A/N: The song is "Samson" by Regina Spektor. Also, if you're reading this, please be sure to check out the prequel, "Watch Me Turn Your Mind Into My Home"
Chapter 5: Samson
When Max opens his eyes again, it's early afternoon. Piper lies curled up at his hip, and Punk's fast asleep still. Moving slowly, so as not to wake either of them, Max shifts himself back onto his pillow to look at the two beings who have always held such huge pieces of his heart. Piper is a much lighter sleeper than Punk, and seems annoyed when she wakes up due to Max's egregious abuse of cat parent privileges – daring to move his body? The nerve of him. However, Punk doesn't stir. His breathing is soft and even, and Max is momentarily caught up in watching the slow, steady rise and fall of the other man's chest.
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first. I loved you first.
His eyes trace the familiar shape of the letters emblazoned across Punk's stomach, and the memory of their first meeting – nearly a lifetime ago, it seems – certainly multiple broken hearts ago – comes back to him unbidden. He's reminded of how he'd known even then that this was going to be something that he would hurt over. And something that he would carry with him forever. He remembers so clearly the way he had tried to play it off as if he were the one in control in the early days of their relationship, all the while knowing that Punk could've snapped his fingers, and Max would've done anything he asked.
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth:
I have to go. I have to go.
Your hair was long when we first met.
Max is quiet, taking in the view of Punk in his bedroom, sleeping soundly, and there is absolutely nothing in the world that could've prepared him for the emotions this sight stirs up inside of him. For the nostalgia, the longing, the feeling of lost time, and fear of what comes next, and knowing what comes next, and it feels like drinking down a smoothie of his favorite flavors with ground shards of glass and broken nails in it. And yet, it still tastes better than most things do to him lately, so he'll take it. It's not called a vicious cycle for nothing.
He's momentarily distracted when Piper begrudgingly comes back to the bed, hopping up beside Max, but not getting quite as close, since he has already offended her delicate sensibilities. He rolls his eyes at her and strokes his fingers through her soft fur, focusing on the way it feels, and the familiarity of his little princess. Cat or not, Piper is kind of his whole life's focus lately. Adam leaving was probably the best day of her life, because it meant Max had dedicated all of his free time to her.
Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
Dark brown eyes shifting up, Max looks at his former lover's face. While he's sleeping, he looks so harmless – so unlike the version of himself with whom Max once had so many fights, so many nights of breaking up and making up, so many painful memories, and so many beautiful ones that he wouldn't trade for anything. It's the first chance Max has really gotten to look at Punk and take in the changes in him. When they'd last been together, Punk's hair had been long and the kind of blonde you only get after using way too many chemicals on your hair – now it's shorter and the natural brown that the bleach had always hidden before. A few grays are sprinkled in at his temples, and Max can truly see the difference in their ages. Five years shouldn't have made this much of a difference, at least, not to Max's way of thinking. But the lines in Punk's face are deeper than they were before, and his beard has swaths of gray and white. Max can't resist the urge to brush the backs of his fingers against Punk's beard, but gently – he still doesn't want to wake him.
He ate a slice of WonderBread
And went right back to bed.
Punk stirs just a little bit as Max's hand brushes his cheek, but his long overnight trip to get here has apparently left him so tired that not even that is enough to wake him. Punk can sleep like the dead if he's sleepy enough, and apparently a long drive overnight is doing a number on him. Max finds himself wondering if there's another world where he and Punk got things right and made it work… if maybe somewhere, there's another Max with another Punk in their world's version of this apartment… laughing at something that doesn't come with a backstory involving pain and hurt. Maybe that Punk got up this morning and kissed that Max goodbye with the promise understood by both of them that he'd be back, because in that world, they are the version of themselves that is happy, in love, comfortable, not afraid to give that level of commitment and make those promises.
And the history books forgot about us
And the Bible didn't mention us.
The Bible didn't mention us,
Not even once.
He sighs softly. Now that he's sure Punk's sleeping and not waking up anytime soon, Max reaches for the older man's hand, gently taking it in his own, threading his fingers through Punk's. In the quiet of the darkened room, with the only light a slim ray from where the blackout curtains aren't pulled closed, Max can almost pretend that this is the life he wanted – that he and Punk have been together all this time, and it's been beautiful… exactly the kind of life he's dreamed of. But almost will never quite be enough for Max and Punk.
The near-silence is broken by a soft snore from Punk, and Max is startled for just a second, but settles as he realizes Punk's still sleeping heavily. He does't usually snore, which only serves to tell Max that he really is fucking exhausted.
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first. I loved you first.
As he shifts to be tucked in against Punk's side, Max closes his eyes and breathes deep. Five years, but Punk still uses the same soap and deodorant, the same laundry detergent. For a man known for his love of spontaneity, there are some things about Punk that are so predictable that it almost makes Max laugh. In his sleep, Punk squeezes Max's hand, and the tears threaten to start again.
