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When Punk thinks about Max, he always thinks about his neck. The sweat that trickled down it as the ref secured the collar. The muscles there that resisted every yank Punk gave the chain to try to pull him closer. The tilt of it when Punk had him on his knees. The way, when he tipped his head back to spit up at him, his veins stood out against it. Blood dark, rushing, and electric just because he was near Punk. A crimson reminder that he lived for Punk, he needed Punk, he’d bleed for Punk.
—
Maxwell Jacob Friedman goes missing on a Wednesday morning. Punk doesn’t find out until that evening.Backstage is a quiet murmur of activity when he arrives, so different from the buzz of anticipatory energy it usually is. Everyone keeps looking to each other to see what to do, how to feel. Punk has to pull a stage hand aside to find out what’s going on.The guy looks at him like he has two heads, shocked to know Punk hasn’t heard yet. Obviously I haven’t heard if I’m asking, asshole, Punk thinks. He doesn’t say it, because he’s a nice guy. Instead, he patiently repeats himself.‘MJF, man, he’s missing. No one knows where he is.’Punk rolls his eyes. Big surprise, the guy who runs from everything is running away from another match. ‘Guess he didn’t want to go out there and eat another loss huh?’ Punk grins. A go-on-you-can-shit-talk-the-asshole-talent–with-me-I’m-one-of-the-cool-ones kind of grin.The guy looks at him weirdly, rubs a hand over a shaved head like a nervous tick. ‘Loss? Nah man, he’s missing missing. As in gone. Disappeared.’‘Sure, he is.’ He winks.‘Um…’ And then, before Punk can get more out of the guy, he’s talking vaguely about having to do something somewhere and hurries away. Off to do some very important business, Punk’s sure.He shakes his head. The things you hear backstage sometimes. The show’s not cancelled so it can’t be anything that urgent. More likely, Max called in ‘sick’ because he didn’t feel like wrestling tonight and some bored staff turned it into a full blown investigation. The kid’s a diva, a spoilt self-obsessed diva in constant need of attention. But that’s none of Punk’s business anymore. He has bigger concerns tonight, like getting that title shot.He says all this to Joe as he’s waiting to go on. He’s loose –  relaxed even – after stretching, waiting for the adrenaline to hit in time with his music. He’s expecting Joe to laugh along with him, joke about the kids they work with, mock them for their assured arrogance when they know full well that they were just the same twenty years ago. But that’s not what Joe does. No, Punk finds himself on the end of another odd look, this time a patented Samoa Joe you’re-so-full-of-shit look, accompanied with crossed arms.‘What?’ He asks, all innocent eyes and coy voice, the stuff that really gets Joe.But Joe’s not biting. ‘I don’t know, Punk. I heard the cops were around here earlier. Sounds pretty serious to me.’Punk can’t believe Joe is falling for this. He had thought Joe, of all people, would be able to see through this. Whatever’s going on, it’s obviously just some ploy Max is pulling. Yet here everyone is, swallowing his lie, acting like the world has ended because some asshole from Long Island didn’t show up tonight. Well, Punk refuses to buy in.He goes on as planned. Wrestles, wins, smiles extra wide for the cameras when they point up at him on the ropes. He imagines Max at home tuning in, curled up in bed, eager to see the chaos his absence has caused, hoping to see just a shred of worry in Punk’s eyes, angling for a hint of reaction. He won’t give him the pleasure. He’s done with MJF. He beat him. He’s going to ignore whatever pathetic effort he’s making here to grab Punk’s attention.But when he returns backstage, shiny with sweat and giddy from exertion, he finds he can’t ignore it. Not two minutes after he steps out of the shower there’s a knock on the locker room door. It’s not a friendly knock, not a loose rap of knuckles announcing a casual post-match chat. This is more controlled. Three taps, tight and quick against wood. A nice professional tone. Punk hates that tone.He hates it even more when he opens the door and is faced with two frowning faces. Punk raises an eyebrow. So Joe wasn’t kidding when he said the cops were here.‘Yes?’ He asks, as they flash their badges and peer around him into the locker room. It’s empty aside from Punk. Everyone else cleared out pretty quick after the show ended but he’d dawdled. Wanted to sit with his win for a minute. A title shot – he’d finally earned his title shot. Not bad for an old man.‘We’re going to need you to come with us, Mr. Punk.’He can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth at that. Please, he almost says, call me CM. ‘Is that an order or a request?’‘A request,’ one tells him. ‘This isn’t an arrest. We’re just looking for information.’‘About…’It’s freaky the way they both tilt their heads in the same way to stare him down with pursed lips, like he’s something distasteful.‘So he’s really missing, huh?’One of the cops shakes his head, apparently finished with this conversation. Fine, so is Punk. ‘Let me put a shirt on, yeah? I’ll be out in a second.’
Two minutes later he’s being marched through a maze of concrete corridors by his own personal escort. When they reach a conference room on the other side of the stadium the cops tell him to go inside and wait. They’ll talk to him in a minute.The conference room is scattered with other wrestlers. He throws himself down in a chair and stares at the wall. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone. It seems to be a common sentiment, the room lies heavy under a tired silence. No one’s really sure why they’re here but they all have an idea and it’s nothing good. So they sit and wait. Every few minutes someone is called into a small meeting room next door to be questioned.Questioned. Punk could laugh, this all feels so surreal. He’s still not quite sold on the whole Max being missing angle, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Here he is waiting his turn to be interviewed by the police about, he presumes, information that will help them in their search and yet he just can’t believe it. Max, gone. It doesn’t sound like something that could actually happen.Eventually, it’s his turn to get his brain picked. As he’s turning the corner from the conference room to the interview room he bumps into a very distraught looking Max Caster. He’s opening his mouth to greet him, maybe ask if he’s alright, when Caster’s eyes narrow at him.‘You’ll pay for this,’ he spits, vengeful and so different from what Punk knows about him.‘I’m sorry?’ All he did was walk into the guy, he doesn’t think that warrants this level of hostility. He’d always thought Caster was a pretty decent sort. Irritating and loud maybe, but that seems to be the kind of stock Long Island produces. Compared to Max the kid was positively sweet. The way he’s looking at Punk now makes him reconsider.Caster scoffs. The sound comes out wet and affected rather than the dismissive tone he seemed to be going for. Like he’s choking on something. Punk can’t understand why he’s so upset. Sure, he has that whole obsession angle he works online but Punk had figured that was a joke. A way to rile up an old classmate. Make Max embarrass himself. Frankly, Punk was almost jealous at the reactions Caster could pull out of Max sometimes. The overblown denials, the snide homophobic tone he’d take that did nothing but show his hand. Max squirming never failed to entertain. But not for a minute had Punk believed Caster was actually genuine about it.Punk doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this. Everything is so strange right now, off in a way he can’t predict. He backs away from Caster, retreating into the meeting room to find suitable distractions in the detectives that lie waiting for him there.They sit behind a table in the middle of the room. A man and a woman, like the department is trying to fill a gender quota or something. He frowns at them both. Call that equality.‘I’m detective Ellis, this is my partner detective Williams,’ the woman holds out a hand. He shakes it.‘Care to tell me what I’m here for?’ He takes a seat in the chair across from them. He knows what he’s here for but he wants them to say it. Needs to hear it maybe.The cops don’t respond straight away. Of the two of them, she seems more confident in what she’s doing. Her partner faffs around with some files spread out in front of him, occupying his hands. She just leans back in her seat, assessing. Watches Punk chew his gum, watches him cross his arms, watches him watch her. They have a staring contest through the stuffy silence only a corporate meeting room can hold.‘I presume you’re aware by now that your colleague Maxwell Jacob Friedman has been reported missing,’ she says finally.He tilts his head in acknowledgment.‘And I presume you’ve also heard through the grapevine that we have reason to suspect foul play?’‘Foul play?’ That’s new. He doesn’t know what to do with that. For a moment he thinks about being choked out behind the ref’s back, about a diamond ring crushing into his face, about sliding that same ring onto his finger. Foul play. His chest feels funny.‘You hadn’t heard.’ The other cop – Williams – has finally taken his eyes off the files in front of him and the deadpan of his voice says it all: he doesn’t believe Punk.‘What is this about? Why am I here?’‘We’re looking for information about Mr. Friedman from the people he worked with. Anything that might give us a better picture as to what happened to him.’‘I’m not sure I can help much there. I didn’t know Max very well.’ It’s a blatant lie but they don’t catch it.‘Didn’t,’ the guy picks up instead, scribbling something into a notepad. ‘Past tense.’Someone knows their grammar. Punk resists the urge to run a hand over his face. He’s too tired for this shit. He’s tired and his hair is still wet and all he wants to do is go back to the hotel and sleep this weird night off. The pleasant buzz he was riding after his match is dead and rotting now. Trust Max to make it all about him even when he’s not here.He changes tack. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what I can, but Max and I famously aren’t close. You’d be better off talking to Shawn Spears or someone. Or why don’t you give Wardlow a try? Heard things weren’t exactly smoothened over between Max and him.’Williams rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, we’ve done that already. But thanks for telling us how to do our job.’The guy doesn’t like him, that much is for certain. As they run through a list of standard questions – does he know of any illegal activity Max was involved in (no, but he wouldn’t be surprised); can he think of anyone else who might have a reason to hurt Max (how about the whole locker room?); when was the last time he saw Max (last Wednesday, another lie) – the guy’s mouth twists further and further into something resembling a snarl. Ellis is harder to read. Her hair is pulled back tightly from her hair to reveal a strict mean forehead but she treats Punk fairly. Like a witness not a suspect.That is until: ‘I hate to ask but we have to do this for propriety.’ Great start. ‘You and Friedman. You were quite public about your dislike of one another.’Alarm bells are sounding in Punk’s head. It’s starting to make sense now. Caster, upset outside. Not cancelling the show. The wrestlers in the other room. Punk’s not looking for a pattern here, but if he were he’d say they’d filled the room with people Max has pissed off. They think this came from inside the house but they don’t want to spook anyone. They’re failing spectacularly.‘Okay, look.’ He leans forward, hoping to look imploring. ‘The kid was a bit obsessed with me. You know how it is, childhood hero and all that. Except when I returned I didn’t quite meet the image of me in his head. He wanted an older bitter version of me that I had worked hard to destroy. He couldn’t face that I’d become a better person. Probably because he styled himself off of that old version.’Williams slides a piece of paper over to Ellis. She reads it and raises an eyebrow. ‘Better person? You refused to shake his hand in front of a stadium of thousands of people.’‘Not my proudest moment.’ He has spent hours practising faces in the mirror, he knows the exact subtlety of movement that is needed here. The tiniest of twitches at the corners of his eyes and they’ll see a wince trying to be repressed, hinting at a world of regret lying beneath the surface. ‘I didn’t know then what I later found out. I thought Max was just being disrespectful. Stealing my shit and calling himself the best? Anyone would find that provocative.’ Williams nods along in agreement. Punk’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it. God this is easy. ‘But it turns out I really had betrayed him – in his eyes anyway. For Max I was all tied up with the bullying he’d endured in school. Why am I telling you? You know all this. Anyway, we worked it out in the end.’He’s won Williams over. The guy is almost smiling, touched by such a neat and resolved ending. But something is still bothering Ellis.She picks up a photo from her files and shows it to him. It’s a still from the dog collar match: Max on his knees in front of Punk, Punk’s hand at his collar forcing his neck up so that he had to look at him, both of them a mess of blood. ‘You ‘worked it out’ in quite a violent manner if you don’t mind me saying.’‘We worked it out legally, in the ring, which is our job.’ It comes out sharper than intended. He can feel a headache coming on and his patience is waning. He takes a breath, tries again. ‘I have nothing against the kid anymore, we just don’t hang out. Simple as that.’Ellis hums. ‘So the thing between you is over. No lingering resentment?’‘None,’ Punk says, even though he knows there are clips out there of Max swearing the very opposite. It’s just so much easier to lie. ‘Forgive and forget, that’s what they say right? It’s all behind me now. I’ve been focusing on the championship, I haven’t really thought about Max in months.’They let him go after that. He’s stumped them. They were so sure he had a motive going in and by the end he had them eating out of his hand. Forgive and forget. God, everybody can be worked.
—
Someone’s knocking on his door in the morning. He rolls out of bed to get it, yesterday only a hazy memory buried under a few hours sleep. It all comes back to him when he opens the door.‘Morning,’ he greets the detectives. After last night he was convinced he’d never have to speak to them again. Now here they are at his door, looking much too perky for the time of day. No, perky is the wrong word, suggests some good humour. Animated maybe, agitated.They don’t answer, pushing past him into the room instead.‘Can I help you?’ They remain tight lipped. Punk can’t get a read on this, doesn’t know how to play it. What are they looking for? Why are they here? What do they know?He watches them snoop around, poking their noses into tight corners like sniffer dogs searching out drugs. He decides he really doesn’t like this. ‘C’mon guys, how am I supposed to cooperate with you if you won’t tell me what’s going on?’Still no answer. Punk’s starting to see a trend this morning: nobody’s going to tell him what’s going on. Great, he’s sick of it already.When the detectives have given the room a cursory once over, checking for monsters under the bed, behind the curtains, in the shower, they start in on Punk’s stuff. Ellis leads the charge, pouncing on his bag discarded at the foot of his bed and prying it open.‘Hey, you can’t do that,’ he warns her. ‘You wanna try that, I’m gonna need to see a warrant.’Williams, red faced and brutish this morning, storms up to him. ‘Don’t tell us how to do our jobs, punk.’ Small p, adjective. Lovely. What happened to the guy eating out of his hand last night?Punk crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, trying to remind himself of all the reasons why hitting a cop is a bad idea. If no one’s going to clarify why they think they have any right to disturb Punk’s shit, that’s fine. They’re going to do what they want for as long as they want so he might as well settle in.‘Matt,’ Ellis calls out, ‘behave.’Williams takes a step back, face still flushed a concerning colour. His gaze flicks down to Punk’s bare torso, eyes narrowing at his tattoos. Some old bitter thing flares briefly in Punk’s stomach. For a second he is all of twenty years old again, raring to take this guy, to show him what he’s so obviously desperate to feel: real pain. He curbs the feeling, smoothens it out, returns to a more controlled apathy.Ellis studies him from over Williams’ shoulder. There’s something in her eyes, something like pity that he can’t make sense of. She smiles apologetically at Punk, as if she didn’t just try to ransack his property a second ago. Don’t mind my idiot partner, the smile seems to say, I’m the sensible one, the good cop. I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding. Help me out here?
Sure thing, sweetheart. Just cut to the chase.
She drops Punk’s bag on the bed and puts a hand on Williams shoulder, forcing him to take another step back. ‘Sorry for barging in, that was rude of us.’ God he hates cops. ‘But you have to admit, it looks a bit weird.’‘What does?’ The other shoe is about to drop, he realises, and he’s not going to like it.‘Why didn’t you tell us?’‘Tell you what?’ That headache from last night is returning. He feels it building behind his temples as Ellis opens her mouth to respond.Williams growls in anticipation. His partner’s voice is softer when she says: ‘About you and Max.’‘Me and Max?’Ellis smiles sadly at him again, like she’s breaking some bad news to a kid, or scolding them for trying to hide the broken cookie jar. Suddenly he knows where this is going. The pity from Ellis, the angry distaste in Williams’ eyes. It can really only mean one thing:‘We have the text messages.’

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Aug. 28th. Anon. (6.15am) HOW TO KILL YOURSELF (NO NOT LITERALLY FUCKOS, BUT YEAH ALSO LITERALLY)

Electronic devices are the best thing to happen to grudge holders. No for real. Keep all your correspondants with people. Every bit of it. That way when someone crosses you you’ve got built in ammunition. People are so fucking stupid about the internet. Everything comes and goes so quickly, everyone’s come to think it’s all ephemeral, they’ll say anything. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll be gone tomorrow.’ Well fuck you, not if you sent it to me! I’ve got a fucked up memory but a great memory card… Picture me sitting back and watching the chaos unfold.

In anonymity I remain,

Dead.

Punk - One Day Gone

 Punk and Max have a… thing. This is the part where Punk admits they have a thing. Had a thing. Whatever.Punk hadn’t thought about it, just let it run its course. In hotel rooms, public bathrooms, locker rooms. Biting and fumbling and tripping over each other in the few moments they had alone. Always in a rush to recreate their time together in the ring. It was violent and messy and ultimately, crucially, not anything serious. It couldn’t be. Because this was Max he was dealing with. Max, who refused to learn any lesson Punk might try to teach him. Max, who was too proud to back down on his claim that he was better than Punk even after Punk had proved him wrong. Max, who had drunk texted Punk hours after the dog collar match only to call him moments later with tears caught in his throat, bloody and wired and upset for reasons neither of them could explain.It couldn’t be anything serious and yet it was probably the most serious thing Punk had ever done. There was something about tearing another person apart, about them allowing you to, that changed the way you interacted with the world.It didn’t change the way he saw Max though. He’d known him too thoroughly before it started for that. Max wasn’t a good person. There was something utterly wrong and broken inside the guy. Punk wasn’t looking to fix it. He almost liked it like that. Max was able to bring out things in Punk that Punk had thought died years ago: a fury, an intensity, a bloodlust. Sometimes looking at Max was like looking back in time. Recently just looking in the mirror had the same effect.So, no. They didn’t work it all out in the ring like he’d told the detectives. Not technically, but Punk doesn’t see that as a lie. For a while there Max and him reached a kind of equilibrium; a teetering, scrambling, desperate push and pull for power but one that balanced out nonetheless. Call it a mutual understanding. If that wasn’t a natural extension of everything they’d done to each other in a ring then Punk doesn’t know what it was. Romance maybe.

