A/N: Song by The Killers

Chapter 9: When You Were Young

Punk's used to waking up next to someone… This definitely isn't the first time. But waking up next to this person is something altogether different than he's been used to for the last five years. Max. Still sleeping, the younger man is the little spoon to Punk's big spoon, and Piper's furry little ass lies coiled in the crook of Max's arm, her tail wrapped around her. Max's breathing is soft… even, and Punk doesn't want to wake him. In fact, he wishes he weren't awake either at the moment, because his head feels like it's literally been split open and patched back together with duct tape. It fucking hurts. His mouth still vaguely holds the metallic taste of blood, and the taste of kissing Max lingers on his lips. Just when he thought he'd forgotten what it was like to hold Max close in the aftermath of spending the night together, he remembers, and the part that makes it hurt the most is the knowledge that he won't be able to keep this going forever, no matter how much he might wish he could. He knows himself. He knows Max. He knows the toxic mix of their lives into one will only ultimately destroy them both.

His mouth is so dry, but the thought of disturbing Max keeps him from going to get water just yet. It'll have to wait. Everything will have to wait until Max has gotten some rest and woken up on his own. Punk nuzzles his nose softly into the back of Max's neck, inhaling the familiar scent of Max's sweat mixed with his expensive soap and even more expensive cologne. Punk has no idea what it is, but he knows he's smelled it so many times since he and Max broke up, and he knows that every single time he smells it, it brings him right back here – to the side of the man he loves, but has never been able to love enough.

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to,
To save you from your old ways

Max stirs in his arms, and Punk holds his breath for a moment. He so badly doesn't want to wake Max up. Not now that he's resting well. And if that means Punk stays lying next to him in bed while his bladder tries to explode and he holds his breath until he's blue, then that will just have to be what it is. One of Max's hands slowly rubs his arm, and though his eyes aren't open, Max gives a contented little sigh. It warms Punk's heart, and he can't help tightening his arms just a little around the man he loves.

God, Punk hadn't realized just how much he missed these quiet little moments – the way it had felt to have Max relax against him on those mornings when they'd both been able to stay in bed, sleep in, wake up together lazily… The days when Punk had spent the first part of the morning fooling around with Max, and then risen to cook them breakfast in his underwear. Pancakes were usually the breakfast of choice – Max has a sweet tooth that he usually denies in pursuit of keeping his trim, muscular physique. Those memories are still beautiful to him, despite the years lost between then and now… despite the ugly, brutal memories that fill the spaces in between.

You play forgiveness,
Watch it now, here he comes.

Max shifts again, and Punk is quiet, but he feels his ex's body backing up to press closer to him. Punk almost lets a soft hum escape him at how fucking good it feels to hold Max, despite how much he hurts otherwise from his Cody-related injuries. He carefully tucks his chin in against Max's shoulder and sighs softly, enjoying the comfort of having him so close. He smiles just a little as Max seems to snuggle just that little bit closer to him, and then the other man's voice, creaky and soft with sleep, breaks the silence. "Adam, don' wanna get up yet… Le's jus' stay in bed."

If Max had kicked him in the balls, Punk's pretty sure it couldn't have hurt worse than this. He immediately tenses, not even trying to – just because that's the way his body and mind react to Max's calling him by another man's name. Nevermind the fact that said other man is the one Max has been used to waking up next to for who knows how long. It doesn't matter. It feels like a sucker punch. It hurts worse than anything he's felt in a long fucking time. He doesn't say anything, but he feels a rush of hurt, of rage, of panic, and he can hear his fucking heartbeat in his feels everything all at once, and he pulls away from Max, disentangling their limbs and slipping away quickly. Even in his blinding pain, he pulls the blanket back over Max so he won't be cold in the sudden absence of Punk's body heat. In the moments after, he won't even remember that he did that, but it's the right thing to do.

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,
But he talks like a gentleman,
Like you imagined
When you were young.

Punk is on his feet and scrambling, trying to gather his thoughts and his clothes and get the hell out of here. Unfortunately for him, once he's up, the symptoms of his concussion hit a lot harder, and he's dizzy and feels like he might either fall over or throw up. He raises his hand to his temple, pressing gently against it as he stands, as if somehow he can push normal brain function back in with the palm of his hand. Still, he feels sick, and being on his feet isn't helping. He wants – no needs – to get out of this room before Max realizes what's happened, because he can't do this… He thought he could come here and love Max exactly where he is, but that was before he heard this man he's spent too much time with and too much time apart from calling him another man's name.

Max turns in the bed, shifting to look at Punk. His eyes are bleary with sleep, and his body is a little achey from last night's activities. He sighs, shaking his head as if to shake the cobwebs loose. "Punk, what are you doing? Come back to bed. You have a concussion. You can't make sudden moves like that. Sit down." It's clear from his reaction that he doesn't even realize what he said in his sleep, and that should give Punk a little bit of comfort. But it doesn't. It doesn't at all. It just feels like, even in his sleep, he can't truly want to be with Punk, and as stupid as that sounds, even to him, it's the only thing his head will give him.

