A/N: Lyrics from "Push" by Matchbox 20
Push
Over the next several weeks, Punk spends more time in New York than he usually would. Mostly for gigs, but even on weekends his band hasn't been booked, he's filled in here and there for other bands he knows that are local to the area. The money's not good enough if he has to find a place to stay, but Max eagerly provides him with a warm bed, a hot meal, and a hotter body to sleep next to when he's in New York. Short version, it saves him money, gives him a fun weekend with somebody whose level of bullshit and sarcasm can keep up with his own, and gets him laid. Punk's priorities are being met in order of importance here, and he's not mad about it.
Max is fun, and as things go on, Punk has to try harder and harder to deny what he's feeling and the way Max's presence draws him back despite leaving every time with the promise to himself that he's going to put an end to this. No end has come. More and more of Punk's things end up getting left at Max's place to the point that Max has a drawer specifically for Punks' clothes and the little items he leaves behind – guitar picks, extra packs of strings, hair ties. It's kind of silly the collection Max has put together of Punk paraphernalia. But there's something about it that makes Punk feel something deep down – a sense of being wanted – of Max actually wanting him around. He hates how that feeling settles into his bones every time he's here.
She said, "I don't know if I've ever been good enough,
I'm a little bit rusty,
And I think my head is cavin' in."
It makes it a lot harder for him to continue living the life he's used to living – the one where he does what he wants, when he wants, and doesn't think about it. He texts Max when they're apart, but he's not exactly the communication king. It's a learning experience just to try and be better at communication, but Max is pretty damn good at keeping in touch, and Punk tries. He really does try. The problem is… he's still Punk. He's still living a cheap knockoff version of a rock star's life. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, minus the drugs, but making up for it with the other two things.
He's at a club, setting up for a show when his phone buzzes.
[Max]: Hey you… how's your night going?
[Punk]: Good. Getting ready to play in a few. You?
[Max]: Just hanging out. Thought I'd say hi.
[Punk]: Hi
He rolls his eyes as he looks at the phone, but he has to smile a little. Max is a little shit, but he's kinda cute about it sometimes… and Punk can't help that he misses him.
"And I don't know if I've ever been really loved
By a hand that's touched me…"
But tonight's a show night in front of his hometown's regular crowd, and he can't waste too much time thinking about Max. Chicago awaits – or at least the punk rock, straight edge corner of Chicago that comes out to see his band play.
Doors open and the crowd starts to stream in slowly. There's recorded music playing over the speakers for the time being, giving the band and the crowd time to get settled in before they start playing. He's sipping a Pepsi when a voice he knows well speaks into his ear. "Hey, gorgeous," the woman's voice says, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the music. "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"
"And I feel like something's gonna give,
And I'm a little bit angry."
Punk immediately grins as he turns to see dyed red hair tumbling over the shoulder of his ex-girlfriend, Lita. "Looking for a hot piece of ass like yourself," he says, pulling her into a hug and a kiss that speaks more to the girlfriend part than the ex part. "Where the hell have you been?" he asks when he breaks the kiss, his arms still tight around her waist and hers looped lazily around his neck.
"Around, asshole. You're the one who hasn't called. Been off in New York too often to give a girl a shout." She gives Punk a wicked grin, and he smirks back at her.
"Not in New York tonight, am I?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as his tongue teases the jewelry in his lip.
"Who knows?" Lita replies. "The night's still young, and you're really good at disappearing."
Well, this ain't over,
No, not here.
Not while I still need you around.
"Well, I've got about 5 minutes til I'm on, so how bout you come sit with me and tell me what's been going on while I've been East Coast slumming with people who wouldn't last a day in Chicago." He leads her over to some free chairs and sits down, pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her waist. Her hands go naturally to play in his hair as they start chatting… between hot kisses and a little more handsiness than the pretty public room seems to allow for. The relationship hadn't lasted, but the hookups remain some of the best, and Punk isn't one to miss out on a good time – at least, not a good drug-free time.