—

The detectives let him drive his own car to the station. He takes that as a good sign. The way Punk sees it, if they were going to arrest him they’d do it at the hotel and just chuck him in their backseat.It’s little reassurance. He knows how these things go. In those weird chick-flick true crime dramas it’s the husband who kills his abused wife. In a detective story the boyfriend chokes out the damsel in a jealous crime of passion. It’s the femme fatale who offs her partner for the insurance money in a noir, but still. The lover is always the prime suspect. If the cops have the texts–Fuck that, I can spin this. Punk is loved, adored even. It pays to be nice. Many, many people can and will vouch for what a great guy he is. The same can’t be said for Max. There is nobody in his corner, he made sure of that. The cops quite literally had a room full of people gunning for him last night. Arguably, Punk is the only personal connection Max has anymore. There’s a way to play this where Punk comes out looking like the good guy.At the station Ellis steers him into an interview room where they sit and wait for her partner. Williams comes in eventually, two flasks of coffee in hand. He gives one to Ellis and sips on his own.‘Sorry,’ he says to Punk, not looking it in the least bit, ‘I didn’t know if you drank coffee.’Thanks for asking, asshole. ‘Well I do, for future reference.’‘Isn’t caffeine a drug?’ Williams glances at Punk’s hands. This guy reads a few tattoos and suddenly he’s an expert.‘No.’He didn’t sleep much last night and when he did he dreamt. The smell of coffee is taunting him from across the desk and he’s half tempted to make a swipe for one of them. Anything to kill the headache still pressing against his eyes. A more paranoid person might think they were withholding his morning coffee to keep him slow, make him slip up. But Punk knows his good friends Ellis and Williams would never do that to him.Distantly he thinks maybe he should get a lawyer.Ellis darts a look at Williams before asking: ‘Been in New York long, Punk?’ It’s in the way she says it, the smug up turn of her tone at the end. I know more than you think I do.‘Not long, no.’That’s not the right answer if the way Ellis gives a slight shake of her head is any indicator. ‘Not long. But longer than anyone else on the roster.’ She taps a nail against the cover of a file in front of her. ‘You flew in on Tuesday, a day ahead of the rest of the company.’Punk shrugs. Why ask me if you already knew?‘The kicker is,’ Williams takes the folder from Ellis and makes a show of opening it to check something. ‘You flew in on Tuesday but according to the hotel’s accounts you didn’t check in until yesterday morning. We checked your bank records just to be sure, but you didn’t pay for a room anywhere else either.’Punk doesn’t like that they were able to get a hold of his credit card details that fast, without him knowing. He doesn’t like how they’re skirting around the texts either, acting like they don’t know. He has half a mind to scream in their faces, upend the table, steal their coffee and storm out. Maybe then they’ll stop pussyfooting around. But Williams’ eyes bore into his skull, eager for him to boil over. He just has to play the game, he reminds himself, if he does this right they won’t be able to touch him.‘I stayed with Max,’ he tells them truthfully.Max, the Wednesday before, lying on his side next to him, still covered in sweat and red marks. Two weeks since they last touched when Punk decided they needed to stop this, he had to focus on something else. Two hours since Max was screaming down a microphone, promising to piss on Punk’s grave. Yet somehow Max was all sweetness now, managing to come off both dismissive and shy when he suggested it: Why slum it with the rest of those chumps? Just stay with me. And when Punk told him they couldn’t do that, he’d be missed, Max met him with: Then come a day earlier. As if that was something they did. As if Max actually wanted to spend time with him. And Punk – who was going to get up any minute now and leave for good this time – had looked at Max curling in on himself, shoulders raised like a shield against certain rejection, bruises darkening around his neck, voice softer than he ever let it get in the ring, eyes scared but steady like they got sometimes when he was with Punk. Vulnerable and defensive all at once. Punk had said yes.In the interview room, the detectives light up. They must have been waiting to see if he’d bring it up himself. Well here it is, gift wrapped and everything. Ellis dives in. ‘So you admit–’‘What’s there to admit. I don’t know how you got them but you got our texts, so yeah: we had a relationship. Is that what you wanted?’‘Well, you’ve gotta see it from our point of view, buddy. Last night you’re acting like you hardly knew the guy, this morning you’re ready to admit you were… close.’ Punk doesn’t like the tone of Williams’ voice. Leaning forward in his chair, forearms on the table, the guy looks like he’s ready to rip Punk a new one.‘Max wasn’t ready for anyone to find out just yet. I wasn’t going to out him the first chance I got, especially since I didn’t think this was that serious last night.’‘You are the only one who thought that.’ Williams tells him slowly. Beneath the table, Punk curls his hands into fists. Condescend to me one more time, big guy. See where it gets you.‘What’s your problem, man?’A little muscle twitches under William’s eye. Punk savours it, watching his hopes of charming the cops wash down the drain. ‘You are.’‘What, can’t handle the idea of two guys?’ Punk smiles at him. ‘It’s 2022, Williams, don’t be a fucking homophobe.’Williams raises his eyebrows and blinks, like he can’t believe Punk just said what he said. He shares a smirk with Ellis and turns back to Punk, almost pitying. ‘Homophobe? No. I don’t like your attitude. I don’t like that you don’t seem in the least bit worried about Max.’‘And,’ Ellis adds, ‘that you were the last person to see Max before he disappeared.’Here they go. ‘You can’t seriously think–’‘It’s just something we have to check off our list,’ she says, but it doesn’t feel like that. He’d been right: they always suspect the person the victim was fucking. Always. Frankly, it’s kind of lazy police work.‘What do you wanna know? He wanted me to stay the night, I stayed the night. Left sometime around five yesterday morning and checked into the hotel.’‘Why did you leave so early?’Max, sat up in bed, woken by the sound of Punk’s shower, skin pale and ghost-like in the still rising sunlight. With the sheets pooled around his waist, he’d looked much younger than he was. You’re leaving? Minutes later he was screaming curses after Punk as he walked out the door.Punk gives the detective a one shoulder shrug. ‘That’s when I usually go for a run.’Ellis flops back in her chair and pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Good God,’ she mutters.‘I didn’t hurt Max.’ But he’s lost them. They are not going to believe another word out of his mouth. He has no alibi and reams of text messages that, from an outsider’s perspective, probably read as deeply disturbing. He refuses to act the way they think a concerned loved-one should, not to mention:‘You’ve gotta understand that that’s hard for us to believe.’ Williams chucks two manila folders onto the desk. They slide over to Punk but he doesn’t open them. He can guess what’s in them. Pictures upon pictures of Max and him in the ring together.‘I told you, that’s our job.’Ellis sighs. ‘You said it yourself a minute ago, Punk. We’ve read your texts, we know it’s more than that.’He closes his eyes against his headache. That is the last time he’s being honest about anything.She continues: ‘You actively antagonised Max by refusing to shake his hand.’ Why will nobody let that go? It was funny! ‘You spent months chasing the guy down and when you finally get him in the ring you make sure he’s chained to you so he can’t get away. Oh and not to mention, when you find out he used to be a fan you rub it in his face and then what? Exploit his obvious idolisation of you to get him in bed? You met the kid when he was eleven for God’s sake!’Punk winces. They don’t get it. Nobody ever seems to get it. This is why he didn’t want to make it a thing, why he was trying to cut it off before it could really start. Max isn’t some kid he was taking advantage of. As if Punk wasn’t giving him everything he could ever want. But people wouldn’t get that. They’d just see the bare boned facts of the matter and jump to conclusions. They wouldn’t understand that this was what Max wanted, how he wanted it. Because Max couldn’t want anybody else anymore, and so by extension neither could Punk. Who else was going to give him that pure undiluted hunger?He coughs over a lump in his throat. God, he could really use a coffee to get through this morning.Ellis gives him one more chance. ‘Did anyone besides Max see you from the time you flew in until the time you got to the hotel? Anyone at all.’His brain finally wakes up. ‘Joe,’ he tells them. ‘Samoa Joe. I met him at the airport before we went to the hotel.’Williams and Ellis ease up a bit. Punk can literally see some of the anger drain out of them as they unclench their shoulders and jaws. There’s still hope for him yet. ‘What time would that have been?’ Williams asks.‘Six– six thirty, maybe.’Williams tips his head from side to side, weighing it up. ’You can see how that still leaves all the night before and the early hours of the morning in the dark right?’‘Can’t you like, ask around with Max’s neighbours? They could have seen me come and go.’Ellis hums. ‘That’s not really the issue but,’ she pauses as if she’s considering it. Her tone has certainly softened towards him. ‘But, yes we’ll be asking that when we call around today. In an apartment block like that they should have heard any altercation that happened.’‘He went missing from his apartment then?’ He figured but he needs confirmation. The way it comes out though – even to his ears his voice sounds small, younger. It throws the detectives.Williams, quicker to anger is faster to recover too, readjusting to Punk’s change of mood with ease. ‘He did,’ he tells Punk in a low voice. From teasing an angry dog to comforting a spooked horse, a hundred to zero just like that.They tell him about the struggle they think happened there. The toppled table (thrown across the room to land half on top of a couch); the shattered cereal bowl (milk and Lucky Charms sprayed everywhere – an odd breakfast for Max, but Punk doesn’t say that); the dents in the wall (those were from something else, but again Punk doesn’t tell them that).They pause after every new piece of information, as if they’re expecting him to correct them, say: actually it went like this. They may have eased up on him a little but they’re still looking for weaknesses. Go on, Ellis’ clever eyes seem to say, implicate yourself in some way.As he listens to their description – the terror it implies, the randomness – he wonders how much of the picture they’re painting for him is real. He wonders if it matters.It’s starting to sink in. Max is gone. Abducted, they think. They hope. He must really be tired because every now and then he can feel his heart stutter in his chest, like it’s not sure whether it should keep going or not.Max, whispering mere shadows of words into the night as if he was trying not to wake Punk but needed to hear them out loud. You’re going to leave again. I know you. You’re going to leave me. Punk, not asleep, staring into the blackness of the wall opposite him, heard it all. It was a moment he’d never forget. Even as it happened he could tell, he’d always remember this.Now he listens to the police run through what they’re doing to look for Max – for some reason they think they owe him that even though he’s probably their lead suspect– and thinks: You beat me to it, Max. He hates that he feels cheated by that fact, but he does. Max got to leave Punk before Punk could leave him. It’s not fair.In the end, they let him go. They have plenty of reasons to suspect him and no evidence to hold him. Instead they instruct him to go home. Home home. Back to Chicago.When he raises an eyebrow Ellis nearly laughs. ‘That whole don’t-leave-the-state-thing is only for the movies. We know where to find you if we need you.’It’s Punk’s turn to have to fight back a laugh. Somehow, they don’t consider him a flight risk. He wonders if they’ve actually read his file.The journey home passes him by in a dull flash of grey. Grey airport shops, grey bathrooms, grey waiting areas.He opens his phone briefly while he’s waiting at his gate. They publicly announced Max was missing this morning before the detectives came to get him from the hotel. Already, Twitter is a polemic mess. Fans are getting great mileage debating whether or not they should pray that MJF is found alive or rejoice in the fact that he’s gone. The same awfully fickle shit people usually spew.Ellis and Williams had assured him they wouldn’t share anything about Max and him with the press unless it became absolutely pertinent to their investigation. He doesn’t think this comes from any feeling of sympathy with Punk, but rather some misguided fondness they seem to have developed for Max. Obviously neither of them are wrestling fans. Whatever the case, they’ve stayed good on their word. Punk hasn’t seen one word about himself since he opened Twitter and he’s been scrolling for a while. It’s almost disappointing.Caster, on the other hand, seems to be getting a lot of mentions, people checking in to see how he’s doing since his ‘boyfriend’ disappeared. He’s even responded to a few. There’s an interesting progression in the mood of his tweets. At the start of the day he was encouraging fans to stay calm: I’m sure they have some leads by now, followed by a string of unintelligible emoticons. But as the day wears on, the same anxiety eating at those fans seems to gnaw at Caster too. His latest tweet is devoid of any hieroglyphic embellishments. 36 hours and no arrests? Are we supposed to accept this incompetence?After the week he’s had, Punk doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep ever again, but when they’re finally allowed onto the plane his eyes begin to droop shut on their own accord. He doesn’t remember closing them but suddenly they’re landing on a runway in Chicago and he’s got a crick in his neck from sleeping at a weird angle.He dreamt of Max. Crawling across his kitchen floor towards the island like he’s crawling towards the ropes, looking for shelter. But pieces of shattered ceramic cover the floor, a sharp carpet puncturing the skin of Max’s palms and knees, leaving trails of red in his wake, slowing him down. In the next moment he’s being held up against a wall as hands fasten around his throat and begin to choke him out. Max sputters – a noise so intimately familiar and real to Punk he finds it hard to reconcile that the rest of the dream is just fiction.He’s out of his seat and off the plane as fast as they’ll allow him. He needs to get home.The minute he opens the door he’s met by Larry – the neighbours must have dropped him back this morning – over-excited after two days sans Punk. He’s also met by the ring of his landline, incessant and demanding wherever he left it on the couch. Yes, he’s still got a landline. He’s old, sue him.He hushes Larry and goes to answer it, unsure of who it could be. He turned his cell off before his flight and hasn’t turned it back on yet. Not many people have this number though, unless the cops were able to find it somehow.‘Please ask before you turn me into an accessory for a crime next time, asshole.’Punk exhales in relief. ‘Hey Joe. Make it home okay?’Joe, pissed off and possibly concerned on the other end, has no time for pleasantries. ‘You told the police I was your alibi?’‘Just for yesterday morning.’ Larry jumps up at him, oddly insistent, whirling in circles. Punk leans down to scratch behind his ears but he doesn’t settle down.On the phone Joe snorts. ‘Oh I’m sorry, that’s okay then. Punk, I didn’t see you until Dynamite had fucking started last night!’Punk shrugs even though Joe can’t see him and follows Larry as he races up the stairs. ‘Did you tell them that?’‘You know I didn’t.’ He can picture the frown Joe must be wearing now. The lines around his mouth folding downwards as he scrunches up his nose in disgust. ‘Was pretty fucking difficult figuring out where we were supposed to have been, but I think I convinced them.’‘Good.’ Punk drops his bag into his room, then looks around. He’s lost Larry. He goes back out to the hallway.‘Good?’‘Sorry. Thank you Joe for saving my ass,’ he sing-songs.Larry’s at the end of the hall, snuffling around at the foot of the bathroom door. Punk starts towards him. He hasn’t turned any lights on yet and in the dark everything looks slightly ghoulish. That must be what’s unsettling him.‘You’re welcome,’ Joe grumbles, then pauses as if he’s deciding how to phrase what he’s going to say next. ‘So, you and the kid huh?’‘Me and what kid?’ Punk fumbles for the light only to find he doesn’t feel much better with it on.‘Punk.’ His name. Short, derisive. Joe for: you can’t bullshit me.‘How do you know about that? The cops tell you?’ Larry has started to whine at the door, pawing at it in intervals. The sound of his nails dragging against the wood far too loud in the otherwise empty house.‘You’re kidding right?’Punk starts down the hall, very slowly. He feels like he’s stalking a deer. ‘Don’t think I have the energy left to joke right now, Joe.’Joe almost sounds sorry for him. ‘You really haven’t heard?’‘Heard what?’ He’s at the bathroom door now. He closes his hand around the door handle and twists just as Joe answers.‘Everybody knows, Punk. It’s all over Twitter.’‘Oh fuck,’ Punk breathes.‘Yeah, I know.’‘No, not that. I’m– I’m gonna have to call you back Joe.’ He hangs up before Joe can respond.Before him the bathroom is a scene of perfect chaos. Shampoo bottles lie strewn across the tiles, towels crumple in puddles on the floor, and the mirror is cracked – diagonally, from one corner to the other. Seven year’s bad luck. The shower is the centrepiece though. Straight from a horror set; it is nearly impossible to look at anything else. Spattered wet, and soaked dark, it stands there, a shadow in the corner of the room, sucking everything into it, dripping with blood.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sep. 1st. Anon. (11.58 pm) LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: YOUR VAMPIRE KING

After Wednesday’s post I think I remember why I quit writing this thing. I’d forgotten how annoying you kids could get. No, I won’t tell you when I’m gonna update this next. that’s for me to know and you to find out. Also: I won’t be telling you what this is about. Again – that’s fpr me to know and…

You, dear douchebag reading this, may remember the heyday of this here livejournal website thingie. (You’re reading this aren’t ya?) Well I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane and relive MY heydays while I’m sitting ‘round here with my thumb in my ass. And by that I don’t mean revisit my old stories. if you want those you can head over to thisisanonymousshitheadwhythefuckwoulditellyou.livejournal.com to find out more! (There’s a little nod to all of you who think you know who this is… not bad sherlocks, now shut it.) No, I’m going to do some relivin’ by stretching those sweet ol writer’s muscles and telling you a story.

Remember when I said to keep all those pesky internet messages in case of emergency? Wellllll some emergencies call for more insurance than that. If the punishment doesn’t fit the crime invent a crime with a fitting punishment. That’s how that goes right?

So picture me, sitting pretty with a knife and a bucket and an armful of veins. Course I’m no stranger to bleeding but even I was feeling woozy after I’d drained those puppies dry (– my veins, not actual baby dogs, sicko, I’m not a psychopath) For some reason I didn’t think it would take that much to get the amount I needed but hey, turns out you bleed less when it’s not your head cracked open and there’s no sweat to make it run. Anyway: arm slit, bucket filled, knife probably diseased, job done. Almost. Now you gotta actually do it. And by ‘it’ I mean use the red stuff to frame some shitty people for some shitty things because the real things they did won’t ever get them put down. Then get the hell out of dodge. I’m not gonna tell you how I did it. (Or maybe I will if you pay for it… guess I’m technically unemployed now.) Lets just say I’m a jack of all trades and a master of all of em too.
Best in the world and all that.

Yours– in anonymous death.

—

Punk – Two Days Gone

Punk’s not squeamish. Can’t afford to be in the industry he’s in and besides, he’s always just been level-headed about the stuff that usually disturbs other people. Piercings gone wrong, cracked skulls, infected cuts; they’ll numb you to anything. He’ll admit it, he’s always found weird disgusting bodily fluids kind of fascinating, it’s one of the reasons he loves horror. Puss, vomit, blood – especially blood. But when he opens the door to his bathroom and sees the shower coated thickly with the stuff, he finally understands what everyone else is so freaked out about.The typical rush he gets when he sees blood in the ring – hell even outside of it if the conditions are right – deserts him. In its place comes a deep coldness, crawling over his skin and in through his ears to freeze his brain. He stares at the shower for a long time, unable to move, unable to think. His brain keeps spitting up images of something else, something older, screaming: this looks familiar! He shuts it off; he can’t go there right now.Calmly, all too calmly, he backs out of the room and closes the door to keep Larry away from it. To keep it away from him.He goes and sits on the stairs.The police, he should call the police. Someone’s broken in and done something in his house and he needs to call the authorities.But he knows it’s not a case of someone and something. Knew it from the moment he opened the door. This will tie back to Max’s disappearance. It has to. No way is he unlucky enough to get caught in the middle of two crimes in as many days. If he calls the cops, what are they going to think? They were ready to pin this on him back in New York. All they needed was some hard evidence. They’ll find it if he calls.Even if it weren’t for the blood here now they’d find a match for Max. Last time Max was here the two of them had cleaned up pretty well, but they probably left something behind. Not that it matters, because there is blood here now, less than a day old by the looks of things, and still dripping. He knows from looking at it, dead to his bones, in the grit of his teeth, that this too will be a match for Max’s.One thought keeps coming back to him: I would not do well in prison.He should really get that lawyer. He goes and gets the bleach from under the kitchen sink instead.

—

In retrospect, that power nap on the plane home was a blessing. Punk won’t be able to sleep for a long time, he’s sure of it. The sun is rising when he finally turns his phone back on. He sits at his kitchen table in the pale light, scrolling through texts and missed calls and Twitter mentions and emails and more calls. Everyone has their own opinion, everyone is cursing each other out, everyone wants to know: is it true?
Already, it looks like the people concerned for Max are winning out over the ones wishing him good riddance. An alarming number of people are acting like his disappearance is the end of the world. Max, the guy who goes out there every week to mock these people’s favourite sports teams and call them marks. How quickly they forget.
Remember when he defended Cody’s honour after his t-shirt was thrown back at him? How sweet!

And: Watch MJF say a heartfelt goodbye to CAP. Salt of the Earth alright!

Or: Look at this photo of him and Piper, so charming!