Can we climb this mountain? I don't know.
HIgher now than ever before

Punk's throat is tight and he's shaking his head, but even that seems to be giving him a hell of a case of the spins that he can't deal with for too long. As much as he's trying to pull away from his ex, get his shit together, get out of here, he can't do it because he's likely to fucking kill himself just by trying to walk out of the bedroom right now. "You… I shouldn't be here, Max. I shouldn't. I gotta go. I'm sorry. I fucked up…"

The younger man's eyes are focused now, directly on Punk's face, and he is very clearly unconvinced that Punk is going anywhere, at least in the state he's currently in. "So what, you drive all the way back to New York to fuck me, get a concussion, and leave? That's cute. And disturbingly like you. But you're fucking concussed and you're not going anywhere until you're not concussed, so you can sit your ass down on the bed right now, or I can tie you to a chair, and at the moment, I'm in much better physical shape than you are, so don't argue with me."

"You can't fucking hold me hostage, Maxwell," Punk says. "There's laws against shit like that."

"Then call the cops, Phillip. We all know how much cops love punk rock dudes who love punk so much they made it their name. Honestly, the cops are definitely going to believe you over someone with the kind of money and recognition that I have. So please, by all means. Go for it. Chances are my dad bought them their new uniforms or something, so they're not going to want to fuck that up for themselves." Max gives Punk a look that clearly challenges him to come up with an argument to that.

I know we can make it if we take it slow
Let's take it easy,
Easy now, watch it go

And there's no doubt that Punk wants to argue, but his head hurts, and he feels so unsteady on his feet, and to top it all off, now Max thinks he only came here for sex. After everything they've been through – after everything he's put Max through – he can't leave with that impression. Max has just lost a person he's loved for who knows how long. Punk certainly doesn't know, because he hasn't fucking been here. He sits down on the bed, knowing that if he ever wants anything other than being a heartbreak for the millionth time for Max, he has to fucking sit here and at least try to talk this out. He doesn't want to go. And he certainly doesn't want Max to think he's being used… even if to an extent, Punk feels as if Max is the one using him, to fill the empty space that Adam left behind in his bed and in his life.

"You wanna tell me why all of a sudden after we hooked up again, you decided that it was time to just get out of here without so much as a goodbye? Because honestly, Phil? Even as terrible as we were for each other our entire time knowing each other, you always had the fucking decency to pick a nasty fight before you left me before." Max's brutal honesty cuts deep, and Punk feels like if the concussion symptoms don't end him, the sharp cut of Max's words might.

We're burning down the highway skyline
On the back of a hurricane that started turning
When you were young.

"Because you… Fuck…"

"Because I fuck? That's… never been a problem for you before. Wanna try again?"

"You called me Adam," Punk says softly, running his fingers through his messy hair and, not for the first time, missing the length his hair had once been. "And I felt like… like maybe you didn't…" Why is this so easy with everyone else in the world but not with Max? Punk is known for being honest to a fault – to the point of being a complete asshole and pissing everyone off on a fairly constant basis. But with Max, honesty is the most terrifying thing. Honesty and opening up and showing Max the soft parts of him that he's already damaged so many times before. It hurts. It's too fucking much, and it hurts like hell. "I thought maybe you didn't want me to be here and you just… needed to be able to deal with your shit with Adam without me here complicating things. I didn't mean to make it weird and complicated for you. I feel like shit about it."

"Feel like shit because you may have made something hard for me?" Max asks, his voice measured and even. "Or feel like shit because you thought that somehow, after 5 years, you were going to swoop in here like Superman and somehow instantly heal the loss of a relationship that meant… So fucking much to me, with what? The power of your magic dick or something? Come on, Phil. I've known you long enough to know what your mind is like."

When you were young.

Punk's eyebrows raise as he looks at Max. There's a maturity to the younger man that wasn't there before, and it's unsettling for Punk, who is used to always being the voice of reason – or at least always trying to be. More than that, it's a level of defeat – as if Max has had to become this aware of things other people are thinking about just because so many people, Punk included, have hurt him along the way. The thought makes Punk's stomach ache. "I just… don't want you to feel like you're settling for something you don't want with me, even if it's just… just for a little while, you know? You had a guy you were ready to spend forever with, and I just… I'm here because I want to make you feel better, and I don't want you to feel like you're just settling for something with me…"

Max shakes his head firmly. "Phillip Brooks, if you don't shut the fuck up, I swear to god, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands. Are you here for me or are you here to get your fucking ego fed by me telling you that you're the best in the world and nobody has ever been better for me than you? Because I won't tell you that, because it's fucking bullshit, and you know it. You were terrible for me. I was terrible for you. I called you because I was hurting and brokenhearted, and somehow, as fucked up as it was, I thought you might give a damn. Because I knew you loved me. I never didn't know that. I just knew both of us had really fucked up ways of showing love, and eventually, it blew up on us."