She leans in to kiss him, her hair hiding their faces like a veil, when a familiar male voice breaks through the sound of the speakers and the sounds of Punk and Lita's laughter. "I'd say that I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I'm not a fucking idiot, so… I can see that I am."
You don't owe me,
We might change, yeah.
Yeah, we just might feel good.
Punk's train of thought goes somewhere along the lines of, Fuck! Max. Goddammit. FUCK, and he looks up at Max, pushing his long hair back out of his face. He hasn't let go of his grip on Lita's waist, because Punk has this incredibly stupid way of thinking that the bullshit that gets stirred up in his life is NEVER his fault and always someone else's. Usually with some thought and talking it around, he can figure it out and stop being quite such a fucking asshole, but not in the moment. Not when he's been caught and gone into defensive, gaslighting, protecting his own ass mode. Max isn't supposed to be in Chicago. He's supposed to be in New York. Punk has managed to mostly keep his life at home separate from his New York life, aside from the people he plays music with in both places.
But here stands New York in the middle of a club in Chicago, and his head's still reeling trying to figure out how the fuck he's supposed to handle this little fuck up. Not so little fuck up, if the fury on Max's face is anything to judge by. Punk cocks a half smile at Max, then turns it on Lita, giving her another kiss before saying, "I'll be back. Let me just handle this…" and vacating his seat to follow after Max, who is stalking away across the club.
I wanna push you around,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
I wanna push you down,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
Max shoves the door open, letting it slam behind him, in Punk's face as he arrives at the door moments behind. Both men now stand in the parking lot, and Max looks ready to explode. His hands are clenched in fists at his side, and the way he's looking at Punk makes it very clear what he wants to do to the older man. "What the fuck, Punk?!" Max asks. He's really mad… If he can't even be bothered to fuck with Punk by calling him Phil, he's… beyond mad. He's not even using his devious little mind to fuck with Punk. He's past that point.
"What do you mean, what the fuck?" Punk shoots back. "What the fuck are you doing here? Nobody asked you to come, Max. Nobody fucking asked you to be here. You're gonna get here without telling me and be pissed off to see some shit you don't like? You shouldn't have just showed up."
I wanna take you for granted.
Well, I wanna take you for granted,
Yeah, I will. I will.
I will.
"So I'm the problem for showing up, not you for having your tongue halfway to that bitch's stomach? What kind of piece of shit are you?" Max squares up to Punk and gives him a hard shove. Not quite expecting that, Punk stumbles backward, but pretty quickly finds his center of gravity and avoids falling.
His feet now secure beneath him, Punk takes a swing at Max, connecting with his jaw and says, "She's not a bitch, you piece of shit, she's my friend."
"Oh, do you tongue fuck all your friends at the clubs you play? Because I clearly missed that fuckin' memo." Max growls, recovering pretty quickly to swing back at Punk. He moves fast, but Punk's been scrapping since he was a kid, and manages to catch the punch in the shoulder instead of the face Max was aiming for.
She said, "I don't know why you ever would lie to me,
Like I'm a little untrustin'
When I think that the truth is gonna hurt ya…"
"These people are my people!" Punk hisses, slipping behind Max to hold his arms down at his sides. "These are my friends. The people who've been in my life since before you took a fucking breath. Who the fuck do you think you are to show up in my town and tell me what to do with my friends?!"
"I thought…" Max starts in a yell, but quickly bites that back. "I thought I was the guy you were building a relationship with. I thought I was… or at least was going to be your…"
Punk sneers at Max, as if he's disgusted to even hear it. "Thought you were gonna be my what?"
"Your… boyfriend," Max mumbles, almost embarrassed… maybe more than almost.
"...And I don't know why you couldn't just stay with me.
You couldn't stand to be near me
When my face don't seem to wanna shine
Cuz it's a little bit dirty."
"My boyfriend?" Punk asks, so surprised that he actually lets go of the grip he has on Max's arms. "What gave you a bullshit idea like that? Please tell me when I said you were my boyfriend? Or that I even wanted a boyfriend?"