None of these people know Max, really know him, know the person behind those walls of bluster and bravado. They’ve seen glimpses, sure, when Punk tore down the curtain to expose the actor underneath, but what are glimpses compared to what Punk has gotten from Max in private?Overwhelmed and pathetic as he squirmed beneath Punk, weeks into this and still the worst version of himself came out begging with all he had: Anything, anything – a plea and a promise. Pouncing on Punk another time, as soon as the locker room emptied, strangling him to his knees, then choking him on something else. Or after the dog collar match, after that phone call, after the first texts, looking up at Punk through his lashes, a dangerous smile splitting the lower half of his face, anything but sweet: Cut me again.
Punk’s sweet, charming, salt of the earth Long Island guy. Yeah right.
They don’t get to rewrite who he is. They don’t get to dilute him and then miss a fake, paler version of him. They don’t get to mourn him. Because Punk, the only one who knew him inside and out, is not mourning him. Because he’s not dead. He can’t be.Punk looks down at his hands and scratches some dried blood off a nail. Max can’t be dead.He should read more, try to gauge what the public is thinking about him and Max. But every time he passes something about them – and there is a lot – he can’t make himself read it. He doesn’t want to know, he realises. Ellis and Williams’ assumptions were bad enough and that was only two people forced to keep up at least a façade of professionalism. The half-baked thoughts of millions of anonymous idiots on the internet are sure to be unbearable.As he’s going to close his phone however something catches his eye that brings him up short. It’s one of the many pictures of Max and Piper doing the rounds. There’s nothing special about the photo that would distinguish it from the others, only that it’s there in front of Punk now as his brain ticks over. Piper. Piper.
The phone is up by his ear and dialing before he’s registered the decision to make the call. ‘Piper,’ he says urgently when it’s picked up, ‘I didn’t see Piper on Tuesday. I don’t think she was there.’Ellis on the other end is silent for a moment, possibly trying to place who this is. ‘Punk,’ she says after a second, ‘what are you talking about?’‘Max’s cat, I didn’t see her at all when I was at the apartment.’ Now that he’s thinking about it her absence should have been conspicuous. It may have been the first time he set foot in Max’s place but he knows that Max spoils that cat. He wouldn’t have locked her away in a guest room just for Punk’s benefit, or let her wander unsupervised outside. This is a cat who spends all day in bed dozing. So where had she been on Tuesday?‘Max has a cat?’ He can almost hear Ellis’ eyebrow raising. She’s probably exchanging a look with Williams who, Punk is sure, will roll his eyes and scoff in response. He knows what they think of him: Idiot talent this and neglectful boyfriend that. Not to mention probable murderer. Punk could strangle them. They don’t have time for this.Do you need me to do your jobs for you? ‘I’m not sure how much faith I can have in you as lead detectives on this case if you don’t even know about Piper.’‘I can assure you, we are taking Max’s disappearance very seriously, Punk.’ Her words are stern but Punk can detect a certain grudging respect in her tone. He’s suddenly keenly aware that he is only now acting the way a concerned… friend should in this situation. ‘Tell me about the cat.’‘Piper,’ he corrects, looking at Larry curled up in his bed across the room.‘Right. Tell me about Piper.’Ellis eventually hangs up on him after promising him for the eleventh time that they would do their best to find Piper. Punk is not wildly reassured, they don’t seem to be taking Piper’s absence as the huge clue it so obviously is. Max wouldn’t leave Piper behind him if he had any other choice.Is it possible that he did a runner and this has all been misinterpreted? Punk thinks of the cop’s description of the struggle in Max’s kitchen, of the scene in his bathroom earlier. Probably not, he decides. Which doesn’t bode well for a small defenceless cat.His phone buzzes in his hand. He’s been fielding calls ever since he turned it back on and he really doesn’t feel like facing another one right now. The caller i.d. lighting up his screen is the same one responsible for nearly fifty of his missed calls. Punk entertains picking up for a moment but then he checks the time and decides against it. It’s Friday, push day in his workout split – he really shouldn’t skip it. Let TK sweat it out for a bit, it’ll be good for him.Seven hours later Punk is standing in a hotel corridor outside of a ballroom, waiting for his cue to brave the press conference inside. Half the executive team flew into Chicago for this. Once it’s over they’ll be heading back to the airport and returning to New York, with Punk in tow. He feels like a wrangled wild animal, collected and brought back to where he apparently should have stayed put, to play the worried and concerned partner.Because that is the pre-approved role the company has decided on after forcing Punk through hours and hours of questions and PR prep.Some nameless rep in a suit: When did your relationship with Mr. Friedman begin?What Punk wanted to say: None of your goddamn business. What Punk thought: I have no idea. What the dutiful good guy actually said: Early March.Suit: What was the nature of this relationship?Punk: Ask the cops, they seem to have a pretty fixed idea. Punk: You don’t want to know. Punk: Romantic.Suit: Are you comfortable with going on the record about this in order to make an appeal to the public?Punk: Somebody’s already made that decision asshole. Punk: I don’t really have a choice do I? Punk: Of course I am.The day had passed in a rush of paperwork and nameless faces asking questions they had no right to about things they shouldn’t have known in the first place. Everyone wanted something from him. Punk had been drilled with potential questions the press could throw at him to ensure he didn’t say anything that might be misread. Read: say something that might imply his own guilt and by extension make the company look bad for employing a murderer.It takes a long time to get anyone to tell him what actually happened.Turns out the leak came from Caster, because of course it did. Punk doesn’t know how he got his hands on their texts but he could make a few educated guesses. It explains how the police got them anyway. But apparently feeding them to the police wasn’t enough. At some point, while Punk was in the air yesterday, seeing the last bit of sleep he will probably get for the foreseeable future, Caster had gotten sick of waiting for Punk’s arrest and decided to take matters into his own hands. Because that’s what he wants: Punk arrested.The assistant Punk cornered to tell him this looks apologetic and assures him that Caster has been suspended again. He waves her off. He couldn’t care less what happens to Caster.If anything, Punk thinks suspension is a bit harsh. The guy’s just jealous. It’s quickly becoming clear to Punk that Caster’s tweets about Max are anything but ironic. Last night he had half the internet checking in to see if he was okay after his boyfriend went missing. Of course he has it out for Punk: in his mind Punk stole the love of his life away from him. At least this explains Caster’s sour mood on Wednesday. It’s pretty funny actually. This is not what Punk imagined he’d be doing in his forties; stuck in some fucked up love triangle over MJF of all people.The people around him don’t seem to share the same sentiment if the glares his laugh earns him are anything to go on.That’s another thing the leaked texts have instigated: a pretty widespread dislike for Punk. Nobody is impressed by the contents of the texts. Nobody is over the moon about the fact that he used to be Max’s hero and then he fucked him. They especially don’t like the fifteen odd year age gap between them.But what really seems to get them is his match on Wednesday night. That he went out there after he knew Max was missing, that he had a clear enough head to win, that he was smiling when he won.Stills of him from last Wednesday’s Dynamite, grinning into a camera from high up on the turnbuckle have been retweeted hundreds of times. One article early to jump on the angle captioned the photo Punk’s Killer Smile and it’s caught on. The assistant promises him that their legal team has since taken action and it’s been taken down, but Punk doesn’t care about that.All his hard work and for what? Week after week he went out there, mincing his words, complimenting, appealing to these people only for it to be washed away in an instant. In the last twenty-four hours he went from being the good guy to being guilty of, if not murder, heartless manipulation. A not inconsequential number of people have joined Caster’s crusade, calling for Punk’s arrest, thirsty for blood.Punk winces. Poor choice of words.
A PR guy pops his head out the door and flashes five fingers at him – the amount of time he has before he goes on. He still hasn’t heard back from Ellis.It’s kind of surreal, waiting here to go out and beg the public to call in any tips they might have to the lines the cops have set up in New York. They couldn’t find anyone else to do it, there is no one else to do it. Somehow Punk has found himself in a world where he is Maxwell Jacob Friedman’s next of kin. That should disturb him more than it actually does.But he’s not disturbed. He’s calm, almost excited at the chance to set the record straight. This is damage control. He’s no longer the good guy and that’s Max’s fault. But if he’s going to be tainted by his connection to Max then maybe he can use it to save himself too.When he’s finally given the all clear to go in he feels like he’s floating on a cloud of anticipation. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say until he’s in front of a microphone, but he knows it’s going to be good.It’s weird seeing all the faces he knows from media scrums showing up here. Such a different situation and yet the scene is almost identical. Instead of company banners on either end of the table there are blown up shots of Max’s face, but apart from that Punk could be walking in after a match.He sits down beside Tony with a plan. Play the nice guy, milk the worried lover bit, win back hearts and minds. But when he looks out at the same old vultures, wearing the same eager smiles, angling for a line, waiting for him to slip up and give them a story, he can’t hide the snarl of disgust that wrinkles up his face. Who do these guys think they are?
‘Have a bit of decorum,’ he opens. ‘A guy’s missing and you’re all out here looking like the cat who caught the canary.’ Alright, aggressive start but not bad. He may have chewed them out but it probably just looked like he’s pissed they’re not as worried as he is.Before him on the table lies a sheet filled with the talking points pre-approved by the PR team. It’s a bunch of bullshit, outlining the course of his relationship with Max, detailing a mostly fictitious romance manufactured to pull at the heartstrings enough to appeal to the masses while not being too obnoxiously… well gay. He’s supposed to close with a short description of Max – a eulogy in the present tense. Max is young, Max is talented, Max is funny. God you know they’re reaching when they’re calling Max funny.When he looks down at this page, all he sees are lies. He could say all this disingenuous corporate bullshit and exhaust himself by twisting into the shape they want him to be or…Or he could drop the façade and embrace where he is.‘Right.’ He picks the page up and folds it in half.  Tony worries at the edge of Punk’s vision, nervously watching him with his origami project. ‘You’ve got questions, ask.’ He spreads his hands wide like a preacher and fights to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. At least he looks like he hasn’t slept in two days, because he hasn’t.The rush of voices is filled with the same questions he’s been drilling all day. How is the investigation going? (He’s not at liberty to say.) How is he coping with it all? (He gestures at his eyebags.) What number can people call if they have information? (Take a look at any poster in the room.) When was Max first reported missing? (The police made a statement on this, guys. Come on.)It’s as if they’ve been warned to behave, to stick to the script because they knew Punk wouldn’t. No matter how many hooks he sends out they all return to the safe generalities. It’s all dreadfully boring.‘You don’t have to go easy on me just because my– Max is missing.’ There’s no way they’ll be able to resist that little slip up. ‘You’re all wondering it, so ask. I’m an open book, I’ll answer anything you throw at me.’ He crosses his heart.Around the room pens are being raised, hovering above the page, waiting to see who will be the first to stray from the path, who will make it fair ground for the rest of them.Eventually, a young woman up the front asks: ‘Are the texts real?’He draws his pause out, the room holds its breath. Then: ‘Yes, they are.’An eruption of noise as everyone fights to get their question through. ‘So you admit that you and Max were involved?’‘I do.’‘For how long?’‘Long enough. It’s all there in the texts, you don’t need me to tell you.’ It’s a Herculean feat fighting the grin off his face. These people are too easy.‘Was it serious?’ This from a guy way at the back of the room. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy to be interested in the finer commitment details of a clandestine relationship between two wrestlers but hey, who’s Punk to judge?‘Why don’t you ask Max that when he gets back,’ he winks and gets a flush in response. The snipe earns him a spattering of sympathetic laughter from the room. Eating out of his hand already, they’re so good for him.A voice from the middle of the room: ‘You were effectively outed with the leaking of those texts. Are you looking to pursue legal action against Mr. Caster?’‘Frankly,’ he says, looking around the room with wide pleading eyes, ‘no. There are much more serious matters at hand than a breach of my privacy. If that’s what it takes to get Max back then I’ll happily be outed several times over. Look, I understand where Caster was coming from when he released them – I think it was misguided, but I understand it. So, no I won’t be taking legal action. In fact, if you ask me I think his suspension was an overreaction.’He surveys the sea of nodding heads. He’s so sensible, they seem to say, so forgiving under so much stress. That’s right: he’s back to being the good guy and he did it without any poorly written script. Even further: he’s just torn popular opinion to shreds and proven that not only is he a good guy, he’s a nice guy. There’s just one more thing he needs to clean up:‘C’mon guys. I know you don’t want to ask and I don’t particularly want to have to answer it but we have to clear the air.’ Beside him Tony shifts in his seat. If the guy doesn’t like what’s being said he can be Punk’s guest and say something about it. But if he’s going to stay silent Punk’s going to keep on going. He stays silent. Punk continues: ‘Did I hurt Max? – That’s what you all want to know right? Did I kill him?’The room is dead silent with awe. Did he really just say that? Finally the same young woman from before breaks the spell. ‘Well did you?’There’s a line of cameramen crouched in front of the first row and that’s where he looks when he leans forward over the desk and says: ‘I did not hurt Maxwell. I did not kill him.’He doesn’t know he’s doing it at the time but later the photos will show that as he spoke his face had split in two: that killer smile.The conference is over after that, he’s calling an end to it. He leaves the room, shielded on both sides by security and PR people, feeling more sure footed than he has all week. He had wrestled for control (hehe) of his narrative and he had won. Now he intends to keep it.Murphy’s law. As if the universe was listening in on his thoughts, the room chimes in unison. Journalists jump for the phones and murmur in startled confusion at what they find there. Punk tries to linger and find out what’s going on but security has other ideas, deciding he’s safer on the other side of the door. He only catches snippets before the door shuts. Something about Caster, and Piper, maybe Chicago.
He digs in his pockets for his own phone and finds Detective Ellis’ number already calling. He swipes the call across and asks: ‘Piper?’
‘Is with Caster,’ she confirms.‘How–’
‘We’re bringing him in for questioning now but from what I can tell Max gave him to her himself to mind. Before he left, on a flight to Chicago.’Punk’s head is reeling. He’s hurried down a corridor and out the side door of the hotel into a car park. ‘What? When?’‘Monday.’‘No, Max was in Long Island on Monday.’ He casts around for his car but he can’t find it in the dark.‘How do you know?’ Ellis sounds like she might actually believe him. Or believe that he believes that.‘He called me from his place that morning.’ He’d woken up to his phone ringing, Max on the other end: Just making sure you haven't forgotten about tomorrow. Punk had just presumed he was anxious about having Punk over and didn’t want to say. Now it feels like something else.‘Well, according to Caster – and the airline – he flew out that evening. Are you sure he didn’t mention taking a trip out, maybe meeting you there?’ There’s something about Ellis' tone that tells him she’s trying to catch him out. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out what that something is. ‘There’s no return flight on record.’This doesn’t make any sense. ‘Max was with me on Tuesday in Long Island. Yeah, I’m sure he didn’t say anything about a flight, much less about Chicago. The airline got it wrong, Caster’s lying–’Ellis hums. ‘We’ll see but his alibi seems watertight. They met at a cafe to hand the cat over, people saw them talking.’She leaves the obvious unsaid: Nobody saw you.‘He could still be lying about what they were talking about.’ Punk finally locates his car, two spaces up from where he’s standing, right under his nose. How did he forget where he put it?Ellis clucks her tongue. ‘Either way we’re going to need you to come back out here to help out.’‘This doesn’t make any sense. Chicago? What would he be doing in Chicago two days before he was scheduled to be on TV in New York? What about the scene at his apartment?’‘We have reason now to believe that that scene was staged.’‘Staged?’ He echoes dumbly. ‘What do you–’‘Punk,’ she interrupts, ‘we’ll talk about it when you get here. When are you flying in?’‘I’m on the next flight.’ He can’t leave well enough alone. Something is bugging him. ‘But Ellis? This doesn’t make sense. Why would Max give Piper to Caster? He doesn’t even like–’And then the gears in his brain finally slot into place and turn. Caster having the texts; Piper being stowed away carefully; the staged crime scene; the flight to Chicago: all signs point to Punk. The brief thought he’d had when staring at his bloody bathroom last night returns: This is familiar.Yes, the crime scene at Max’s house was staged, just like the one at Punk’s was staged. Punk might not be guilty but he sure is being deliberately set up to look that way. This is not a coincidence, because this is not a missing persons case. This is not a murder.Maxwell Jacob Friedman is not missing, not really, because Maxwell Jacob Friedman is not dead.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sep. 7th. Anon. (4.02am) – LIST OF REASONS TO FRAME SOMEONE FOR YOUR MURDER

a. They deserve it.

b. They deserve it.

c. Girls just wanna have fun.

You can spend years and years of your life training twice, sometimes three times a day, sticking to a diet so strict you can’t even have a slice of cake on your birthday, only getting four hours sleep a night because youre busting ass to get across the country for the next show, and still STILL you’ll be thrown to the side at the first sign of some bodybuilder steroid junkie who took the easy way out and wouldn’t know hard work if it was punching him in the teeth. You’d think I’d be a bit smarter than that sissyphus guy but hey, I guess I just enjoy the workout (to a certain samoan: if you’re reading this then yes fucker I’m alive, sorry for the mess, and no I’m still not letting the sissy thing go)

So I spend a decade carving myself into the best, hardest motherfucker there is only to look up one day and realize none of it fucking matters. They’re going to bury me anyway. Yeah, I know it’s my own fault (when is it not) I knew this was going to happen and did it anyway, what can I say? Hypocrisy is sexy. Doesn’t matter, I worked on that too. Sometimes all you need is a nice sit down chat to get what you’re due. Call that contract negotiation.

Except of course these are still the same guys that worked you to the bone and tossed you aside so when they MAKE YOU SICK because they DONT KNOW WHAT MEDICAL LEAVE IS do you let them take it all from you again? No fucking way, they don’t get to win. Call that praxis.

See you when I see you

XxX

If I ever get resurrected I’m publishing this puppy and retiring on the royalties. This shit is fucking gold.

—

Maxwell Jacob Friedman - The Day Of

Maxwell Jacob Friedman is doing so much better now that he is dead. Technically missing. Soon to be presumed dead. Murdered. And Max’s ingeniously orchestrated situationship will frame Punk for all of it.You may think that’s a bit extreme but bear with him. Let Daddy tell you a story.What people often forget about professional wrestling is that it’s hard work. To succeed you need to be on your A-game all the time. You need to be in shape all the time. You need to be sharp all the time. You need to be able to give it all your time. And that’s just the bare minimum. That’s just doing your job.But Max doesn’t show up to just do his job. Max shows up to be the best. And to be best you can’t just be in shape, you have to be in perfect condition. You can’t just be sharp, you need to be a fucking razor blade. You can’t just give it all your time, you need to find a way to make more time. Because being the best means going above and beyond the call of duty and doing the impossible.
For six years Max has done the impossible. He wakes up at five a.m. to down pre-workout and do cardio. Then it’s weights, and training, and in the evenings study. He watches back matches and takes notes and then later he gets back in the ring and fixes his mistakes because being the best means being perfect. For six years he has shown up again and again, to shed his body weight in sweat, to take the bruises and the bumps, to work and work until every part of his body hurts and then work some more. He has lost friends. He has lost family. He has cut off all other avenues of joy because professional wrestling has to be the only thing in his life. Day after day he has pushed that boulder up that hill because this is his life. For six years it has been his life.And where has it gotten him? He clawed his way to the top of AEW and then proceeded to carry the company on his back for years. And what has it done for him? He has given the world some of the very best matches in the history of this sport. And what did the world give him in return?Not a title. Never that. Not any recognition or respect or even a goddamn nod. No, Maxwell Jacob Friedman, generational talent that he is, has devoted his life to being the best and it has gotten him nowhere.Now, alright, he should clarify that he saw this coming. When he goes out there every week he knows what he’s gonna get and it’s not cheers. Oh, no. It’s thousands of people – who pay to see him, bear in mind – booing him at the top of their lungs. And that’s fine! Nobody likes to be reminded that there is something better than them. That they’re just not up to snuff. That there is a guy who checks all the boxes, who can do it all, and he’s barely old enough to be considered a millennial. It must bring up some pretty uncomfortable existential dread.So, Max has learned that being the best means people will dislike you. That’s not their fault, that’s just life. That doesn’t mean that Max has to sit by and let it go. If people are going to hate him for putting the work in then fine. He doesn’t have to like them either. He has watched less talented, washed up pieces of shit be handed opportunities, that should be his, just because their employment history says one thing or they're able to put on a nice guy act. Max has never hidden who he is. He has never pretended to be something he’s not. He has never played the good guy just to get ahead because he knows damn well he is the bad guy and he will not be ashamed of it.And if that means he doesn’t get the respect he deserves, the recognition he has earned, the title that is rightfully his, that’s the company’s decision. But everything has a breaking point and he has reached his.At this point you’re probably wondering: What does this have to do with Punk? He’s getting to that.See, when Punk came back, after his long, long hiatus, Max thought that he might finally have found an equal. Someone who could hold a flame to Max, someone who could rival him, someone who could push him to become better than the best. But of course, Punk – who had already left him down badly before – only disappointed.That is, until Max stepped into the ring with him. When he got on the microphone with Punk he was disappointed. There’s no other way to say it. Never meet your heroes kids, they are sure to crush your dreams. So he got on the mic with Punk and Punk let him down yet again. But there was something there, a little touch of something in Punk’s eye when Max was speaking and it took a while but eventually Max understood what it meant.The guy he grew up on was still in there. He was just buried under piles of bullshit and fakeass smiles. CM Punk – the outcast who wore his hair long and badly bleached, who wore the wrong clothes and did the wrong things, who took insults and jeers with a raised chin and crossed arms, who put in the work and became the best – was still in there. And it was Max’s job to lure him out.And, well you’ve all seen the dog collar match. You know. Max succeeded. Max has never shied away from hard work, has never shied away from a challenge. He dug and dug and he unburied CM Punk and that guy came down to the ring for Max and they bled. They bled and they shone. They were the best.Max resurrected the only man who could hope to be his equal. He forged his ultimate opponent and for a brief glorious moment they were the best in the world.But then what happened? But then what happened?Punk won by showing everyone his true colours, by shedding the good guy and embracing the bad guy, and Max will forgive him that! He still has a win over him after all. But what is unforgiveable is what Punk did the following week. Punk went out there, after cheating and bleeding and coming back from the dead, and he went out there and he reverted back to that sad old haunted doll of a nice guy.
Can you imagine restoring your perfect enemy to their absolute pinnacle and having them throw it back in your face?No fucking way. Punk doesn’t get to win.

