A/N: The song is "Pretty Noose" by Soundgarden
Chapter 7: Pretty Noose
In the moments that follow, Punk doesn't say anything right away. His jaw radiates pain, his ears are ringing, and he tastes blood. He's not entirely sure he hasn't also bounced his head off the floor when he tumbled backward, but everything is a little bit off at the moment and it may take some time for him to even have a clue what has happened to him altogether.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears Max yelling… at him? … at Cody? He really can't be sure which of them it is. He's not quite grasping words right now, with the shock he's in from the unexpected blow, and it almost feels like he's hearing things from deep inside a tunnel. He assumes the yelling is directed at him, given that he and Max were fighting seconds ago, but he can't quite lock onto what's going on either way.
I caught the moon today,
Pick it up and throw it away, all right.
Max is on the floor next to him seconds later, on his knees, and Punk's head's still a little swimmy, but Max's hand is cool and gentle against his cheek, and for now? He'll focus on that. It's the best he can do. "Are you okay?" Max asks, brown eyes locked in on Punk's face, but as hard as he tries to focus on Max's face, Punk can't do it. He must really be concussed, because everything feels wrong, and he can't seem to find a foothold in getting his mind to cooperate either. He used to bounce back easily from taking a hit – He's in a punk band… Getting hit has been kind of a way of life for him since he was young – and not just because of the career he's been in as long as he's been able to play a couple guitar chords.
" 'm okay, Max," Punk mumbles, but he's not okay, and Max knows it.
"You need to go to the hospital," he insists, but even in his current state, Punk isn't gonna let that happen.
" 'm fine," Punk pushes back. "I jus' need a minute. Help me up."
I got the perfect steal,
A cleaner love with a dirty feel, all right.
"What the fuck, Cody?!" Max demands, furious and also kind of figuring his ex deserved it for one reason or another. "You just come into my apartment and fucking attack my guest?!"
Punk tunes it out, but Cody's sharp blue eyes are locked in on Max's as he tries to help his former partner off the floor. "You said it was just a call, Max," Cody says. "He wasn't gonna come here from Chicago, but that looks like a hell of a lot of being here from Chicago in the form of that fucking asshole."
"I didn't ask him to come!" Max spits back, and Punk isn't sure how he feels about that. It's true, but it feels like he's being sold out to Cody, and why does he even fucking care? It's Cody. Cody's never liked him, probably never will, and Punk knows it. He's pretty sure he's earned it, too, so he can't hold it against him. But Punk's here for Max. He came here because somewhere, lost in his twisted and fucked up soul, is a love for Max that's stronger than anything he's ever felt. It's just that the twisted and fucked up parts are too loud and he can't seem to find his way past them. He never has. Too stuck on his own schtick… Too full of his own self importance… so good at selling bullshit that even he has bought in, hook, line, and sinker.
Fallout and take the bait,
Eat the fruit and kiss the snake goodnight.
Punk leans heavily on Max, carefully trying to get his feet under him without losing his balance, and despite the younger man's insistence, the older one pushes them both back toward the living room and the comfort of the couch. Or what would be the comfort of the couch if Piper weren't 100% living for stretching her fluffy little ass across as much of it as she could cover. Max made her move to make space for Punk, and both of the other men in the apartment were shocked. Max didn't make Piper move for anyone – apparently unless said anyone was an injured Punk.
Why on earth these are the thoughts Punk's concussed brain lets him latch onto, rather than, hell… just about anything else, he'll never fully understand. It doesn't make sense.
Common ruse, dirty face
Pretty noose is pretty hate
But what does make sense is when they make it to the couch, and Max sits down close to his side, arm still around him, and raises a glass of water to Punk's lips. The older man takes a sip of the cold water and then turns to tuck his head into Max's shoulder.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Goddammit. He really should've gotten out of here when he had the chance. Or maybe he shouldn't have come at all. Because the familiarity of being this close to Max… the way that Max takes care of him without even being asked… is almost painful. No, fuck almost. It just is painful.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
He should've let Joe break both his legs to keep him away, but even then… it might have delayed him. It wouldn't have stopped him. Because Punk's a stubborn bastard and he wasn't about to start giving in easily now. He's played shows with broken bones before. He would've found a way to get here. He would've thrown himself to the wolves because that's what he did when it came to Max. Nobody else got Punk to this level of stupid, and as far as he knew, no one ever would.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Cody's shaking with anger, and Max can see it, even as he, without even really thinking about it, cups his hand against the back of Punk's head and rubs his cheek against the older man's hair. He's just as pissed as Cody is, if not more so, and he still hasn't figured out who pissed him off more – Punk or Cody. He hates them both at the moment, though convincing his body and the muscle-memory way he looks after Punk of that? Maybe not quite so easy to do.
With Punk's face still tucked into the crook of Max's neck, the younger man locks in on Cody. "You had no fucking right," he says, dark brown eyes daring Cody to speak. "You are my friend… hell, you're more like my brother. And I love you. But what the hell made you think you could just walk into my place and punch Punk when he didn't even do shit to you?"
Let your motor race,
Pick it up and get this mother gone.
"He's gonna do shit to you," Cody replies evenly. "He's gonna break you again, Max, and I'm fucking tired of it. Hasn't he done this enough times? For the love of God, Max. Why do you fucking insist on touching the hot burner to know it's hot? It's bright red. It's burned you a million times. But you just have to test it again? Come the fuck on."