"It's not… You stay with me every time you're in New York. You keep your things at my place… It seems like you want to be there… I thought maybe… Fuck."
"A drawer of my clothes and a toothbrush, Max? Seriously? You think I'm your boyfriend because of that? I've got the same thing in every town I play regularly, with a different person who isn't stupid enough to think I'm their boyfriend." He's not sure why the lie comes to him so easily, unbidden, without even having to think about it. He doesn't really play that many places between New York and Chicago… occasionally, but he's usually in a hotel with the guys, or with a flavor of the evening. "What the fuck do you think, because I save a little luggage space by leaving a few pairs of underwear and socks at your place, I'm in love with you or something?"
Well, well, don't just stand there,
Say nice things to me,
Cause I've been cheated, I've been wronged.
And you, you don't know me,
Yeah, well, I can't change
Well I won't do anything at all.
Max doesn't say anything… because that had been what he thought. Or not really what he thought, but what he hoped… what he hoped it could eventually come to mean. What he hoped Punk had wanted out of it. But it's abundantly clear he's been wrong all along, because he and Punk aren't on the same page. They're not even in the same book.
Punk softens a little, looking at the younger man who's turned back to look at him, face still set with anger because that's easier to show than the shame and embarrassment of thinking there was something more to a relationship than what there was. Anger was easier. It wasn't something Punk would hold against him.
I wanna push you around,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
I wanna push you down,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
"Look, Max… I like you. I like spending time with you. I like… I like the time we have in New York. But I told you before, I'm not anybody's boyfriend, and I don't want to be anybody's boyfriend… I meant that. Why can't you just be happy with what we have?" The words feel true as he says them, but Punk has this feeling inside that he's lying – to Max or to himself, he can't be sure. His tone is softer. He doesn't want to fight with Max. The guy's in Chicago… Punk may as well show him a good time.
"Because it's not what I thought we had… and that was what I wanted," Max says, his tone accusing.
Punk's been accused of everything under the sun since he was way too young for that to be a thing, and the tone almost immediately triggers that defensive response again… but rather than protecting himself, he goes on the offensive. It's the only way he knows. "Then maybe? You should've fucking asked me before you decided what the hell it was without my input."
I wanna take you for granted,
Yeah, I wanna take you for granted,
Yeah, I will. Yeah, I will.
Max is furious… So angry that he's crying instead of yelling, and that almost scares Punk a little more. When he finally speaks, he says, "You think… You think I couldn't have been fucking anybody I wanted anywhere I wanted in New York? I could've had a different person every night, but I didn't, because I wanted the chance of something more… whatever… serious with you someday."
Oh, well don't bowl me over,
Just wait a minute, well, it kinda fell apart
Things get so crazy, crazy, yeah.
Don't rush this, baby.
Don't rush this, baby, baby…
Punk's already retreated far back into the asshole part of his personality… It's where he hides the vulnerable parts of him when he doesn't feel safe to let them show – which is basically always. "Then it sounds to me like you've got several weeks of hookups to start catching up with. Better get back home and get started. I'll see you next weekend in New York."
I wanna push you around,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
I wanna push you down,
Well, I will. Well, I will.
I wanna take you for granted, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I wanna take you, take you,
Yeah, well I will.
This isn't what he wanted. This isn't where he'd been planning to go, but Max makes him so goddamn crazy sometimes.
"Unless you don't want to see me next weekend, in which case I'll give you your key back if you want me to. Just let me get my shit next time I'm in town." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the keyring where he carries his house keys, his sisters' house keys, the band trailer key… Lot of fucking keys. But he finds the one that lets him into Max's place and holds it up in front of him. "I'll give it back if that's what you want."
And I will, I will, I will, yeah
Well, I will, I will, I will, yeah, yeah
Push you around, and drag you down,
"Keep it," Max says, shoving Punk's hand back toward him. This isn't what he wants. But it beats the hell out of nothing, or of his parents' chosen clown of the week. "I'll see you there."
I wanna push you around,
Well, I will.