—
Max always knew he could kill himself. A lot of people lack the resolve but not him. He could do it if he put his mind to it. It wouldn’t be that hard. No, it wouldn’t be that hard at all. Faking his death – now that would be hard. It was better though. It would ruin more than one life.Becoming involved with Punk was necessary for the plan to work. In fact, for a while Max thought it would be sufficient enough revenge on its own. The plan went as follows: get Punk to fuck him (he saw the way Punk looked at him, this would not be difficult), get Punk to be even more emotionally invested in Max than he already was (Max can cry on cue, again this is not difficult), and then drop him (leaving a heartbroken mess in his wake). It was a good plan, simple, straightforward, to the point. Hard to fuck up.Punk fucked it up.It was supposed to be easy. Punk was supposed to understand that Max wanted him to stay, that he couldn’t leave again, that it was Max’s turn to leave. Punk probably did understand, he just wanted to be the asshole.If that had been the only problem it would have been fine. Sure, it was a bump in the road but Max had it under control. Because for all that Punk kept trying to leave, he never actually did. Max watched him convince himself over and over again that ending things between them was what he really wanted. But he couldn’t seem to do it. The longest he ever made it was two weeks before he was crawling back to Max like a sad little dog. They both knew what Punk really wanted and it wasn’t leaving. Oh no, it was something much worse. It was Max. And who could blame him? Max was a fucking catch.But just like everybody else, Punk didn’t appreciate it when he had everything he could possibly need right in his lap. He had the complete package, the only challenge he would ever need to be fulfilled in life and he got distracted. Distracted by the fucking moo-cow man and his shiny belt. Couldn’t he see that there was no point in chasing the championship if it was held by an imbecile? Punk was better than that, he didn’t need a title to prove it. Max was the only one who could hold a light to him. Max was the only one who could make him the best. If Max didn’t have the title what was the point in chasing after it? But Punk refused to see that.Maybe some of that is Max’s fault. He reawakened the beast inside Punk that was hungry for glory and honour and he had foolishly believed that this animal could intuit what food would satisfy it best.Whatever, Punk was an idiot. But Max wasn’t going to leave this go. Reducing Punk to a hollowed out ghost was no longer enough. Max had done that before to other people, made them jump through hoops and suffer through trials for him. It was a tried and true method and it just wasn’t enough for Punk. Punk deserved something special.Faking your own death was difficult but for someone like Max, who completed his five year plan in half that time, it would be more than manageable.The first, and most important, details of this new plan were the texts. Max needed hard proof that would tie Punk to him. Something that would give the cops reason to suspect him, something that would turn enough marks against him, something that would tether him to Max for the rest of his life. (Let Punk try to explain what they had to anyone else. No one would ever get it. No one would ever believe it.) A couple months of heavily ambiguous texts, that – with a bit of cutting and editing – would suggest a pretty sketchy story to anyone with a scrap of imagination, was just the thing.All that was needed was someone to leak them after Max was long gone.Caster was the obvious choice. No one would ever suspect Max of wanting to have anything to do with him, especially not Punk, and Caster was stupid enough to do anything that he asked. Usually the way he tripped over himself, all heart-eyed over Max, creeped Max out. But he was willing to push that aside if he could use it to his advantage.Caster was easier than Punk to manipulate, Max didn’t even have to sleep with him to get him on side. A text here and there, a few coffees, the lightest insinuation that something might happen between them and Caster was his. Once you got used to him, the guy wasn’t even that bad company. He was from Long Island after all. It didn’t hurt that he was actually good with Piper.Over the past five weeks Max had carefully dropped unsubtle nugget after unsubtle nugget in the hopes that Caster would at least pick up on a few of them. This one text kinda freaked me out… I don’t think he’d ever actually hurt me but… You’re the only one I feel comfortable saying this to… That last one was designed to appeal to Caster’s weird obsessive nature. Jealousy was a strange and fickle emotion; if you fed it enough hope you could mould it into righteous anger.Last Sunday he had called Caster up to ask him if he could mind Piper while he was in Chicago, just enough of a warble in his voice to prompt Caster to ask if he was okay. Was he being coerced into flying out? Did he need help getting out of it? Did he know he was too good for Punk?Max had trained him well. He forwarded him on a copy of all their texts. Just in case. Just for insurance. It’s true what they say, electronic records really are the best thing to happen to those out for revenge.Witness secured, it was off to the cesspool of the Midwest. Chicago. A necessary, very necessary, evil of this plan. He handed Piper over to Caster at an airport cafe. Lots of people around, lots of cameras. He didn’t want to leave his little angel behind at all but he had to. She was the main reason he was doing this little side plot – he needed her to be well cared for while he was away (no way was he trusting the police to remember to feed her), therefore he needed a credible reason to give her to Caster. And so a date in Chicago it was. It wouldn’t hurt to undermine Punk’s story a bit either.So: fly out on the Monday morning. Now the last official record of him places him in Chicago. That will come in handy for later. As soon as he landed it was off to the sketchiest rental place he could find. Considering the city he was in, he didn’t have to search very hard. No contracts, no insurance, no signatures, just cash in hand and he was off. On a twelve hour road trip right back to Long Island. Twelve hours driving, non-stop. That’s how dedicated he was to this.He made it back home an hour before Punk was ringing his doorbell. That is the beauty of superb scheduling.He’d been saccharine sweet the rest of the day, and while the fight the next morning wasn’t part of the plan, it didn’t matter. All his neighbours were either already gone to work or away on vacation. This was crucial, there could be no witnesses here. No one to see Max when – after staging a very improbable crime – he snuck out to his shitty rented car and got back on the highway.Back to Chicago.Okay, Max is aware. This next part is a little bit self-indulgent. But he can’t get that night out of his head.Kneeling in the tub, Punk looking down at him like they were still in the ring, like they had frozen in time and they would never have to be anywhere else. Looking at him as if this was the most important moment of his life, like if he looked away it all might end. The warm drizzle of blood down Max’s forehead, the taste of iron caught between the back of his nose and his throat. Punk’s eyes flickering down to his neck when he tried to swallow and clear the taste away. Max was golden. This moment would never end.Now here he is, standing in the same room weeks after that moment did end, perched on the side of the tub with a needle in his arm and a blood bag beside him. Punk keeps his spare keys under a small stone statue that looks suspiciously like Larry, next to his backdoor.The actual little mutt is peering up at Max from the bathroom door, head tilted, mouth parted ready to growl if and when he decides he doesn’t like what Max is doing. It’s almost funny how true that cliche is. Dogs really do look like their owners. Max throws him a treat and he scampers back into the hallway to eat it. The poor guy is probably malnourished after staying with the neighbours.The crook of his elbow is starting to sting now. He checks his count. Four pints – that should be enough. He extracts the needle from the delicate skin and holds a swab of disinfected cotton to it. Not for the first time he praises himself for picking such a clean solution. Why saw into your arm and risk damaging your body when there’s a much better way to do things?In a moment he will drench this shower with his blood. Punk should make it back to Chicago before the cops put it together. Max is counting on it. He only wishes he could see the look on Punk’s face when he opens the bathroom door to find it covered in Max. Will he figure it out then? Will he know Max bled for him? Or will he freak out and call the cops, skipping a few steps to implicate himself earlier than planned?Either way, it doesn’t matter. When the texts leak – and they will, Caster is far too unhinged to keep them private – the police will have to listen to Caster. And he will put them on to Chicago, and then they’ll have to check out Punk’s place. Punk will have cleaned this up by then but there’s no way he’ll get everything. He’s not that thorough. Traces of Max will be found here and the story will start to piece together.Punk killed him when he came to visit him in Chicago. Then, to throw the pigs off his tail he flew into New York, staged a break in and abduction at Max’s apartment, and showed up to work the next day like nothing happened.It’s the flimsiest, most half-baked murder plot of the century. It’s perfect. Max can’t wait to sit back and watch the chaos unfold.For now though he slumps to the bathroom floor and opens the tub of ice-cream he stole from Punk’s freezer. Phish Food – his favourite. He hasn’t had processed sugar in weeks, but he’s going to need it to get his blood sugar up again.He still has a long drive in front of him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sep 9th. Anon. (3.32pm) – BOREDOM KILLS. PARENTS KEEP YOUR CHILDREN OCCUPIED.

The headlines today: Nadal is a comeback king, the second amendment continues to suck, and I am still dead, waiting to go national.

My room here is the definition of shitty. The AC is broken and the shower doesn’t run hot and I’m pretty sure the mattress is like 90 percent springs. It beats the fancy hotels they put us up in by miles. Or maybe I’ve just got a case of the nostalgia blues. I’ve been sitting around staring upside down on the couch at the TV for the past few days and have come to the conclusion that 24/7 news channels suck. Every newsreader that comes on looks about ten seconds away from having their eyes fall out of their sockets Simpsons style. Can’t blame them. If I was stuck in my own private time loop having to read the same depressing stories over and over again my head would probably explode too. They should try framing their employer for their murder. It’s liberating stuff.

Speaking of: somehow the feds still aren’t on my case. I’d be disheartened if I hadn’t half expected this would happen. Man, do I hate rich people. How much do you think it costs to keep an employee death out of the media? A lot probably. More than the backpay I'm owed.

I came on here to do something other than the whole lotta nothin I was doing in the room but turns out I have a whole lotta nothin to say too. Boy do I hate waiting. Well, I’m gonna go back and sit under my open window for a while. Hope I don’t melt!

Remember kids: I am still dead and public library ‘puters are a pure fuckin godsend.

—

Punk – The Week Of
 Punk never flies back to New York. Ellis calls him back when he’s halfway home to tell him not to bother. The feds are stepping in. Williams got word while they were on the phone earlier. (It doesn’t escape Punk that Williams has not been in contact with him himself. He seems to have divided the detectives. Ellis obviously believes there’s some hope for him – he’s going to thank the Piper thing for that – Williams hasn’t liked him from the beginning. It only took him forty something years but he’s finally done it: he’s a homewrecker.)According to Ellis, the Chicago lead was enough to pique the FBI’s interest. If what Punk thinks is happening here is what’s actually happening then he’ll give the devil his due. An interstate crime is definitely a faster way to go national. Sloppier, but faster.He asks Ellis what she thinks this means for him, only to have her clam up. She might think he’s a good guy but he’s still their lead suspect. She’s not going to give him that much.‘They’ll be snooping around,’ he surmises and gets a non-committal hum in response.He digs out his lawyer’s number as soon as he gets in. Finds it on a business card under a thousand other scraps of paper on his desk. Punk had deleted it from his contacts years ago. He was supposed to be done with lawyers. Trust Max to go dig up his past for him.While he’s sitting on his couch, debating whether or not to call, his phone rings again. HR this time, because he can’t catch a break. The woman on the other end starts in on a rant about the rules of his contract, little details he doesn’t remember signing off on that make his head spin. Not a word of it is going in. Workplace conduct, criminal records, public opinion. Punk cuts her off, tells her whatever she has to say he’s going to need to hear from Tony directly and hangs up.He paces the downstairs while he waits. Around the living room, down the hall, into the kitchen. He has Tony’s number, he could make the call himself and save some time but he refuses to come crawling to the boss’ door. Call it an asshole move, Punk doesn’t give a shit. Max isn’t taking any more power from him. If Tony has something to say to him he can come to Punk’s door to say it.He starts opening and closing every cabinet in his kitchen, trying to expel some of his extra energy, hoping it’ll stop him from screaming down the phone if this turns out the way he thinks it will. For him to keep any hope of salvaging this he needs to sound calm and reasonable. It’s been years since it was this hard to pull the charade up, to step into that character and play the game the way adults are meant to play it. He’s had so much practice in the past year it should come as second nature. But something’s cracking in him. The curtain is being nudged aside.He’s progressed to reordering his fridge when the call finally comes through. Tony greets him like he’s being fed cue cards with corporate approved ‘this guy maybe killed our second biggest minute by minute draw who he was maybe dating but he’s still our first biggest minute by minute draw so tread lightly and also if he didn’t kill him he’s probably grieving’ things to say on them. Punk would love to know what poor intern had to write this. So he can find their boss and punch them in the teeth.Punk sets his jaw through the strangest condolences he has ever received and tries to distract himself by investigating his vegetable shelf. Max better not be dead because Punk would really like to have the honour of killing him himself just for this.When Tony finally runs out of steam Punk dives on the opportunity. He wants this conversation over with. ‘Let me guess, I’m no longer booked for next week.’
It’s a weak joke – he wasn’t booked to fight on Wednesday anyway and they both know it – but Tony still chuckles at it awkwardly. ‘Uh, no.’C’mon Tony, man up and say it. Dead air sounds over the phone, crackling slightly with static. Punk starts rearranging his condiments.Tony eventually breaks. ‘Yeah, um. About that. After your victory on Wednesday your next match should have been Vegas but obviously some things have come up…’ and you’re suspended for the foreseeable future, Punk finishes in his head. That’s fine, he’s been expecting that, it’s not ideal, it’s not the kind of treatment that he’s earned, but he understands where it’s coming from and he’ll be back.Except that’s not what Tony says. Because the universe hates Punk, because Max has to ruin everything Punk does that’s not about him, Tony says something much worse. ‘We have to take the title shot from you.’Punk freezes, midway through opening his freezer, and clenches his grip tightly around the handle. Enough to hurt. Enough to stop him from doing something everyone would really regret. He stares unseeing into the darkness of his freezer as Tony apologises profusely, promises him it’s not any reflection of the company’s stance just a precaution to make shareholders feel safe, and then confirms that yes, he is in fact suspended too. Punk should expect written authentication of this for his lawyers. Then, after once again offering his sympathies about Max, Tony ends the call.Punk’s face is numb, probably because he’s crouching in front of an ice-box like an idiot, but he can’t make himself move. He doesn’t know why it never occurred to him that this would happen. Of course they’d take the number one contender spot away from him. That was most likely Max’s game plan all along. Teach Punk a lesson for not taking him seriously, for thinking he was better than him, for not paying him enough attention. It’s childish.He traces the freezer’s contents with his eyes and realises something’s missing. The ice-cream. That stupidly expensive sickeningly sweet shit that no one over the age of five has ever wanted to eat. It’s not here. Punk remembers buying a tub before he left, walking the aisles of the supermarket, certain that he was going to end things this time and still pulling it off the shelf when he passed by. Now it’s gone.Theft. Add that to Max’s growing list of crimes. Framing Punk, getting him suspended, now stealing from him? This is pathetic even for you, Maxwell.
He closes the freezer and retrieves the card he left on his coffee table. It’s time to get a lawyer.He gets told off for not calling them the moment he was brought in. He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not you, it’s me. He bites it down.The official notice of his suspension comes in a few hours later. It’s closer to early morning than late night, outside clouds stretch over a paling bruised sky. Punk is still pacing the length of his house, wound up and confined. He gets the notification on his phone but has to sit down in front of his computer to get himself to read it. To believe it.They cite the press conference among the reasons for suspension. The press conference they prepped him for. Apparently his behaviour during it was ‘erratic’ and ‘could endanger the company’s public image.’ He has to laugh at that: one short hard cough of air. As if he hasn’t said things ten times worse in promos than anything he said at the conference. As if Max hasn’t. But that made them money. This didn’t.He saves a copy of the email to his laptop. Then makes a backup for an old USB. He pretends he doesn’t notice time repeating itself. He’s mildly successful.
