on his again, and this time? Max doesn't pull away.

I may hate myself in the morning,
But I'm gonna love you tonight.