There's a voice in the back of Punk's head that really wants to tell them to both shut the fuck up and stop acting like he's not here, or worse, like he's a dumb animal or a little kid who doesn't understand that he's being talked about. But he feels too shitty right now, isn't convinced he hasn't bitten a hole through his tongue, and kind of wants to die… or to make Cody die. He's not sure which at the moment.
Out from and far away,
The wooden stake this thing has got me on.
Max shakes his head, but gently, almost as if he knows how very little motion it would take to make Punk throw up all over the expensive couch and living room. But even that very gentle movement makes Punk groan and cling tighter to Max's shirt. It's strange to him how comforting it is just to have Max there, even when he's being talked about by Max and Cody right in fucking front of him. "Get out, Cody," Max says finally. "Get out of here. We'll talk about this later, but for the moment, I have a man with a concussion to take care of on top of the fact that I've just had my entire life pulled out from under me and apparently my best friend can't seem to get a clue that this is not the help I need."
Cody starts to argue, but Max is done. He's fucking had enough tonight, and as much as he loves Cody for loving him enough to punch Punk in the face, and as furious as he had been with Punk in the moments before Cody arrived, he can't muster anymore anger with him tonight. It's just too much. It's all too much, and he's tired. "Please, Cody," Max says, his voice softer – more tired than angry now. Max has a hot temper and says pretty horrible shit when he's mad, but right now, he's more sad than anything, and he just needs this night to come to an end. In the midst of it all, Aristocats has still been playing in the background, and it's utterly absurd. "Just go. We'll talk tomorrow. I can't do this tonight."
Diamond rope, silver chain,
Pretty noose is pretty pain.
Not for the first time, even in his concussed state, Punk hates himself for coming here. Max didn't want or need him here, and all he's done is make shit harder on him instead of easing the pain of the breakup. Or more correctly, the dumping.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Cody doesn't say anything else, but Punk can hear the sound his very expensive shoes make on the floors as he walks away. He's so sick of making the same mistakes over and over again just because he fucking loves Max and hates himself. It never goes well. Why does he keep doing this to himself? It's like picking a scab – refusing to let anything fucking heal. And he's gotten so close so many times, but that sharp twisted need inside him never lets him let go.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Max holds onto him in the silence after the movie has ended and Max has shut off the television. In the quiet, he's still holding onto Punk… still trying to help even if he really has no idea how to help… especially when Punk won't let him call an ambulance or take him to the hospital. It's hurry up and wait shit, and Max has never been good at that.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
But he stays put, turning gently to press a kiss to Punk's forehead. "Jesus… I need to spend my time with a better class of people," he says, but his tone is light, almost playful. "You show up and bitch over a sandwich, Cody shows up and concusses you… Honestly. What am I doing so wrong in life that this is the bullshit I have to deal with?"
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Punk wants to push back, wants to grab onto the way that Max's words make him feel like a burden instead of the help he had come here to be. But he's in pain, still bleeding a little, and feels like the only thing he can do that's not going to result in being sick as sit is to stay right where he is and give in to the part of him that wants nothing more than for Max to hold onto him, take care of him, feel safe and soft and comforted in his former lover's arms.
Common ruse, dirty face
Pretty noose is pretty hate
He hates and loves the way that Max has always had this way of getting at the most vulnerable parts of Punk. He doesn't want to be soft and vulnerable, to feel like he can trust and love someone – like he can let someone take care of him. He doesn't do that easily. He has his friends. He has people he loves – his sisters, the people who've been with him since he was a kid. But even with all of them, there's always been a part he keeps separate. A part that's too vulnerable for Punk to expose easily. But somehow, Max has always known his way to that part… whether he gets there by pissing Punk off, or taking care of him this way.
It's like being held hostage in a prison that, on the surface, looks like a paradise. But once you get under the surface, you begin to realize that it's still hell – you still have no choice, no way out. He's made so many mistakes, and he knows it, but none of them feel like this is a fair punishment. To always have his heart attached to this person that he'll never be able to have in a way that makes things right for either of them. He's broken out of his thoughts by Max giving him a gentle squeeze and asking him, "Can you come with me to my room? The blackout curtains probably aren't a bad idea for you at the moment."
And I don't care what you got
I don't care what you need,
I don't want anything.
Unlike his usual loud, obnoxious self, Punk is quiet – contemplative and struggling to find the words he wants to say. He's not quite so dazed right now, though he is a little worried about the after effects of a concussion. He's not as young as he used to be, and things don't really heal like they used to, either. Still, he nods to Max. "Yeah, I think I'm good. Just uh… Did you finish your sandwich?"
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
Max looks at Punk like he's the world's biggest idiot and shakes his head. "Yes, Phil. I ate the goddamn sandwich. And the pickle. Now shut the fuck up before I hit you, too. Honestly. I've had about enough of the bullshit from you and your ego. I get it. You and Cody hate each other. But he's my best friend, and if you're here to support me, then I need both of you to act like you're supporting me instead of getting into a dick measuring contest again."
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
"If it was a dick measuring contest, I would've won," Punk counters, and the look Max gives him is damn near deadly.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
"I fucking hate you," Max says, and Punk can't help his wicked smirk.
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
"No you don't," he says. "You'd be a hell of a lot better off if you did, though."
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.
"Trust me. I know," Max says, shaking his head. "Maybe one of these days I'll figure that out and make it stick."
And I don't like what you've got me hangin' from.