On Twitter the wrestling world, and to a lesser extent the world in general, is still having a meltdown over Caster’s latest pipebomb. The original tweet has been taken down – not, Punk is sure, by Caster himself – but it is easy enough to find a screenshot of it.Looking at it he can’t help but feel like the world is blowing this out of proportion. It’s a photo of Piper, identical to every other photo of her Max has posted, except instead of being curled up asleep all peaceful on Max’s chest she’s a ragged ball of anxiety, hair standing on end as Caster clutches her to him. Beneath he has written: Weird how Max left Piper with ME despite everything. Here, Caster has used an emoji with a hand under its chin like it’s thinking. Just like it’s weird that Max would go missing from LI even tho he was in Chicago… This is followed by a string of symbols Punk isn’t even going to attempt to comprehend.He rereads it but still can’t figure out why the cops would think this is a serious lead. Why the feds would. From this alone Punk would think Caster was the one acting suspicious. Why does he have the cat? Why is he trying to dispute the narrative established by the police? But he has an alibi, he has credibility (Punk gave him that when he acknowledged the texts), and Punk is presuming he has the back-up of flight records. The FBI wouldn’t get involved with less.Punk closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Ellis had framed it like he was two seconds away from getting his door kicked in. Maybe he still is, but he’s not convinced. His lawyer told him it would take a while for any search warrant to come through. There just isn’t enough tying him to Max’s trip to Chicago. After seeing the evidence for himself Punk almost agrees. But he knows cops and he knows himself. They’ll have it out for him.At least Caster’s tweet, branded as it is with cheap overexcited emojis, is in poor enough taste for the subject at hand that Punk believes Caster is only being puppeted through this. The poor guy is genuinely grieving someone he thought was his friend while Max is probably out there laughing at him, thanking him for being such a good boy. Punk can almost hear him, that awful fake chuckle. Can almost see the way the tendons in his neck compress around the sound, like they’re trying not to choke on it. Something twists in Punk’s stomach.He spends the next day waiting. His heart races every time he thinks he hears a noise out on his porch. Larry watches him move from seat to seat, then from room to room. At first he tags at Punk’s heels, eager at the promise of movement. But Punk is much too jumpy to leave the house, convinced the moment he does it will get raided. When it becomes evident that there will be no walk, Larry retreats to his bed and follows Punk with weary eyes.Punk’s skin itches to do something. He returns to the bathroom, bleach and scrubber in hand, and cleans it again. Thoroughly. It doesn’t feel anywhere near good enough. If Max was in his house he could have left evidence anywhere. Punk goes through the rooms searching, but comes up empty. Then he gets to thinking of the ice-cream. Wonders if he still has the receipt for it anywhere. Wonders if he could use that to prove Max was here and alive after Punk left. He could probably get someone to testify that he hates that flavour, that Max loves it. And if the empty tub is in his trash…He’s half-way to dumping out the contents of his trash on his kitchen floor when he realises it doesn’t matter if it is there or not. Max could have eaten it before Punk supposedly killed him. That’s when he knows he’s lost it.He gets Larry’s lead and gets out of the house. He needs to breathe.The feds never show up to search his place and Punk’s brain never shows up to mastermind his way out of this mess. To fix Max’s mess. The only coherent thought he has all day keeps repeating. His fingers spread around Max’s neck tightening and tightening as his windpipe collapses beneath them. It’s not a helpful thing to be imagining, but it’s the most fun he’s had in days.By Sunday he’s fielding calls by the minute. Any rag reporter worth a dime wants an interview, even some actual publications are calling looking for a statement. Caster has the same problem it seems. Except he has much more trouble keeping his legs shut. He’s spoken to every sports magazine that will have him, articles popping up on Punk’s phone unprompted like it can tell this will annoy him personally. Once when Punk turned on his TV, Caster was being interviewed on some crime programme. Max’s face stared out at him from a missing poster splashed all over national television, his eyes flat and dead and challenging. Punk switched it off immediately.On Monday, he tweets Caster: Pretty sure animals are supposed to go to the next of kin.
Caster responds with a poll. Who gets custody? Creepy old pervert who possibly definetly (God forbid) unalived the baby’s daddy. Or: The loyal and caring boyfriend who bravely fights through his grief to give her treats and provide for her.
Over a million people vote in it. Caster wins. Punk looks at the final definitive proof that he has lost the fans and finds he doesn’t care. Love him, hate him, believe him, want him dead: they’re all still talking about him.Unfortunately, they’re still talking about Max too. And they have only nice things to say. Enjoy it while it lasts, Punk thinks at Max, wherever he is. It won’t last long.Something has been stirring in the back of Punk’s skull for a while now. It’s finally starting to make itself known, take shape. Max needs to be taught a lesson. Shown that grown ups don’t run away from petty little problems, eventually you have to suffer the consequences.Max wants to take the title shot from him, the people from him, his job from him, because that’s what he thinks revenge looks like? Fine. That’s fine by Punk. But Punk’s going to show him what real revenge looks like. Punk’s going to take his story from him.Joe picks up on the first ring.‘You’re fucking dead Punker.’ Punk imagines him waiting by the phone like a fifties housewife and grins.‘Yeah?’‘No,’ Joe shuts him down before he can even get started. Punk knows the exact face he’s making right now. It’s not pleasant. ‘You don’t get to use me as an alibi in a murder case and then not answer my calls.’‘It’s been a busy week. I’m literally calling you back right now.’ A soft patter begins on the roof over Punk’s head. He pushes himself up from where he was lying on his bed with Larry and walks over to the window. ‘And it’s not a murder case. Don’t tell me you’re buying into that bullshit too now.’Somewhere in California Joe hums. ‘You sound quite sure of that–’‘That’s ‘cause I am sure of it.’ Punk pushes his blinds aside roughly and looks out.‘–and that’s what worries me.’ Joe finishes.Punk watches the rain come down in straight sheets, a windless summer shower. The street outside looks extra grey in the shining wet. He wonders how long he has until his address is leaked and the street becomes clogged with news vans. Wonders what the weather’s like in California. Sunny, probably. He could just ask Joe.Instead he says: ‘I need you to come out here man.’There’s a long silence on the other end. Belatedly, Punk realises Joe might actually be buying into the bullshit. He might actually think Punk did something to Max. That Punk is trying to confess to him now, drag him into this, away from his nice sunny west coast and into a conspiracy. That last bit is true.‘I didn’t kill him, Joe. I didn’t hurt him.’ I didn’t tell you almost everything for you to back out on me here.
Joe lets out a breath and Punk hates him for it. There was no reason to be holding it. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow.’Out of everyone, Joe should know what’s really going on. Punk can’t tell his lawyers, he can’t tell the public, hell – not even Caster would believe him about this, but Joe might. Joe should. He’s Punk’s only chance at a rational conversation right now. And he can’t have this particular conversation over the phone.When Joe arrives on Tuesday morning Punk is feeling almost well rested. With a plan finally in place he was able to grab a few hours sleep during the night. More than he’d seen since last Tuesday anyway. He meets Joe at his cab and pays the fare in cash before Joe can. Then he scoops up Joe’s bags.Joe raises an eyebrow at him but Punk ignores him, scouting the street for reporters. No one’s found him yet as far as he can tell. Good.The only person around is his neighbour, Mrs. Butler, sitting on her porch. He waves to her and she sniffs. Same as ever. They’ve never gotten on, she doesn’t like the tattoos and the fighting, but she likes dogs and she’ll take Larry when he forgets to book him into a kennel. That’s good enough for him.Inside, Joe watches Punk drop his bags and crosses his arms. ‘What was that about?’ He tilts his head at the door, meaning the cab, the hefty tip Punk gave the driver.‘Just being a gentleman.’ Punk grins, spreading his arms at the bags.Joe just looks at him.‘You’re not here,’ Punk tells him and goes into the kitchen. He’s going to need coffee for this. Joe will probably need something stronger.Joe follows him, arms still crossed over his chest. ‘Well, I am here, Punk. You made me take a four hour flight to be here.’Punk gestures to the fridge. Joe looks at him, looks at it, rolls his eyes and opens it. When he finds a six pack in there he holds it up to Punk and raises that eyebrow again. ‘This for me or have you completely snapped?’‘It’s for you asshole. Be glad I’m such a nice guy these days or you’d be getting a fucking lecture right about now.’Joe shakes his head but he takes a bottle and sits down at the table. ‘Start talking.’‘After we’re finished here you’re gonna get a cab into the city and you’re gonna pay cash for it.’ Joe looks at him, he doesn’t say a word. ’You’re gonna check yourself into some hotel in the city and you’re going to make sure the staff remember you.’ He rubs his fingers against his thumb in the universal sign for money. Joe leans his cheek on his hand and continues to look sceptical. Punk continues. ‘Then you’re going to buy a ticket for something – anything – and you’re going to go to it. Advertise the fact that you’re going online. Get some fans there. Sign things. Take photos. Then make sure you’re seen going back to your room.’‘You done?’Punk shrugs. ‘Just trying to keep you safe.’‘I’m touched,’ Joe deadpans. ‘You know I’m trying here but you’re really not convincing me that you had nothing to do with…’ He flaps his hand. ‘The Friedman stuff.’‘Oh, I have everything to do with the Max stuff. Or more accurately the Max stuff has everything to do with me.’Joe doesn’t move but Punk can see something happening behind his eyes. For a minute it looks like he really believes Punk has just confessed to him. No matter how brief that moment will always exist. They’ll never get it back; Joe will always have looked at him and seen a murderer. Good. Punk needs that break of trust so that when he gains it back Joe will have some guilt weighing on him too.‘He ran Joe. Wherever he is, Max is alive and well. He set all this up. He’s framing me. It’s unoriginal and it’s uninspired but I’m almost flattered.’Joe seems to be assessing. Punk can almost see the way he rushes through the maths to arrive at the answer. Joe understands. He knew he would. ‘You’ve got it bad, Punker.’Punk frowns at him. What?Joe waves a hand again, move past it, and takes a long sip of beer. ‘Run me through it.’So Punk does. It’s easier to explain the framing than it is the rest of it, so he starts there. He tells Joe about Caster, how Max wouldn’t be caught dead with him, let alone be friends with him.Joe nods along but it’s obviously not enough. So what? the downturned corners of Joe’s mouth seem to say, everyone thought Max hated you. Look how that turned out.So Punk pivots. Brings in Piper, the perfect spoiled cat, Max’s baby. He’d never leave her in anything less than a four star cat hotel when he was travelling. Has Joe seen Caster? He’s not exactly premium cat care material – he’s an emotional wreck right now.Unlike you. Joe’s continued silence speaks again.Time to bring out the big guns. The trip to Chicago doesn’t even make sense. Why would Punk fly into New York on Tuesday if he was what – supposed to kill Max here on the Monday? Why stage a second crime scene, why leave an electronic footprint placing him in New York that day?Did Max think this was a logical cohesive narrative he was telling? Because it wasn’t. Punk tries to picture him driving back to Long Island from Chicago and finds he can’t. And yet he was there on Tuesday, there to pull Punk inside by the wrist and there to offer him coffee after they’d finally parted and there, now that Punk thinks about it, to look tired and over-strung even though it was the beginning of the day. Punk remembers the exact shade of purple under his eyes, contrasting with his too pale untanned face. It had seemed odd at the time, seeing something he only ever saw in the mirror painted across another body. Had Max driven back to Chicago the next day? Why?You know why, the blank look on Joe’s face seems to say. Okay so maybe Punk’s projecting his own thoughts here.‘What do you mean, back to Chicago?’ Joe asks, his first words since Punk began explaining things.Punk looks around and realises he never made himself that coffee. He turns to sort out the coffee pot and with his back to Joe says: ‘Remember when I hung up on you that time?’‘By that time I’m guessing you mean the time I asked if you were fucking the guy who had just gone missing and you said oh fuck and dipped for a week?’‘It wasn’t a–’He can feel Joe glaring at him. He holds his hands up. Yeah, okay digression. You caught me.
‘Yeah, that time. I had just got home and Larry was acting weird. I went to drop my bag into my room but he kept sniffing around at the bathroom door. So, I go over to open it, let him see that there’s no intruder or whatever the fuck except I open it and–’ Something gets caught at the back of his throat. He coughs. That seems to clear it.‘And?’ He glances back to see Joe watching him very closely. He goes back to pouring coffee into his mug. His hands are very steady.‘And there was blood everywhere. Well, not everywhere. But the shower, the tub, they looked like someone had given birth there, or like an alien had ripped through someone’s chest. Or…’‘Or what Punk?’His throat is dry. He scalds his mouth trying to ease it with a sip of his drink. ‘Or like someone had died there.’He’s convinced Max is out there, alive and breathing and being as awful as usual, but even now he can’t shake the feeling he’d first had when he opened that door, saw it all. It takes a lot of blood to stage a scene like that. Did he use a knife, did he slice into his arm as he bit down on a belt and told himself the pain was from something else, from someone else? Or was he more careful, piercing his skin with a needle, clenching his fist tightly so that the veins in his bicep would rush eagerly to the surface?How long did it take? How long did Max spend bleeding for Punk?Joe doesn’t respond for a long time. Punk hears him swallow and then swallow again and again. He’s downing his drink, Punk realises. The bottle makes a gentle sound when it’s put back down on the table, like it’s been placed there with the utmost care. As if not to spook him. There’s the quiet pop of another bottle being opened and then Joe finally speaks. Just one word: ‘Okay.’Punk turns around. Joe looks him up and down and Punk doesn’t know what he sees. Doesn’t want to.‘Okay, yeah. I can see it.’Punk sinks into the chair next to Joe, knocks their knees together. ‘Thank God. I nearly convinced myself I had gone insane.’‘Nah that happened years ago.’ They share a smile. ‘You know no one else is going to believe you right? This won’t make sense to anyone but us. Anyone but you really, but I know enough to fill in the gaps.’‘I know.’ And then Punk tells him his plan.
—
On Tuesday evening, Punk walks into a hotel room set up with a camera crew, two chairs, a poster, and a clock. He takes a seat opposite RJ City, who seems to be having some trouble picking his jaw off up the floor, and extends his hand. RJ shakes it on pure instinct, it seems.‘Well, this is a surprise.’ RJ was never really one for originality. ‘When we got the call to come out for a special interview I’m pretty sure we were told it was the Samoa Joe inside scoop we were getting.’ RJ tucks his chin like he’s checking himself. ‘Were you pulling our strings all along to get us out here?’‘Are we rolling?’ Punk asks.‘We sure are. Hey–’ RJ seems to be waiting for something. Punk has no idea what.‘Just ask your questions, man.’And so RJ does. It’s the usual stuff Hey! (EW) pumps out. RJ steers clear of all controversy, a mean feat considering he’s interviewing Punk, and sticks strictly to the boring stuff. That’s fine. He can’t ignore it forever. Punk just needs one question about it, about Max. RJ doesn’t disappoint.‘So the elephant in the room: you’re… bi?’Okay so he kind of disappoints. But it’s enough. ‘I’m a wrestler.’ Punk shrugs. ‘I just enjoy romance.’RJ looks like he’s about to interject but Punk carries on.‘Like with Max let’s say. Before he… went, he left me a gift. Left something for me to find when I got home. He could be sweet like that, romantic. It’s those kinds of gestures you know? Showing someone you really know them, that you understand them,’ he looks straight at the camera, ‘that you have their number.’RJ seems to have lost his tongue. Punk couldn’t care less. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what the rest of this interview looks like, doesn’t matter if people watch this and hate him or love him for it. It doesn’t matter what any of this looks like to anyone outside of this.He only needs it to reach one person.They wrap pretty quickly after that, RJ looking a bit green, a bit shell shocked. Far too rattled to go on. Punk laughs about it on the cab ride home. He’s almost sad he won’t get to see the internal fallout in AEW when it airs. Almost.When the taxi pulls up outside his house it’s dark, closing in on midnight. He pays the driver – card this time – and tips exceedingly well for a guy who nearly rammed them into two separate cyclists. The kind of tip that gets you remembered.Inside he crouches by Larry’s bed and rubs at his head. Larry wakes up long enough to look at him through slatted eyelids but they slide back home to sleep after a minute. Punk pets him once more and leans down to plant a kiss on his forehead.Upstairs he makes sure everything is in order in his room. His bed dressed, his clothes put away, his computer off. Then finally he goes back out to the hall. Time for the shower.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sep. 13th. Anon. (5.55pm) - IT’S NOT YOU IT’S MY BILLION DOLLAR BANK ACCOUNT (OR CARTOGRAPHY AS TAUGHT IN RUN ON SENTENCES)