The words hit Punk hard… sharp, like a dagger straight to his heart, cutting through the cartilage between his ribs, not even nicking bone as it seeks and finds its target. "I…" He looks up, Max's eyes daring him to lie – daring him to say a single goddamn word that isn't in full agreement with the truth his words have just delivered. He swallows, trying to will the right words to his mind, and he's usually so fucking good with talking – no… he's good with saying what people want to hear, or what will get him to the place he wants to be. Punk is a master manipulator. He knows it. He owns it. It's his cross to bear after all the years of abuse and neglect as a child turned into all the years of making his own way as a man. If he had to lie, cheat, and steal every step of the way to get himself through life, he did it, and he's not sorry for it.

And sometimes you close your eyes
And see the place where you used to live
When you were young.

But he is sorry for the hurt he left behind him. He is sorry that people who matter to him have wounds that have never healed because of him and the hurt he left in his wake. He will never stop being sorry for that. Especially when it comes to Max. He still struggles to utter those words, because it's been so fucking long in life that he's felt that he has had no choice and done the best he could with a shitty situation, and as much as he might believe that, apologies seem to make him look weak – at least in his mind. He doesn't want to be weak. He doesn't want to be seen as weak. But right now, with his head splitting and his eyes pricked with the mix of exhaustion and tears, and the room still somewhat spinning, he wants Max. He wants to be the man that Max deserves, not the one that he settles for.

They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet.
You don't have to drink right now,
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while.

"I'm sorry," Punk says. The two hardest words in the English language as far as he's concerned… though the next two give them a run for their money. "You're right." He's still feeling like he's going to fall over or puke, but somehow when he's said the words, he feels a little bit lighter… as if he hasn't completely got everything on his shoulders the way he usually does. As if maybe this one time, he's letting Max act as an equal partner with him instead of as a child who needs protecting from the world.

"Holy shit," Max says, a smirk crossing his lips. "Did Phillip Jack Brooks just say both that I'm right and that he's sorry? Right here and now? Write down the date and time, this is a goddamn historical event. Everybody remembers where they were when 9/11 happened, or when the Berlin Wall came down… I mean, not me, I wasn't even a glimmer in my dad's eye when the Berlin Wall came down, but I'm sure you remember, right, Gramps? Back in the olden times?"

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways

If Punk weren't concussed, he would have a better comeback for that… at least that's what he tells himself. But right now, all he's got is, "Yes, Max. I remember where I was when the Berlin Wall came down. Because I was alive then. Because I'm ancient and wise, so you should listen to me once in a while."

"Never gonna happen," Max replies. "You can take your ancient wisdom and shove it up your equally ancient ass. But first? Breakfast."

You play forgiveness,
Watch it now,
Here he comes

"No," Punk says, reaching out to grab Max's hand and turning to him – much more slowly than usual, because he's not trying to stir the dizzy spell back up to a fever pitch again. "First, come here."

Max rolls his eyes, but gives in to Punk's gentle tug on his hand, letting himself slip into the older man's embrace. Punk's arms go around Max's shoulders, and the younger man tucks his nose into Punk's neck. "You know I've… I've been waking up next to Adam almost every day for two years," he tells Punk. "I haven't woken up next to you in more than twice that amount of time. It makes sense that my mind would assume that it was Adam when I woke up next to somebody. It didn't have anything to do with you or him. It's a proximity thing… Unlearning muscle memory."

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,
But he talks like a gentleman,
Like you imagined when you were young.

But even as he says it, he knows – muscle memory may be unlearned with the way that Adam's name comes unbidden to his lips. But fitting into Punk's arms in just the right way that feels like he was literally made to be there? Is muscle memory that his mind will never be able to erase. One way or another, he will always remember this – always know exactly how to tuck his body into Punk's and feel at home.

Talks like a gentleman,
Like you imagined when you were young.

Punk kisses Max softly, brushing his cheek gently against the younger man's soft brown curls. "Hey, Max?" he says softly, hoping like hell that this is real and not some sort of weird concussion related hallucination. "Did we actually just talk our differences out?"

"I know," Max replies, pressing the palm of his hand to Punk's chest. "I'm as shocked as you are. But I think we did. Which, I gotta say? Kinda impressive for us."

I said he doesn't look a thing like Jesus.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus,
But more than you'll ever know.

"I love you," Punk says, holding Max close to him. "No matter what has happened, Max. I love you."

"You got mushy in your old age," Max teases. "And I'm not in the mood for you being cute and adorable before I've had something to eat. Let's go."