Beneath the stars came fallin' on our heads
But they're just old light. They're just old light.
Your hair was long when we first met
Max wonders if there ever would have come a time when he and Punk would've let their love for each other win out over their hatred of themselves and their self-destructive (and thereby, destructive to each other) tendencies. He wonders if that was ever even possible. He wonders why he only ever falls in love with people and things that are determined to leave him behind. He wonders why the fuck he called Punk in the first place, and why he opened the door and let him in and how in the hell he expected any of this to end any other way than badly.
Samson came to my bed
Told me that my hair was red
Told me I was beautiful
And came into my bed
He doesn't wake up, but Punk turns onto his side, wrapping his arm around Max's middle, as if it hasn't been 5 years since the last night they shared… or maybe as if Max is someone else. Max doesn't really know, and now that he's thinking about it, he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know, either. He's spent enough nights wondering who Punk might be in bed next to in the past… who he might be holding the way he holds Max now. Adam had been the first person in his life to take that question out of his mind. For the time he was with Adam, he'd been able to forget about Punk – not entirely, but enough that he didn't get that sick feeling in his stomach every time he thought about him. He'd been happy. He thought Adam had been happy, too. He'd very clearly thought wrong.
Oh, I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light
And he told me that I'd done alright
And kissed me til the morning light, the morning light
And he kissed me til the morning light
Max swallows hard, trying to will the lump in his throat to return to the hell from whence it came. Every moment that contributed to the end of his relationship with Punk is replaying in his mind. Max had expected too much. He knows that. Punk had never made him any promises of anything until Max had asked for – begged for – him to. Just like always, it was all his fault, and he was pretty fucking sure that meant that Adam leaving him was his fault, too. He never gives people the space they need to be who they are. He pushes them away. He hates himself for it. He hates himself for going right back to CM Punk like some kind of pathetic bitch… like a junkie who has hit his first rough patch in being clean, and goes right back to the drug of choice. If Adam was methadone, Punk is pure China white,, and Max may have thought he was clean, but he was still weaning off. After all this time, the moment his substitute is gone, he reaches for the real thing again, and that first hit still feels like heaven and hell at the same time.
Samson went back to bed
Not much hair left on his head
Ate a slice of WonderBread
And went right back to bed
If Max lives to be 100, he'll never understand how he's managed to screw this up time and again. When things were good between them, Max had felt like he and Punk were indestructible – like there was nothing the world could throw their way that they couldn't survive. But the battles they'd charged into, convinced victory was a given, had only left them both as casualties.
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down
Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one
It's stupid. It will probably be the death of him someday. But as Max nuzzles his head under Punk's chin, he truly doesn't care. Anything is better than the emptiness he feels when he's alone at night… Anything at all. They lie there in the quiet for a while. The only sounds Max can hear are the cars driving by on the street far below, and Punk's heartbeat against his ear.
And the history books forgot about us
And the Bible didn't mention us
Not even once.
The steady sound of Punk's beating heart begins to sound like the ticking of a clock… every beat a moment closer to the time when Punk will leave him again, and he'll deserve it for being stupid enough to call him in the first place. Max can't help the way it gets under his skin. He knows logically that the heartbeat is steady and even, but his head seems to be speeding it up… making everything go faster, making the countdown to more pain that much more real, and suddenly it feels like the world is closing in on him and he can't fucking breathe. He had gotten his panic attacks largely under control in the last few years with the help of meds, but since Adam left, he's been in a near-constant state of anxiety, and with Punk here, instead of feeling like he can relax a little, Max is just waiting for yet another heartbreak. And as the seconds tick by, he knows it's coming for him.
The way Max is gasping for air is the thing that wakes Punk, and it takes the older man just a moment to get his bearings and realize where he is. Once he does, though, he's shifting to hold Max close. Panic attacks are something he's known both personally and from the position of being Max's partner, and he reaches over to the bedside table to switch a lamp on before going face to face with Max. "Hey, Max," he says in a soft tone that makes Max ache with longing. With one tattooed hand, Punk gently strokes Max's cheek and holds onto him. "It's okay, Max," he tells him. "I'm right here… You're not alone. Can you try to breathe with me?"
Max's dark brown eyes focus on Punk's hazel ones, and he obediently takes in a slow breath, in time with Punk who is counting slowly. "In-two-three-four… hold-two-three-four… out-two-three-four."
When he finally catches his breath and feels like he's not dying, Max reaches out for Punk and hugs him tight, pressing his head against his chest. He can't quite get himself to speak, because he knows that, if he does, he'll never stop begging Punk not to leave him again, and despite it all, he desperately wants to hold onto some piece of his dignity. So he focuses on his breathing, continuing in the rhythm Punk set for him, as he clings to the man he wishes he didn't still love.
You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first.