This not going national shit is enough to make a guy wonder. Are they just not that interested in me or is it something else?

Picking a place to hide out is easier done than said. I’ve been all over this glorious little nation of ours and I remember negative names. Nothing. Nada. everything is a clone of something else, why should I have to learn some stupid town's name that looks exactly like the last one when it never bothered to learn mine? Life on the road is weird that way, everything blurs intothe things you did not the places you were. Ask me who I worked on whatevre day and I could probably tell you but where? That’s why I did the old journal I guess. that’s right kids! I wasn’t just spreading the good word with my punkrock tales of woe, I was also creating historical documents for when this punk rock kid’s bad memory was bad. Not that I remembered to update it very often… funny how this one is a lot more regular. Turns out if you stop doing hte thing that takes up all your time you have a lot of time to do all the other things in your life… like write about the thing you used to do. Fuck, I digress. Turns out I can’t remember the names of random shitty little towns but I can find one pretty easy. The thing about everywhere looking the same is they’re all the same for hiding in too. goodluck to anyone who comes looking for me i’m in every small town you’ve ever been to right off the motorway exit and next to the diner. Send me a present!

—

Maxwell Jacob Friedman – The Week Of
 Max finally pulls into the parking lot and promises himself that he will never ever ever drive anywhere again. Then he gets out of the car, looks up at the face of his destination, and very nearly turns around and leaves again. He doesn’t, partly because his back is sore, his neck is stiff and he can’t feel his ass, but mostly he doesn’t because this is the next thing on the list.His destination is a decrepit diseased-looking motel just off the highway that brought him to this disgusting cesspool of a state. Inside the lobby – if you can call it that, it’s more like a monument to mouldy chairs and stale air – an ancient fan fights for its life on the receptionist’s desk. There is, of course, no sign of the receptionist. Max has to ring the bell several times before a washed out twenty-something emerges from a back room, rubbing at red eyes.‘Alright, alright, I’m coming.’ The guy pushes piss blonde hair out of his face and looks Max up and down.Max smirks. He might have just spent nearly twenty hours in a car, not have showered, be dressed down and not even have so much as a shirt with him, but he still looks good and this kid knows it.‘Okay buddy, two things.’ He counts off on his fingers. ‘I’m gonna need a room–’‘For how long?’‘Ah,’ Max tuts. ‘And I’m gonna need you to not ask any questions.’ He puts a neat roll of bills on the desk between them. The blonde little rat’s eyes light up. ‘'Kay?’His room is on the second floor. The motel is one of those trashy places that leaves the walk between rooms open to the elements instead of having enclosed corridors with actual walls, so when you open your door you’re met with sweaty air and a perfect view of the scummy swimming pool below. Max peers over the railing as carries his bag to his door and assesses the distance from the walkway to the ground. High enough to break something, but not enough to do any real damage. Not worth it, in other words.The key jams in the lock when he tries to open it. He spends a few minutes wrestling with it before it clicks open, only to reveal a room just as shitty as the outside. Stained carpets, moth-eaten curtains, air hot and thick with dust, and when he throws his bag on the bed every spring in the mattress screams.This is hell. Max is in hell.But he can’t leave. He has to stay put because the company and the police will never think to look for him in a place like this. It is the antithesis of everything that he is: classless, cheap, and dirty. That’s the goal. So no, he can’t leave, no matter how much it makes his skin crawl.He walks over to a control panel on the wall and flicks on the A/C. There’s a low wheezing sound, almost like a whine, and then the machine is coughing and sputtering to a stop. Brilliant, just brilliant.Max shakes out his shoulders, trying to dispel his frustration. It doesn’t matter, none of this matters, because this pathetic embarrassment of an establishment has managed to do one thing right.A block of a TV sits in the corner of the room. It’s obviously ancient, squarish and heavy like the one they used to have when Max was small – the one where he first discovered wrestling on rainy Saturday mornings when he had nothing better to do – but it turns on when he tells it to.More importantly, it’s tuned to a news channel and while Max hasn’t broken as a national story yet, it’ll only be a matter of time. When he does make the headlines he intends to watch it all.He goes to his bag and digs through it to find the phone. Not his real phone. He left that on his floor in Long Island, the screen carefully cracked to make it look like it had been thrown across the room, but not battered enough to actually damage it. There’s a lot of valuable information on the thing that he’ll still want when he comes back. If he comes back.This second phone is an essential facet of his plan, and placed very high on his to-do list. It’s not registered to him, there’s no SIM card, just an internet connection and the ability to lurk. He bought it with cash a few weeks ago, the same day he cut that poetic little promo about pissing on Punk’s grave. The one that brought him crawling back to Max on his knees. That had been a very productive day for the plan. He’d got to check a lot of boxes.
Buy phone. Bait Punk. Invite over. Check, check, aaand check.
He switches the thing on and immediately opens Twitter. Incognito tab – he’s not an idiot. Caster is already playing his part as Max’s good little puppet. Last night, after complaining about the cops’ incompetence despite his invaluable cooperation, he leaked the entirety of Max and Punk’s correspondence. Or the entirety of what Max gave him, anyway.It’s earlier than Max was anticipating. That’s fine, nothing to worry about. He’d always planned for the texts to come out, and to be honest he suspected Caster’s roaring jealousy and insatiable appetite for attention would get the better of him. Max just hadn’t thought it would be this quick. He’d be touched if it wasn’t such a desperate ploy for Caster to get his name associated with Max’s.Oh well, at least it kickstarted the move against Punk. Already hundreds of thousands of chronically online brain-dead marks are reassessing their half-baked opinions of him. Punk is no longer the miraculously risen saint, the guy who was wronged but was mature enough to forgive and forget and return to his people. Instead he’s the washed up veteran that took advantage of a younger talent, a generational talent, and possibly murdered the future of this sport. No, it’s worse than that. This is a fan being ruined by his idol. All the parasocial imbeciles on Twitter love that. They can project onto that. They will never forgive Punk for that.By the end of the day he’ll have no one left on his side. He’ll be hated.This is what the torturous hours of driving were for. This is what he gave up Piper for. This is what he bled for. This is what he’ll suffer this hell hole of a living situation for. Because all those people hate Punk – or will soon hate Punk – because he hurt Max. And it is Max and only Max who is capable of salvaging Punk’s reputation if he so chooses. If he wanted he could return and clear Punk’s name and restore all the love that has been taken from Punk. That he took from Punk. And Punk will be indebted to him forever.But he’s not going to do that. Not now anyway and probably not ever. What, Max fakes his death and cuts himself free of all of that deadweight only to return for some anaemic love and adoration from people who never cared about him in the first place? Fuck that. He’s going to enjoy his freedom.After unpacking a bit (sticking his planner with his mostly complete to-do list on the wall and switching out the bed sheets for something an actual human with any bit of concern for their skin might actually want to sleep on), Max goes out to look for a store.He finds one nearby and loads up on junk food, anti-bacterial spray, and some first-aid supplies. The lady behind the counter gives his small mountain of chips and ice-cream a look and he has to resist the urge to yell at her. He settles for a sneer instead. Before yesterday, he hadn’t had processed sugar in months. He hasn’t eaten simple carbs in years. He’s earned this, okay? He has.Back in the room he takes the small first-aid box he bought into the bathroom and rolls up the sleeve of his left arm. The bandage he applied before leaving Punk’s house is gross by now, greying with sweat and slightly pink from where he’s bled through. He cuts it off and throws it away. He does not look at the deep bruise that has formed at the crux of his elbow when he wipes it down with antiseptic. He does not press into it with the pads of his fingers and hiss at the dull pain. He showers instead.With the past two days washed off, Max curls up in bed with his phone and a tub of icecream to watch the chaos unfold. Usually this is when Piper would hop up next to him and glare at him until he rubbed her ears. But Piper is in Long Island and he is not. So he checks what the internet has been saying by himself and ignores how cold the mattress is around him.He has plenty of distractions with which to ignore it, that’s for sure. Caster continues to be a loyal pet, letting the Chicago story slip. The internet is going crazy for that. More importantly though, in the time it took for Max to go out, come back and shower, Punk has managed to dig himself deeper into his grave. A press conference. They made him do a press conference.Max owes whatever idiot suggested that a very large thank-you hamper.He finds someone’s phone recording of the conference and clicks into it vibrating with excitement. He can’t help the grin that starts spreading across his face as he waits for the video to load. The description beneath says the conference was held in Chicago. Which means Punk must have had time to go home. Did he find Max’s gift? Was he worried sick or has he figured it out yet? Max isn’t surprised that he hasn’t told the cops. It was eighty-twenty on whether he would or not and while those aren’t odds Max would ever bet on, it was a loose end he was willing to sacrifice if it meant Punk having to get down on his hands and knees to mop up Max’s blood. Thanks to Caster, the police should be all over Chicago now anyway.When the video finally plays (just like everything else here the motel wifi is sub-standard) the scene it opens on is like a wet dream. Two large easels holding blown up photos of Max’s face stand on either side of a makeshift stage where Tony Khan is fiddling wide-eyed and mute next to Punk. And Punk–Punk looks perfect. Bags the same colour as the bruise purpling at Max’s elbow hang beneath his eyes. His hair has come free from its gel in places to dangle over his forehead, dishevelled and unkempt like it gets in the ring or in bed. He looks like he just flew across the country (which is true) and like he hasn’t changed his clothes since he arrived (which is probably true) and like he hasn’t slept in days (which Max hopes is true). He looks the part. It’s what he’s saying that brings Max up short.The recording starts halfway through a sentence: ‘–all wondering it, so ask. I’m an open book, I’ll answer anything you throw at me.’ He throws a folded up piece of paper on the desk in front of him to draw an ‘x’ over his chest.Max rolls his eyes. The same old bullshit from Punk: I’d never lie to these people! Ask me anything, I promise I’ve never killed anyone. As if he hadn’t tried to humiliate Max on live TV. It didn’t matter that he failed. Attempted character assassination – that’s as good as murder.But the cowardly group of journalists don’t ask the tough questions. Instead they go for the low-brow gossip stuff. From somewhere off-screen a woman’s voice asks: ‘Are the texts real?’‘Yes, they are.’‘So you admit that you and Max were involved?’‘I do.’Someone inhales sharply. It takes a moment for Max to realise the noise isn’t coming from his phone. It was him. He just wasn’t expecting Punk to stay good on his word. To tell the truth. To willingly connect himself to Max.‘Was it serious?’The crow’s feet at the corners of Punk’s eyes deepen slightly before relaxing. There and gone again, too quick for any unobservant deadbeat reporter to pick up on. But Max sees it, because Max sees Punk. He’s holding back a smile.‘Why don’t you ask Max that when he gets back?’ Punk has the audacity to wink. Max feels like he’s just downed three shots of pre-workout, his heart racing in his chest. Does he know? He must know. He wouldn’t say that if he didn’t know.The room must be full of fucking marks because none of them latch onto the obvious hook Punk just gave them. Instead they all offer up pathetic little chuckles, as if it were the naive joke of a hopeful partner and not a noncommittal comment from an insensitive asshole.And Punk just plays along with it, turning the conversation away from Max, away from what it should all be about, and towards Caster. So the guy got suspended. How original, he’s never done that before. He brought it on himself, who gives a shit?Punk does apparently. He waxes on about how it’s all a bit extreme, how if the texts are what it takes to get Max back then being outed is no big deal. As if he cares. As if he hasn’t kept his old journal entries up where he talks about his crush on AJ Styles or whoever. That was never what kept Punk quiet about them. He wouldn’t be ashamed about that.But now he’s acting like he’s not ashamed of Max either. It’s all so fake. But everyone seems to be falling for it. For that same old worn out happy to be here act.Max hates Punk so much. He goes up there to talk about Max and somehow ends up painting himself and Caster as the victims. This isn’t about them! Why can’t he just let Max have this one thing?Max is about to give up and return to Twitter, where at least Caster’s newest reveal has obfuscated anything that Punk said here, but then Punk opens his mouth again. And this time something real peeks through.‘Did I hurt Max? That’s what you want to know right? Did I kill him?’ A smile starts to creep over his face.Max pulls the duvet up closer as a muscle in his chest cramps up. He rubs at it absentmindedly as he watches Punk’s eyes dart around the room like a wild animal. Max can’t tell if he’s searching for a threat or for prey. Then Punk is looking directly at him from the screen, eyes sharp and nearly familiar. Nearly what he wants.‘I did not hurt Maxwell.’ Max has to tell himself he’s not talking to him. He’s trying – and failing – to convince the public: ‘I did not kill him.’ No innocent person would say that. It’s perfect. So very nearly perfect.The room devolves into a wall of noise. Max can distinguish some questions as Punk gets up from the table and heads towards the door.‘Why did you leave Long Island, Punk? Why didn’t you stay to look for Max?’A few notifications sound and then more questions are flooding in. ‘Did you know he was in Chicago, Punk? Is that why you’re here?’But Punk has left the room. Behind him on the stage Tony stares down at the crumpled piece of paper Punk left behind, shell-shocked like he just watched his house burn down.Despite himself, Max snorts. That was a mess, but at least Tony looks miserable.It’s hard to tell what this means for the plan though. Punk had started the conference off so sickeningly sweet, angry and protective of a relationship that did not exist in a way that was perfectly designed to make people give Punk the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t kill Max after all. Maybe he really is a good guy. It was everything Max didn’t need.But that bit at the end… Punk had so very nearly succeeded in saving face. He had lured all those marks back over to his side. He had come so close to making this a challenge for Max. Making it hard to turn the people against him. But then what did he do? He blew it. Blew it all up and proved to Max just how easy it is to play everyone. Play him.That close call, that moment of resistance, doesn’t matter. Everything Punk did and said in that address will be temporarily forgotten anyway. And when the world finally does remember it, it will be condemned to live in the shadow of the news Caster just dropped.So, Max doesn’t have to worry. He’s getting what he wanted.He whiles the night away by finishing the tub of ice-cream and scrolling through Twitter. His eyes begin to twitch somewhere near dawn but he powers through, unwilling to shut them and miss the party as it unfolds. Everybody loves him now, everybody misses him. It disgusts him in a way. A part of him feels like it shouldn’t be this simple.He tries not to think about the rest of it but as night turns to day and Max still hasn’t slept he can’t ignore it. Why don’t you ask Max that when he gets back? Like he’s on vacation and not very possibly dead and murdered in a ditch somewhere.Punk must know. He has to. He cannot be that dumb.And Max does want him to know. Wants him to squirm in the knowledge that he is trapped in a hell of Max’s devising and he cannot escape. He wants him to know that Max did this to him and no one else. That Max is the only one capable of doing this. Darby fucking Allin could certainly never give Punk this. Max brought all this pain down on Punk. Max is the one who (he smiles as he reads the new headline) got Punk suspended from AEW, got his title shot rescinded. Max is the one offering him this chance to be the man he knows he truly is deep down. Max has given him the space to be real. Who else can say that?Still, it feels too big. It’s hard to think about without wanting to tear the sheets off the bed, shred the curtains, pace around the room until all of his excess energy has evaporated. The way Punk had looked into the camera at the end there – Max can still feel it reverberating in his blood. That knowing look. Max doesn’t want to be known.It is all easier to face in the daylight when Max can focus on something else.The motel pool is still revolting, nothing changed overnight, but at least the sun loungers beside it don’t make Max actively want to puke. In fact it’s almost comfortable to lay back on one, the sun baking his skin in the too hot morning.Almost comfortable, except he’s found a screenshot of Caster’s tweet from last night and it is abominable. Not the intent or the results so much – those are in line with his plan, those he ticked off on his list when he got out of bed. Item 72. Trip to Chicago goes public: check! No, it’s the content of the Tweet itself, the manner in which Caster decided to tell the world just how manipulative and abusive Punk was to Max.To start with, the text is nearly illegible with all the grammatical and spelling errors Caster made. Furthermore, Caster seems to be enjoying driving home the point that Max chose him over Punk to mind Piper. As if A: that would even make any logical sense, Max leaving Piper with Punk while he went and visited… Punk. And B: as if Caster should think he’s special because he gets to mind Max’s cat. He was just the closest, most convenient, most malleable option at Max’s disposal. But this all seems to have gone over Caster’s ginormous head. Instead he’s all too happy to post a selfie of himself and Piper in bed. Which is frankly just disgusting – no one wants to see Caster in bed thank you very much – and worrying. Piper looks like a nervous wreck, her poor coat dishevelled and on end, stressed to her limits. The way Caster holds her is anything but reassuring. It looks like he’s forcing her into frame, clutching her too tight. She can’t be comfortable. Piper needs a soft hand.Not for the first time Max feels a large pang at having to leave her behind. Maybe he should have worked harder to find a way to bring her along. She doesn’t deserve this, and if she misses Max half as much as he misses her she must be miserable right now.Swallowing a lump in his throat, Max squints around for a distraction. He finds one easily enough.Across the water from Max, the receptionist from yesterday busies himself with emptying the bins. Max doesn’t lie to himself. He knows exactly what he sees when he looks at this guy. Ratty bleached hair and piercings, a strange grace to the way he moves as he picks up a bag of garbage and ties it up; even when he was younger, watching those old Ring of Honor tapes for the first time, even then Max knew what he felt. A red hot burning eating into every inch of his skin. He gets an echo of that old sensation now.For a moment he contemplates doing something about it. Walking around the pool and approaching him, asking him up to Max’s room, pushing him up against the wall, telling him what to say and how. He doesn’t. He just stays put on his lounger, limbs heavy from the sun and the exhaustion of the past few days, and he looks.The next few days, that feels like all he does. Looks. Max has spent his entire life looking; the time he spent touching is nothing in comparison. And none of that was real. Punk would never let it be real. So Max returns to looking, where he can at least imagine what real would feel like.It’s there by the pool, laying back on what has become his lounger in the past few days, watching the figure lazily stretched out in a chair way over in the shade of reception from the corner of his eye, that Max sees Punk’s Tweet. His first since this all began and somehow it still manages to be infuriatingly dull.
@PlatinumMax pretty sure animals are supposed to go to the next of kin.
After how that press conference ended a few days ago Max had nearly allowed himself to believe that the old Punk was back and back to stay this time. But no. Just like after the dog collar match, CM Punk has disappeared and this pathetic old man is back in his place. Next of kin? How long is Punk going to continue this charade, acting like they were a normal happy couple? Acting like they were family?And of course Caster is all too happy to play along. The poll is a sham, distasteful to say the least. Here are two grown men who have lost someone near and dear to them and instead of mourning Max and helping the authorities look for him they are online seeking out their fifteen seconds of fame, fighting over who gets to keep the cat. Max’s face boils with heat, not from the sun. Neither of you get her, he wants to Tweet back, she’s my cat. Neither of you deserve to so much as touch her.He says nothing, because he is dead. He cannot disturb the dirt before it settles on his grave. But oh does he want to.Being here day after day, having nothing to do but come here to sit by the pool and fry – it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know how much more of this confinement he can take before he cracks. The soles of his feet itch for the feeling of the mat beneath his boots. His palms cry out for the cold metal shock of a microphone. He should move on from here soon.He stays put. Stalks Caster’s Twitter for more updates on Piper. Reads article upon article upon article dissecting Punk’s behaviour in the case so far. Watches reception from across the pool and does nothing.And nothing seems to be happening. The feds were called in after the Chicago news dropped but either they keep a tighter lid on things than the police in Long Island or they are just as bad at their jobs because there is not a peep from them about the case. It annoys Max to no end. He gives the media the perfect national story, serves it up neatly on a plate for them, and they can’t do a tiny bit of digging. Can’t go and bug a few people for statements. He hasn’t heard from Punk in two days.But then Wednesday night comes along. Max is slumped on the couch scrolling through his phone as the TV buzzes in its corner, turned on but muted, playing a news channel. There’s nothing of interest to watch. It’s like they refuse to feature him.He’s so bored he’s almost considering watching Dynamite later. Honestly, it’s a disgrace that the show is still going on tonight. Ideally they should have cancelled as a sign of respect to Max. Rampage on Friday is one thing, that was pre-recorded. From a time before this all got so serious. Yet here they are eight days later, acting like everything is running as normal. Max understands though, he gets it. The tickets are sold already, they can’t pull out now without reimbursing the venue. It’s just good business sense. Still, they’re missing their main talent. Tonight will be a shitshow without him. He can’t wait to see the ratings take a nosedive tomorrow.He loads up AEW’s Twitter to take a look at the card, get a good laugh, but what he finds there is anything but humorous. This makes running Dynamite tonight look respectful. This is nothing but cheap clickbait. This is RJ City’s newest gasp for glory, and Punk is enabling it.Max doesn’t remember deciding to click into it but suddenly he’s being redirected to AEW’s Youtube and RJ City is sitting there with his shitty little ponytail saying his shitty little bit.‘Hey–’Punk cuts him short from the seat beside him. ’Just ask your questions, man.’Max seethes. Of all the interviews on all the shows Punk could have chosen, he chooses this. There is nothing below RJ City in Max’s estimation, he is rock bottom. To see Punk here now feels like a targeted attack.‘Alrighty.’ RJ shuffles some papers, nervously. ‘We’re in Chicago.’Punk blinks at him like he’s waiting for the rest of that question. There is no rest of that question, it’s just a statement. The kind of dull unfunny observation RJ is so fond of making. Punk has no clue about the levels of idiocy he’s dealing with. Max could almost sympathise with him, but he did this to himself. There’s a reason Max has never gone on this show. You have to be an idiot yourself to do so.When Punk eventually realises RJ has no intention of going on he says: ‘We are.’RJ points at him. ‘Good, this guy knows his maps. Last week you were in New York.’‘Yes.’‘Any reason why ya left?’ RJ leans into Punk like he thinks he’ll get the inside scoop if he endears himself enough. It’s almost comical the way he dances around the case. Max presumes they’ve made him sign an NDA or something to stop him from causing the company further controversy.That said, they still aired something with Punk in it even though from the intro they were obviously expecting Samoa Joe. Controversy drives views. Those vultures are still trying to glean a profit off of Max’s cold dead corpse.‘I live here.’ Punk looks as bored as Max has felt all week. But Max isn’t bored now. He can’t figure out why Punk is doing this. It’s the first time in a long time Punk has properly surprised him.‘That… makes sense.’ RJ crosses his legs, uncrosses them, makes himself look like a gigantic utter fool who can’t sit still.In comparison Punk looks cool and collected, at peace – all things Max would never use to describe him. He doesn’t understand who this person is. It’s not the new Punk, he’s not pretending to be anything he isn’t. But it’s not the old Punk either.RJ is also thinking about the old Punk. ‘You were once what the kids nowadays might call a ‘girlblogger.’’ He does the air quotes and all.Punk’s eyebrows migrate towards his failing hairline. ‘A what–’‘You used to be well acquainted with a little ol’ website called LiveJournal.com.’ Max holds his breath. Surely RJ City of all people isn’t going to go there. He can’t. There’s no way. ‘When you were in Ring of Honor you kept a kind of sparsely updated road diary.’Max exhales. ‘Coward,’ he mutters at his phone. His voice comes out all scratchy, the first time he’s used it in days.‘Why the infrequent updates?’Punk shrugs. ‘I had a life.’ He looks around at where he is now as if to say: and this is my life now. Max smiles. How is that cage feeling, Punky?‘Well you’re straight edge how much of a life could you have–’ RJ cuts himself off at the death glare Punk sends him. He holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. ‘Can’t rush art, I get it.’‘Speaking of art. Some have called a couple things you wrote in your journal poetic.’ He waits a beat. It’s quite a niche build up. How much of the target audience for Hey! (EW) are going to be that familiar with Punk’s livejournal days? Still, Max can’t help the lines that pop into his head unbidden.Bloody noses, finger biting, and face kicking like only two guys who love each other can do. Pure fuckin’ romance. And: I think blood is romantic. And: it’s like a happy ending… except that it isn’t over.‘An example: I always just pegged it for something two PEOPLE–’ an overperformer until the end, RJ says it like it’s capitalised ‘–did when they really dug the idea of spending the rest of their lives together… albeit a bad one… Brave stance to take.’Punk could be asleep for all that he reacts to this. ‘Yeah.’‘So you don’t ‘dig’ marriage?’ That just gets a confused look. ‘Okay, moving on. The elephant in the room… you’re bi.’Max raises an eyebrow. RJ gets ten whole minutes with a key suspect in an investigation around the disappearance of AEW’s hottest young talent and he asks this shit. Punk must feel the same way, mirroring Max’s expression and turning it on RJ.‘I’m a wrestler. I just enjoy romance.’ Something more is coming. For the first time during this interview Punk looks awake. His spine straight, his eyes alive. Max couldn’t look away if he tried. He doesn’t try. ‘Like with Max, let’s say.’ It’s strange hearing Punk say his name. He’s barely spoken to anyone this past week; now with Punk’s mouth forming the word, Max is jolted into remembering that he’s real.He doesn’t get a chance to dwell in the feeling. ‘Before he… went, he left me a gift. Left something for me to find when I got home.’ Max’s heart stops. He knows. On the phone Punk continues: ‘He could be sweet like that, romantic. It’s those kinds of gestures you know? Showing someone you really know them, that you understand them, that you have their number.’ This last bit is said directly to the camera.Just like in the press conference Max feels like Punk is looking at him. Only this time it feels like Punk knows he’s looking back. They stare at each other for a moment.Then RJ says: ‘Yes, Max! (And I’m sorry again for your loss, my best wishes in finding him.) You recently disclosed that you and he were dating.’‘Disclosed? We were outed.’‘Well, um. Yes. That wasn’t very nice was it? Anyway, you both had–’‘Have.’ Max shivers at the hard insistence of the present tense. Punk knows.RJ clears his throat and crosses his legs. Again. ‘You recently tried to adopt a cat. You already have a dog. What’s your honest stance: can cats and dogs really just be friends?’Punk blinks at him. Twice. ‘I think we’re done here.’ They wrap it up but Max hears none of it.He could be sweet like that… Punk, helping Max back to his feet, his head fuzzy from the blood loss. When Max’s feet were both clear of the tub, Punk pulled the arm he had offered as a support free from Max’s deathgrip. But he hadn’t pulled away. Instead he took one of Max’s now unoccupied hands in his and interlocked their fingers. With his free hand he had reached up and brushed some hair out of Max’s eyes. Then carefully, like he was savouring the moment, he had swept two fingers across Max’s lower lip. They came away crimson red. Romantic.The video ends and deposits him back onto AEW’s Twitter. On pure muscle memory more than anything else Max clicks back to the home page. Only to find the internet mid melt down. It’s the eleventh of the week.OMG no way!!! After the new Hey! (EW) and everything? And: It’s a work. He’s trying to prove he’s innocent by doing this. And: Is this a fucking serial killer case now?? And: Do none of y’all remember what he did like ten years ago???Max frowns. What happened, what did he miss?Then the image on the TV in front of him flickers and changes. Breaking News. The presenter mimes in front of a picture of Punk in mute agitation.Max sits up and casts around for the remote. He finds it beneath a cushion and scrambles to get the volume up. Just in time to hear: ‘–comes only a week after his colleague Maxwell Jacob Friedman disappeared. Mr. Punk’s house was searched today by members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the hope of discovering new leads connected to the case. Instead, they discovered a new case. According to inside sources, Mr. Punk’s bathroom was found in a state of disarray. Blood found at the scene was originally believed to belong to Mr. Friedman but after forensic examination a match was made for Mr. Punk himself. Mr. Punk has yet to be located tonight, making it appear that yet another AEW wrestler has gone missing.’Max squints at the screen, uncomprehending. He speaks again for the second time all day. ‘Fucking what?’

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sep. 19th. Anon. (3.31 a.m.) – ON REPEAT

All I do anymore is wake up, eat, shit, maybe scour for some news and then fall back asleep again. I don;t know what to do with myslef.This day just keeps repeating over and over. I don’t know who I am outside of the ring, there’s nothing to do.
 
Everyone’s been tossing in their two cents on yours truly since I up and died. Apparently I’m an unoriginal, thief. A copycat. All I did was stuff other guys have done before. How’s that for an epitaph? Well to these losers I say: what do you do? Done anything revolutionary recently? Nothing is original bitch, everything has been done before. You have to steal to get better. it’s just all about WHO you’re stealing from. Really convenient how all these moaners only come out of the woodwork when I’m dead and gone… Would it kill a few people to take a look in hte mirror before they open their mouths? All I’m sayings is that what I do is a derivative art form. I was never lookin g for originality in the ring, only truth. Yeah, I steal. Yeah, I copy. I see that as the highest form of respec tI could give to a person. And hey, maybe someday some punkass kid will come along and try to copy me and I’ll feel otherwise but for now to all those I take from I say: thank you for your service, I hope you like my version better. To all those complainers complaining I say: try copying my latest endeavour and go kill yourselves. You’d save the world a hell of a lot of soundbites.
 
XxX

—

Maxwell Jacob Friedman – One Week Gone
 It’s not– it can’t be real. There’s no way. People on Twitter seem to have the same opinion, albeit for different reasons. Did you see how he looked on Hey! (EW)??? That shit is serial killer behaviour! No way is he gone, he’s just trying to get away with killing Max! Of course, as always, some marks fall for it. I think a few of you need to take this more seriously, Punk could be in serious danger. Like they found blood there. Blood! Someone’s life could be on the line and you’re all on here talking like he’s an evil villain. Have some decorum!Max flicks through this without more than a cursory glance. Not one original thought between the lot of them, just more of the same old generic discourse this attention economy produces ad nauseam. His eyes will start to bleed if he reads any more of it.There’s another popular take, one that pushes a murder-suicide angle and that’s– that makes Max shift in his seat. He can’t read much of those, his stomach cartwheeling uncomfortably.It’s a smaller quieter part of the debate that Max pays attention to, allows himself to worry about. Those few with brain cells, who know their history or were there when it happened, dive into conspiracy headfirst without any hesitation and hit the nail right on the head: Am I dumb or is he doing it again? It’s like 2013 all over again…So Max didn’t exactly come up with faking his own death. This is the part where Max admits that he didn’t come up with the idea of faking his death. He had some inspiration. To be clear: he never claimed to be original, just better.When CM Punk went missing Max was seventeen and just about to start senior year. It hadn’t been a big story at first and it never really became one. Not for the general public anyway. It was more of one in wrestling circles, but even then everything was hush hush. You had to be eagle-eyed to spot it; you had to care. CM Punk was there one week and gone the next and no one said a thing.Unless you were in the same corner of the internet that Max was. It started off small, a few people with a few pet peeves. Punk isn’t on the card for RAW tonight, I thought he was gonna say something about last week’s match? But after two weeks, when Punk remained off, air concern started to grow. Are they burying him? soon became: Someone filed a missing persons file to the Chicago PD and they dismissed it… Which soon became: I think they’re ACTUALLY burying him.It was a good distraction for Max who, even before he found a thread taking a deep dive into what was going on, had been losing sleep as the next school year approached. His future was hanging over him like an anvil about to drop at any moment and everyone kept insisting that was exciting. The scholarship, the football, college: it would be the best thing to ever happen to him. Max had his doubts. He felt like he was being squeezed into a mould he was just too big for, one he’d have to crack his bones to fit into. He didn’t want to think about any of it, he didn’t want to pretend to be someone else, he just wanted to fall down the wrestling rabbit hole and never come out.And then Punk disappeared and it should have been the worst thing to happen to Max. That Max, who idolised Punk, who tuned in every Monday for Punk, who loved Punk. Instead it may have saved him.Here was uncertainty that was sure to be cleared up. Here was danger that would be defeated. Because from the very beginning, Max knew dead to his bones, in the grit of his teeth, that Punk would come back from this. He had to. The asskicker, the renegade, the Punk Max grew up on wasn’t going to just go out without so much as a whimper. The odds might be against him, there may have been strange backstage reports from staff members that never made it further than the dirt sheets, there may have been that missing persons file, there may have been whispers of blood – too much to be just a small injury – but Punk had never let him down. He wouldn’t start now.And he didn’t. Late one night curled over his old laptop, unable to sleep and staring at his college application letter, Max had listlessly clicked over to the next tab. And found a different, better reason to stay awake.The same old talking points were being rehashed: They obviously paid off the cops. And: Proof billionaires can literally get away with ANYTHING. And: Do you think they actually killed him? But past those, posted only minutes before, a link and: someone tell me if im grasping at straws here but the writing styles familiar no?It was him.Max had read Punk’s journal for the first time in middle school. Sometimes he still went back to it like other people might return to a favourite book. There was something about it, like hearing Punk talk on the mic, that stirred something in him. Made him want to do the same things, to see the world the way Punk had seen it. So Max might not have read these exact words, not in this order at least, but he knew the cadence, recognised the same mad fury behind some of them, the desperate exhaustion in others. This was Punk. Punk was alive.More than that, Punk was alive and orchestrating this whole thing, trying to bring everything down with him, trying to get revenge. It was like stepping a decade back in time. As he read Max could picture the CM Punk who’d cursed out Raven, who was bitter and disgusted with everything in the world and tired. So tired with all of it.Max gets how that feels now. He thought he got it back then too, thought he’d found someone who could understand how confusing it all was, how pointless. In retrospect, that Max had no fucking clue.In his shitty motel room, Max worries his lip with his teeth and tries to get his breathing under control. This is fine. He is fine. Only a few people have put it together, and even they are sceptical of the story they’re telling themselves. They could believe Punk would do something like this but Max? Usually Max hates to be underestimated, but right now he doesn’t mind it. Not if it means they won’t look too closely.He can’t think. The TV is still blaring the news report, the words scratching at the air around him but not sinking in. He should try and figure out what actually happened, listen in and get the facts, adjust the plan in case things go wrong. He mutes it instead. The plan is fine, bombproof, perfect. This won’t touch him. Punk can’t touch him.He tries to sleep, he does. But this piece of shit room is too hot, the air conditioning still broken after a week here, and his phone is right there, sitting temptingly on the bedside table. A gateway to anywhere but here with his body and his thoughts.It’s not giving in to open it. If anything this is further research; going above and beyond, because that’s what Max does. Works himself to the bone. And he’s disciplined about what he looks at when he opens it. The impulses, the perverse little desires he gets to load up a certain decade old website, he battles and quashes. Max is a master of self control. This is not weakness.Hours pass. Hours spent staring into the void of reactions and meaningless reports and all the things he needs to see and not the stuff he wants.At some point he moves over to the window and cranks it open. The latch is unoiled and squeals when he pushes it out, but it leaves some of the cool night air in and releases the tepid smog that was hanging around in the room. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t last long. With the sunrise, the difference between inside and outside becomes negligible. Max just has to face facts. He is in the land of the subpar where the air conditioning is shitty, the air is shitty, and the sun is shitty. He thinks about May in Long Island, wonderfully mild May in wonderfully perfect Long Island, and then he stops thinking about it.He gets up. It’s early but it’s not too early. If these schmucks are even halfway competent at running a business – which from Max’s experience with this fine establishment, they’re not, but a guy can dream – someone should be in reception by now. It’s time he finally bullied them into making his room somewhat habitable.When he steps outside his door, he swears he feels sweat break out on his skin immediately. How can it possibly be hotter outside than it is inside at like nine in the a.m.? This fucking state. As he strolls down the stairs into the courtyard he glances over the railing like before. It’s a test. A reminder. A promise. Not yet. But soon. Keep to the list Max.Except today when he looks over that’s not what he thinks. Instead his worthless piece of crap brain spits something random out at him. Something he read earlier. Could be a murder-suicide no? Maybe it just took a week for the remorse to catch up.From below Max can hear a murmur of voices. He focuses on that as he descends the stairs and tries not to think about how low the bannister gets at the turns. As he gets closer he realises what he’s hearing is the TV in reception, the one that sits high above the door so the receptionist can watch it instead of doing any real work. Honestly, you’d have to be scum of the earth to play that shit so loud this early in the morning. It’s such a pity Max won’t be able to rate this place online – his review would have ensured their closure within a fortnight.When he steps into reception it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust from the glare outside before he can actually make out what’s being said on the TV. It’s a news channel. The same one he had on last night.
‘–it’s not yet clear the nature of the crime that took place in Mr. Punk’s residence but we now have confirmation that it was indeed his blood and not Mr. Friedman’s that was found at the scene yesterday evening. Dr. Chandler is an associate professor in Criminology and he joins us live in studio now. Dr. Chandler, you’ve seen this kind of situation before–’
‘–Can I help you?’Max looks over at the desk to see the blond guy sitting with his feet up, blowing bubbles with his gum, arms crossed over his chest as he stares openly at Max. Max glances over at the TV where his and Punk’s faces are displayed in little thumbnails over the panel discussion. The guy is still looking at him when he turns back. Has he recognised Max? Does he know?But it’s not recognition that makes the guy flick his tongue out over his lips to wet them. No, it’s something much different that makes him sweep his eyes up and down Max like he’s a display in a window. It’s disgusting, really. It makes Max feel disgusting. Like there’s something sticking to his skin that he can’t wipe off.How thick is this guy that he can’t recognise someone he’s probably been checking out all week on the screen he stares at all day?‘Hello?’ He repeats. ‘Can I help you?’‘Okay, heard you the first time, pal. I’m gonna need someone to take a look at the air conditioning in my room because, to be quite honest, my money is worth much more than that shithole.’On the TV the expert guy is still talking: ‘–it’s not an outrageous theory. Suicide rates are higher in domestic crimes for sure and I wouldn’t be surprised if–’Punk, in his shower, a knife in his hand. But instead of holding it to his arm, it’s against his neck, the arteries there, and when the skin breaks the blood rushes out to colour in his tattoos, to cover the glass walls, the non-slip floor, mingling with whatever is left of Max there. Punk, falling to the ground, having gone to sleep for the last–Max shakes his head. Punk is playing with him. Getting into his head. Max needs to resist him. No body, no crime. Punk is not dead. Punk is just ruining everything all over again just because he can. Everyone else can fall for it but Max knows the real Punk. Knows Punk would never let any of this affect him enough to– He’s doing this to get back at Max. It’s desperate and it’s pitiful but there’s something in it too. Something familiar.‘Room 26 right?’ The receptionist swings his feet off the desk and rolls his chair closer to the computer in front of him.Max frowns at the guy. ‘That’s creepy, dude. You shouldn’t go around telling people you know their room off the top of your head. They’ll get the wrong idea.’The guy looks up at him through his lashes. ‘Maybe I want them to get the wrong idea.’Some hair flops over his eyes and he pushes it out of the way. Max watches his skinny wrists as he does. So fragile. If Max wanted he could snap him in half, no effort to it. He wouldn’t even break a sweat. He’d been wrong before: whatever he thought he saw in this guy was nothing but a shadow, a mirage. Nothing like Punk really.‘O-kay.’ He turns to leave and notes the way the guy’s eyebrows drop, disappointed. Whatever, Max couldn’t give less of a shit. He’s not going to whore himself out to the first randomer who makes a pass at him. This guy doesn’t deserve him. No one does, really. ‘Just have it fixed before I get back,’ he calls over his shoulder as he walks out.There’s a library in town. He looked it up last night, in between stalking Caster’s profile for more pictures of Piper and lurking on the old subreddit he used to frequent the first time Punk went missing. He heads there now to use their computers, not because he’s paranoid about being tracked but because he needs a change of scenery. And maybe they’ll have air conditioning.High ceilings and tall bookshelves; Max hasn’t been in a library since that first week of college. He’s had no reason to be. It’s only apropos to think about Punk when he enters the dusty old building. After all, he left college because of Punk.Left because when Punk came back midway through Max’s first semester of senior year he was not the same guy he’d been only weeks before. He was changed. Dead-eyed and dejected and numb. Everyone acted like nothing had happened, like Punk had merely been on injury leave, and Punk said nothing to the contrary. Instead he just announced his retirement.Punk came back to say he was leaving.That’s when Max started to hate him. He’s thought about this a lot, and that’s when it started. He’s even said it in the ring. Max, who had to suffer through one last year of hell so that he could secure four more in a different place. Four more years of pretending to be someone else. Max, who needed someone to show him that it would all be worth it. Who thought Punk could be that person. Max, who Punk left when he needed him most because he just couldn’t stick it out. He’ll never forgive him for that.But Max tampered that fire down, contained it. Pushed through to the end of high school and got himself to college. All the while telling himself he was done with wrestling. But then there was that photo – old Ring of Honor stuff, Danielson and Punk, and Max couldn’t–The fire consumed him. But if he was going to do this he was going to do it right. Max wouldn’t give up. Max would be better, he would keep going. Max wouldn’t let himself down. He packed his bags and walked away from the dorm rooms and the football pitch and the fancy library and resolved to prove Punk wrong.He wouldn’t break. He would do all the things Punk did but this time he’d succeed. He would put himself up on a pedestal and he would stay there.But now he’s right back where he started, standing in a library, miles away from a wrestling ring. He’s here and Punk is dead – again – and everything Max has done up until now feels nearly pointless and–The lady behind the counter waves him over. He smiles at her and asks her in a whisper where they keep their computers. She points him towards the back of the room. Normally he wouldn’t thank someone for such a straightforward answer but she’s old and actually seems quite nice so he does.When Max finds the poor excuse of a thing they’re calling a computer they keep back here, he wishes he hadn’t. A grey plastic box, thick and dented in places, squatting on a table. Above it, a sign: Computer Here! Max rolls his eyes. Thank God for that, he would have missed it otherwise.He’s half tempted to just turn around and walk back to the motel. This was a stupid idea. He’s not even sure why he followed through. All the things he wants to do here he could do from his phone. Just something about sitting at a public library computer about a week into being dead… Max just wanted to see what it was like, what it would’ve felt like for him.Nope. He needs to get out of here. Max turns on his heel and walks past the tall shelves and the intimidating mounds of books and the nice old lady at the desk, right back out the door again.Max is stupid. Max can be really fucking stupid sometimes. What, did he think he could bring back the dead by pretending to be him? How many times would he fall for this? How many times before he realised that Punk was gone for good?He’d fallen for it when Punk came back the second time, when he came to AEW. Max had watched him sit down cross-legged on the mat and talk about leaving professional wrestling sixteen years ago, had heard him say he was back now, and a small part of Max had believed him. A small part of Max had thought maybe. Maybe this time Punk – the real Punk – would return to him.But of course he didn’t. He came back again and he was different again. This time he wasn’t a half dead zombie reciting whatever words were being fed to him. There was something alive behind his eyes. And that gave Max pause. But that something, that strange flicker of what Max could only call wrath, wasn’t what came out of his mouth. What came out was nice, friendly. Sure, everything he said sounded like he was reading off a script, but this time he was writing it himself. And Max had to come to the horrifying conclusion that maybe this was the real Punk now. Maybe the other guy died a long time ago.For some reason Max had let himself think he was special. That he could bring Punk back. That by repeating his words and doing what he did, by being him to some extent, he could force Punk back. But the dog collar match had been a fluke. Those moments alone together were just some performance Punk had put on for him. Punk – Max’s Punk, the one he grew up watching – was dead.Max had accepted that. He had. He had thrown in the towel, packed his bags and left because he had failed. He hadn’t been good enough and CM Punk had stayed buried in the ground. So it was only reasonable to make a change. To leave. If Punk was going to stay dead then it was time Max died too. But he did it right this time, he did it better, and he would not come back broken and wrong. He might not come back at all.Except now, sweltering on the sidewalk as he walks back to the hellhole of a motel he now gets to call home, Max feels unsteady. Because Punk has died again. And that is not something the new PG Punk would do. No, that fraud would behave for the cameras, duck his head and play his part. He’d do what was expected of him because that’s how you get the world to love you. And that’s all Punk wanted these days: for the people to love him.But that was not the guy Max saw on his screen for the past few days. Punk isn’t behaving for the cameras, he’s smiling at them. Punk isn’t ducking his head, he’s speaking his mind. And as for playing a part… Well, Max is not entirely sure he is anymore.No. Once again, nope. He can’t be thinking this. Punk has left him down before, he’ll leave him down again. And it doesn’t matter, because he’ll never see Punk again. Punk will go wherever he goes when he fakes his death and Max will stay in his perfect hideout where no one will ever think to look and life will go on according to plan. According to Max’s plan.By the time he gets back to the motel Max is vibrating with energy. Usually when he’s this wound up he’d work out, expel the extra anxiety, channel it into something productive. But there’s no point to working out anymore, nothing for Max to be productive about. So his only other option is…His eyes light on the guy behind the counter, swivelling in his chair as he stares at the book in his hand. A poor excuse for a ghost – you’d have to squint to see the similarities – but Max will take it. He needs something to destroy.‘Blondie, what’s up?’ The kid starts at the boom of Max’s voice, but when he sees who it is a slow smile pulls across his face.‘Uh, nothing much, just uh–’‘Great! Wanna come up to my room?’The guy scrambles for a scribbled piece of paper. ‘Oh, right um… the maintenance guy should be up to fix the A/C as soon as he gets in, he was–’It’s pathetic how far this guy is from what he first seemed to be. ‘That’s not what I meant, bozo.’Blondie’s eyes widen as he finally realises what Max is asking. ‘Oh! Um…’ He casts around like he’s looking for his head. A small nervous laugh escapes him as he looks back at Max. ‘Uh, I’d love to. I just– I mean– I have to work.’Max raises an eyebrow. ‘Work?’ From what he can tell, Max is one of five people staying here. There’s no work for this guy to do.‘Yeah. Work.’ The guy nods along like he only now believes what he’s selling.Max narrows his eyes. Something’s up. This guy was seconds away from jumping Max this morning, now he seems afraid to make eye contact with him. ‘Okay. Weird. Well, have fun with ‘work’.’ Max accompanies the last bit with air quotations and a smirk.Had he scared the kid off that much? He wonders as he climbs the stairs. That seems unlikely. Max was pretty polite – keeping it professional – and besides, it’s Max they’re talking about. No one can resist him.He looks down at the drop to the ground floor as he approaches his door out of habit. Shockingly, it is still too low. What, is he waiting for it to change so it’ll suit his needs? Max is so fucking stupid. He glances up towards the roof and wonders if he could pull himself up onto it. Probably. He doesn’t. He gets out his key instead and unlocks the door.Or, he tries to unlock the door, but he locks it instead. That’s weird. Did he forget to lock up this morning? That doesn’t sound right. Max is too thorough for that. Frowning, he unlocks the door again and opens it. He must have forgotten to lock it, he thinks as he steps into the room, must have left it open in the subconscious hope that the A/C would finally get fixed by the time–‘Welcome home Max,’ the figure on his bed says.And before Max even has the time to recognise him, he’s slammed back into the wall and Punk’s hands are squeezing around his neck.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sept. 28th. Anon. (3.56 pm) – DONT BELIEVE IN LUCK, DONT BELIEVE IN KARMA, DONT BELIEVE IN ANYTHING I BREAK (WHAT CAN I SAY IM A STUPID GIRL)

Cracked my mirror this morning… rammed my head into the fucking thing because some IDIOT left water all over the bathroom floor after he took a shower. To be fair, I leave the bathroom a mess after every shower and that usually doesn;t end with me colliding with shiny objects that could shatter and split my head open but Ive not exactly been in peak condition the past few weeks…

All those pieces of trash literature this industry produces are feeding you nothing but cute lies btw (PSA: don’t trust everythign you read on the internet… unless it’s coming from me) I AM ACTUALLY SICK FUCKOS despite what you might hear. I’d snap a pic of all the guts I’ve puked up this past week to prove it but I don't have a camera so just take my word for it. I’m dying (ha). They’re trying to lure me out by ruining my credibility. not that there was much of that to begin wiht. (…I’ve reconsidered you shouldnt’ trust me either) well they can try but jokes on them cos I’ve become a paragon of peaceful forgiveness during my little sojourn here so they’re not getting one iota of a reaction from this punkass kid. Live and let go or something. If they want me they can chase me down themselves. If you love someone let them go (if you hate them hunt them down)

anyway. Mirror is currently cracked but has yet to join the pools of water all over the floor. i also avoided a nice ole concussion (as far as I can tell) so chalk that up as a victory. God it’s miserable living on your own, no one else to blame for all the messes you make.

That’s all my news for the week kiddos! Not much happens when youre dead x
 
Oh and dont come at me with all that ‘seven years bad luck’ bullshit unless you want a very angry very sick visitor turning up on your porch. im not armed possibly concussed and might projectile vomit all over you… anything could happen.

—

Punk – The Day of the Reunion
 Max wants to be found, Punk can tell. Or maybe that’s not right. Max wants Punk to find him. No one else.Punk can picture him holed up in some five star joint, somewhere more like a vacation place than a hideout, waiting for Punk to track him down. He’s probably getting a kick out of this: making Punk chase after him, when he spent his whole life chasing Punk, rushing to fill his footsteps. Max has made Punk do a lot of chasing in the past few months. And if that’s what Max wants again now, who is Punk to deny him? But Max is not someone who thinks through what he wants all the way to its inevitable conclusion, and Punk isn’t convinced he’ll enjoy the outcome of their little reunion.But Punk will. Punk will.
—
After he’s clear of Chicago and the state of Illinois as a whole, Punk pulls off the highway and finds the first internet café he can. But the place has cameras and Punk is forced to turn around and go somewhere else.There’s a hardware store across the street and he pauses by his car to consider it. Some rope might be nice, or a knife. Max, on his knees in front of him, head tipped back as blood trickled down from his forehead to his chin, spattering onto his collar, his neck. His neck – its blood dark veins rushing beneath pale skin. How many times has Punk ruined that skin? Not enough. No, he won’t need rope for this, won’t need a knife either. This calls for something more personal now. Flesh to flesh – Max has earned that.Still, a shovel might be useful, for afterwards. But even from here Punk can see the store clerk slumped over a screen, showing various angles of the shop. Fine, no shovel either.He’d forgotten how annoying it gets, being dead. Understatement of the century. If being dead was annoying nine years ago, when cameras weren’t installed everywhere and he wasn’t main headline news, then it’s a whole new ballpark now. It leaves him with an itch under his skin that he’ll never be able to scratch properly. A familiar feeling: he gets it every time Max opens his mouth.It’s another few miles before Punk pulls over again. The library is small and mildewy but no one looks his way as he hunts down the computer section.That’s a good thing, probably. Punk’s not sure what would happen if someone tried to talk to him right now. His skin is tight, struggling to hold everything in. It’ll be a miracle in and of itself if he manages to log into the computer without smashing his fist through its screen first. He doesn’t want to be here. He never wanted to be in a room like this again. God knows he’d spent his fair share of time in them. But either he does this now and he makes sure he’s two steps ahead, or he might as well give up. Just like everything else with Max; in the end, Punk doesn’t have a choice. He won’t let him have the upper hand any longer.It’s weird sitting at a small desk, overcrowded with the chunky computer, its monitor grimy with layers of smeared fingerprints. Punk could be thirty-something again, trying to block out the pain in his back, taking all his anger out on the keyboard in front of him. He can still feel all of it, just below the surface, always there waiting for him. The sickness, the frustration, the boredom.It takes him a moment to remember the name of the site. It’s been a while, but some things never leave you. Some things refuse to stay gone.He couldn’t do this at home, couldn’t risk it. Even before everything started with Max, Punk would never let himself open this and look at it. Mostly because he doesn’t want that in his search history. Just in case. But there’s another reason too, one that scares him a lot more than breaking NDAs and finding out just how long the statute of limitations is on framing someone for your murder.Punk has spent a long time telling himself that the guy who wrote that journal all those years ago died the moment Punk came back to life. One problem there: he can make people believe that he’s a nice guy, that people change, that they grow, but Punk has never been able to lie to himself. He knows exactly who he is.So when he opens up the entry he needs it’s not like reading the writing of a deceased loved one, or an old familiar book. It’s like having the words in his head written out in front of him. Worse, it’s like having the words that were screamed at him in the ring only weeks ago printed out neatly on the internet. Regurgitated and bastardised but these words all the same.It’s only one entry. He’s not going to pussy out, he can’t. Not here.It doesn’t take a lot of force to collapse a windpipe, just consistency. Keep pressing down for long enough and you’ll get your result. Get to watch the life drain away from your opponent, feel their body go limp, know they suffered as they drowned, surrounded by air and unable to reach it. All they want is one last breath and you get to deny them that.Punk shrugs some tension out of his shoulders and forces himself to look at the screen. He scans it, careful not to linger on anything too long, remember anything too clearly, and gets what he needs.Then he turns the computer off. But that doesn’t feel like enough so he yanks the plug out of the socket and drops it heavily on the carpeted floor. A few people look over at him, one frowns and holds a finger up to her lip. Punk resists the urge to flip her off and settles for staring straight ahead, fuming silently at his desk. The guy glaring back from the darkness of the screen looks nothing like him. Punk tries not to take it personally.When he leaves the library, Punk thinks about searching for a payphone but ultimately decides against it. Joe will have to wait. He’ll have his hands full with Larry as it is. No need to bother him. Right now he just needs to get a move on.The thing about tracking prey in somewhere the size of America is that you have to have some kind of idea of where they’ll go. Just a general one: a region; a county; a state. Despite Punk’s best efforts he knows Max. He’s got an idea of where he’ll be.He gets back on the road.Max won’t have stayed in Chicago, not if he could help it. Every time he’s there he’s straining at the bit to leave again. Punk doesn’t know how many hours of his life he’s lost listening to Max give out about it. He had reminded Max that it was his hometown once and Max had just turned to him. Yeah, but you don’t actually like it all that much do you? Punk hadn’t been able to dispute that. Chicago was a place that cheered for him, a place that loved him, the place where he lived. But a long time ago it had also hated him, wanted him dead. He won’t forget that. They can cheer for him all they want and he’ll know he deserves it but he’ll also know that it’s not real. What’s the point of loving him now if they couldn’t right from the beginning?It didn’t sit right that Max knew that about Punk. But at least it told him something about Max too. Max hadn’t gone back to Long Island. He probably could if he wanted to. Just camp out somewhere until this all blows over – the cops would never think to look that close to home. But Punk knows he didn’t.This little stunt might be mostly about Punk but he’s not so self-absorbed to think that’s the entirety of it. Max wanted to get away from everything, not just him. Punk can almost sympathise with that.That said, it is still mostly about Punk. So if he’s not in Chicago and he’s not in Long Island there’s really only one other place he could be. A place where Max hopes he’ll look but thinks he won’t. Because Max wants Punk to find him, but only if Punk is being a particular version of himself.Punk turns the car south onto the interstate, wincing when the movement pulls at the cut on his arm. He shouldn’t have cut into it again. You’d think in all the time that passed between the first time he did this and now he would have learned: don’t cut into your arm, it hurts. But he hasn’t learned, because he hasn’t grown, hasn’t changed. That’s what Max and him have both overlooked. Punk has been himself this entire time.So he turns south on the interstate and heads towards Florida, because there’s no other version of him that wouldn’t.Orlando. That’s where Max will be. It’s almost endearing that that’s where he’d pick.When Punk killed himself he chose a town at random. He can’t even remember the name of it anymore. Some place in bumfuck nowhere where he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone until he decided to let his whereabouts be known. Or well, that was the plan anyway.But Max is too sentimental for that. Nothing can be random, inconsequential. So he’ll be in Orlando, in the place they got chained up together, and he’ll be somewhere right off the motorway and next to a diner. Quoting Punk like something he had to learn off in school, like a poem, or something he’s read over and over again, like a love letter.It’s funny how predictable Max can be sometimes. For all that he’s devoted his life to Punk, to copying and pasting, he always manages to fall short. Punk says: I’m better than you, so Max says: I’m better than you. Punk says: Nobody can touch me, so Max says: Nobody can touch me. Punk says: I’m dead, Max says: I’m dead. But Punk follows it up. Punk is better because he’s straight edge. Nobody can touch him because he’s the best in the world. He dies and he makes sure he stays that way. Max can’t do that. Max isn’t better, he’s certainly not the best, and he can’t stay gone.It’ll be a challenge. Not because Max is that good at hiding. He isn’t and, let’s be real, he wants Punk to find him. No, it’ll be a challenge because Punk left such vague directions for Max to follow. The irony is not lost on him.He has half a mind to check every exit on the I75 once he crosses into Florida. But when he gets there he’s having a hard time differentiating the lane markings on the road in front of him from one another. What happened to him? Punk used to be able to get through a month of insomnia on nothing but caffeine and a good pump from the gym. Now he can feel the weight of skin sagging beneath his eyes, begging him to close them. What happened to the guy I grew up on, man? The painted lines in front of him separate into their own distinct spaces. His eyes begin to sting.Punk shakes his head. Now is not the time to fall asleep.His mind drifts. It’ll be a struggle that’s for sure. Max will get a few good hits in before he goes down. He’ll be more rested than Punk, might almost be a match for him in this condition, might even draw blood. Punk can almost taste it, iron sliding down the back of his throat as Max slowly weakens, his blows getting sloppy, then ceasing altogether.He rolls on to Orlando.Max will probably have checked himself into some cushy five star place, with fibre optic wifi and several TVs where he can watch his disaster of a shit-show unfold in HD. Punk can almost picture him propped up by a sea of pillows, fake tan rubbing off on the snow white sheets, laughing his head off and thinking he’s got it made.He hasn’t. Punk has made sure of that. He only wishes he was there to see Max’s face as it all fell apart for him. Punk doesn’t know what they’ve been saying in the media but it doesn’t matter. His bloody disappearance should have broken by now and Max will be furious. His precious little face all pinched up as he watches Punk topple his painstakingly choreographed murder plot. It was too easy.It’s almost too easy too when Punk pulls off the first exit outside of Orlando – more to take a break than anything else, maybe kick back for a power nap – and finds a motel right beside it. He drives past just to check, but heads back when he finds a diner on the other side.It’s not the kind of place he had in mind. Not for Max anyway. A two storey open air block of rooms, a too-blue pool that looks more like a pond of nuclear waste than anything else, rust everywhere, tiles missing from the roof. Max will not be here. It’s the exact kind of place he’d hate, the exact kind of place Punk loved back when he was on the road all the time. Dirt cheap rooms and no questions asked.Maybe that’s why Punk decides to check it out. Everything seems to be moving too quickly all of a sudden and that’s probably due to the fact that every time he closes his eyes it takes longer and longer to open them. It’s like living through a series of jump cuts. One moment he’s standing fifty feet away from the building, then he blinks and he’s forty, twenty, ten.He’ll just get a room here and look for Max in the morning. Punk glances around and realises it’s broad daylight. He drove all night. Huh. Okay, scratch that. He’ll look for Max tonight. After he sleeps.Punk starts towards reception and then stops again. Voices rise out from the small room where the door is propped open to leave the heat out. They’re competing with the dull hum of a television but that doesn’t matter. Not when Punk has been hearing one of these voices nonstop for months, in the ring, in his bed, most recently in his head.Max is here.Which actually makes sense now that he thinks about it. They say imitation is the highest form of flattery and well, Punk is certainly flattered right now. Max is here because of course he is. Where else would he be? This is the exact kind of place Punk loved back in the day, the exact kind of place he stayed when was dead. Now that Max is dead it only makes sense.Punk thought he would fall short of the mark when it came to this. Give into his pampered sensibilities and kick back in comfort. How did he overlook the fact that this is Max? Max who whines and cowers and then spits blood out on the mat and asks for more. Max who will put up with a bit of discomfort if it guarantees someone else’s pain. Max who never fails to surprise Punk by how similar they really are.Punk unsticks his feet from the ground and moves behind a pillar, where he lurks, peering into reception.Max looks– It always takes a moment to adjust to him wearing anything other than a suit. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt right now and that’s how Punk knows he’s not hallucinating this whole thing. If his subconscious was going to spit something like this out at him it wouldn’t make Max so normal-looking.Normal and alive. He’s talking to the guy behind the counter but he keeps getting distracted by something over the door. The TV, Punk thinks, judging by the sound. It’s comical, the way Max swings his head back and forth between the receptionist and the door like a cartoon character, the muscles in his neck popping out with every movement. So very much alive.Punk can’t wait to crush those pretty tendons with his own hands. He flexes them by his side. He could do it right now. Kill him right there in front of the receptionist. An audience to Max’s little pleas, anything, anything. A cry for mercy or encouragement to go on? He could end this right now.He doesn’t. He wants to see how this cute scene plays out. The receptionist is into Max, that much is clear as daylight. Usually, this would just make Punk roll his eyes. Usually he’d want to reach across and slap whatever ring rat is hanging around and yell at them: He’s not going to fuck you, you couldn’t handle him.But this here? Punk isn’t sure what Max is going to do. When the guy looks up at Max, all big doe eyes and small smile, Max doesn’t smile back, he turns like he’s going to leave. But he doesn’t curse him out either. Doesn’t flip him off or spit at him. He even turns back to add something else. And that’s new. That’s not right. Something rushes in Punk’s ears.And then Max is out the door and in the street. He passes within ten feet of Punk but he doesn’t look over. Punk doesn’t even think to grab him. Something about the line of Max’s shoulders, slumped like he just couldn’t care less about his posture anymore. Punk is reminded of an old photo, of tears tracing rivers down Max’s cheeks, of a few words whispered in the dark. You’re going to leave me.Found you, Punk thinks, watching Max’s back head away from him. Then he ducks into reception.It is dark in there and Punk’s eyes take their sweet time adjusting to it. Longer than they should. Probably a result of sleep deprivation, he should really get on that. But he doesn’t feel tired anymore. He thinks he can feel his blood singing all over his body. He wants to move, jump on something, punch something, kick something, run after Max in the street and do all three.He approaches the counter instead.Unfortunately, that’s when his vision clears up and he is greeted by a mop of fried blonde hair. Punk winces; there’s a reason he stopped bleaching his.‘Looking for a room?’ The guy behind the counter asks, sounding bored. Punk can’t be sure in this light but he thinks his eyes look a bit red. The guy is stoned out of his mind. Perfect.Punk chuckles. ‘Right, so here’s the thing. The guy who just left?’ He points at the door, in the general direction Max went.Belatedly, the guy follows Punk’s finger and nods. Punk isn’t convinced he remembers what happened five minutes ago. Good, he’ll be easy to dupe.‘He’s a friend of mine and I’m supposed to wait in his room for him to come back but…’ Punk slaps his hand against his forehead, overexaggerated. Hopefully hyperbolic enough to get through to this loser. ‘He forgot to give me the key.’ He gives a little what-can-you-do shrug.The guy drags his eyes away from the door slowly and squints at Punk. After a minute he asks: ‘You want me to give you a key?’‘Yeah, that’d be great.’ Punk smiles at him.And gets a frown in response. ‘I can’t do that man, sorry.’‘Why not?’The guy worries at something on his lip – a ring Punk realises – and begins shuffling through pieces of paper searching for something. He has to stifle a laugh. Of course. The blonde hair, the piercing. Now that Punk is looking he can see other things. An oversized t-shirt for some band or other. Ratty old jeans. Something giddy rushes up to meet him.‘That’d be a breach of,’ he reads off a sticky note he’s unearthed from somewhere, ‘customer confidentiality.’This kid isn’t exactly the brightest crayon. And he’s scrawny, a fucking druggie. His nose is bent to all hell too and he looks like he’s permanently on death’s door judging from the shade of purple under his eyes. Should I be offended Maxwell?‘Okay, look.’ He leans in, all conspiratorial. ‘I say buddy but really we’re uh–’ Punk glances away, blushing. If the kid doesn’t fall for this he might earn Punk’s grudging respect. ‘I was just trying to surprise him. Been a while since we last– and I couldn’t get away until now.’But he does fall for it. ‘Oh, that’s kinda sweet dude.’ He turns around to grab the second key for No. 26 off its hook on the wall. Punk smirks at his back. ‘Should’ve guessed with the way he paid.’Punk accepts the key he’s being offered and tries to run back what the guy just said. ‘Uh, yeah.’‘Yeah we get a lot of bored, uh– people waiting around here,’ he nods knowingly.Punk just looks at him. ‘Sure. Thanks for the,’ he jangles the keys and gets out of there. That kid is out of it.Max’s room is on the second floor, right at the end of the balcony-walkway-whatever thing. Punk finds it easily enough and pushes inside, expecting the freak neatness of Max’s hotel rooms. Everything with its rightful place and god forbid you move it. That’s not what Punk finds waiting for him on the other side of the door.The room looks like a hurricane breezed through, or maybe just a teenager. Not too far off the kind of disaster zone Punk used to live in but light-years away from the bland minimalism of Max’s apartment. His first reaction: That dick gave me the wrong keys. Max would not live here.But as he picks through the piles of clothes and junk food wrappers, Punk can’t deny the fact that Max is living here. Pinned to the wall above the unmade bed are lists and planners and calendars filled with Max’s handwriting. It looks like a conspiracy board. Punk supposes it is, or a weird inverted reflection of one anyway. Used for orchestrating a conspiracy rather than reverse-engineering it. Punk wonders if Ellis and Williams and their friends at the FBI have one as thorough as this. Probably not. It’s hard to beat Max when it comes to research.For a minute Punk stands there, sort of creeped out. He can’t shake the feeling that this room shouldn’t belong to Max. That whoever has been living here is not someone Punk knows.Tears shining under the hot spotlights of an arena. Max walking away from him. Is this real? No, Punk’s not going to be fooled again. Whatever this is, it’s some kind of hoax Max is playing. He probably set this room up to freak Punk out when he found him.
But how did he know I’d be here now?
Punk’s tired of thinking. He busies himself by snooping around. Surveys the clothes scattered across the floor first and notices something is missing. Scrounges around for Max’s bag and digs through it but there’s not much there. Not enough to disguise the fact that the scarf is missing. The clothes are all wrong too. Barely a button down in sight, let alone a full suit. Add to that the empty packets of chips and candy wrappers, and even the notes on the wall can’t convince Punk that this is the right room.But then he opens the mini fridge in the corner and laughs. Chock-full of Phish Food. This is Max’s room alright. Punk hasn’t eaten anything all night, so he steals a tub. Now they’re even.There’s nothing to eat it with except for an already used spoon left standing in an empty tub by the TV. Punk shrugs. Might as well. They’ve already shared enough germs as is.He sits down on the bed to eat, thinking he’ll check out the rest of the room afterwards. His limbs are heavy all of a sudden but he doesn’t think he could sleep if he tried. Not here in this room anyway, so utterly surrounded by Max and yet not at the same time. No, better to stay put until Max comes back. Get that out of the way. Then he can rest all he wants.He doesn’t have to wait long. After maybe ten minutes he hears a key slot into the door and twist. The person on the other side makes a confused sound when they try the handle and find they’ve locked it. Punk places the tub of ice-cream he’d been picking at half-heartedly on the floor. The person at the door finally figures out how to unlock it, pushes it open, and steps inside.Then they’re standing in the same room. Sharing the same air.‘Welcome home Maxwell.’ Punk hears the words leave his mouth but he doesn’t remember deciding to say them. They don’t matter anyway. What matters is what he does next.The room is small. It takes Punk two long strides to cross it and crowd Max against the wall. He doesn’t even have to move that fast. Max is too surprised to speak, let alone move. Not that Punk is giving him the chance to do either.He squeezes his hands tighter where they’re wrapped around Max’s neck and feels his pulse racing away under his fingers, like a rabbit’s. Like a dog’s. Punk taps his thumb against it. ‘You don’t seem very dead to me Max.’Max’s eyes round, his pupils blowing out as they try to adjust to the darkness. The curtains drawn across the small window on the other side of the room block out the midday sun.Punk digs his thumbs in on either side of Max’s trachea and pushes. ‘Copying my entire life wasn’t enough, huh? Had to go and imitate my death too.’Max can’t respond but he opens his mouth like he wants to anyway. Belatedly, Punk realises Max isn’t fighting back. His hands have found their way to Punk’s sides, bunched up in his hoodie. They just cling to the material, holding it. Punk waits a beat, giving Max the chance to resist him, knee him in the nuts, anything. But he doesn’t. Just stands there and lets Punk choke him.‘This isn’t a game, Maxwell. You think I killed myself over something as trivial as not getting a title shot? Or did I not give you enough attention, is that it?’ Punk yanks Max to him, pressing the line of their bodies together for a breath. Then he slams Max back against the wall.Punk’s grip loosens momentarily at the impact. He recovers quickly, but not fast enough to stop the sound that comes out of Max.Punk snarls. Tightens his hold on Max’s throat. Watches as Max’s face darkens with the strain of it. ‘Was that what it was all for? To get me to chase you down? To have my undivided attention again? Well you have it.’He thinks he should be concerned by how hot his anger burns inside him right now. Concerned that he’s not sure he could take his hands away from Max if he tried. That he can’t think of anything else except hurting Max. He wants to hurt Max. Wants to let all the violence he’s been containing for the past week out of its cage and watch it tear him apart.But Max won’t fight back. He just stands there and takes it. Even when his body starts to slacken and his eyes start to droop, his pulse plummeting under Punk’s thumb, even then he doesn’t fight back. And that’s not right. Max fights him on everything.Punk slams him against the wall again. Distantly, he hears something crack. He’s not sure if it’s the paintwork or Max. He’s not sure he cares. The muscles in his hands start to scream, cramping up around Max’s neck, but that’s distant too. The only thing that matters right now is getting a reaction from Max.He moves in close to Max’s ear, his face furnace hot from the pressure of it all. ‘Or did you just want to leave me before I could leave you?’Max dips before straightening up again. Punk feels his knees bump into his own and realises Max is struggling to stay standing. He’ll fight gravity but not Punk. This is ridiculous. Fight back, Punk wants to scream at him. He watches Max peel his eyes open to stare at Punk. Bloodshot and collecting tears at the corners. Too bright to look at for too long. Max is struggling against his own body too now.Something wrong and out of place twists in Punk’s chest. He’s going to let me kill him.Punk keeps running his mouth: ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it Max? You wanted the old me back, the one who wouldn’t think twice before ripping you apart. Well you better be happy now because you got him.’ He presses in close, trying to get better leverage to end this and then– oh. Someone is happy.For some reason that’s what unsticks Punk. He can’t give Max what he wants. He won’t.Max drops to the floor as soon as Punk unclamps his hands, as if they’d been the only thing keeping him vertical. Punk reels back until he hits the opposite wall of the narrow entrance corridor and slides to the floor himself. His chest is heaving like he was the one who didn’t have oxygen for the last few minutes. Across from him Max looks like he’s trying to cough up a lung. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.‘Max?’ Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at him. Just sits stunned with his legs out in front of him, slumped to one side as he continues to hack up spit and fails to remember what air is.Punk’s whole body feels heavy as he shifts to his hands and knees and crawls over to Max like he’s going for the cover at the end of a long match. He settles in between Max’s legs. If Max notices he doesn’t seem to mind. Punk doesn’t think he notices. He takes his face in his hands.‘Max,’ he repeats, and tries not to hear the dramatic shift in tone from only moments before. ‘Max, breathe.’Max’s eyes roll over to meet his and then all of a sudden they sharpen. He makes a small sound like a gasp, which Punk reasons is kind of an inhale, and then he’s clutching at Punk’s wrists weakly and mumbling something Punk can’t catch.‘What?’‘You’re alive?’And that’s– Punk wanted Max to think he was dead. Even if just momentarily. Wanted him to squirm, to worry. That is what he wanted, right? What he still wants? But he never thought Max would actually– This is too much. He can’t laugh at this, can’t mock this, not when he knows what it feels like first hand. He spares a brief thought for Joe, all those years ago. Thinks: I probably owe him an apology for that.And then Max’s fingers tighten slightly at his wrists like he’s afraid Punk isn’t real after all and Punk says the only thing he can.‘I’m alive, Max. I’m here.’At that, Max starts crying. The tears that had been collecting freefall down his cheeks like blood seeping from a fresh wound. Max can cry on command. This is probably a trick. But Punk has never been very good at resisting Max when he’s like this.That night after the dog collar match, after the texts and the phone call, Max had opened the door to his hotel room, face red from crying but freshly washed clean, and hadn’t made it through one word before he was a mess again. He had looked exactly as he does now. Too young and open. Too much.Punk had pounced on him then. He does the same now.A short brush of lips, the faint taste of salt, Max leaning into him warm and familiar. He doesn’t get any farther before he’s being thrown back against the opposite wall. Punk blinks. His jaw stings, his mouth too. When he reaches up and touches his lower lip his fingers come back red.‘Did you just punch me?’ He laughs, more out of shock than anything else.‘Don’t fucking touch me, old man,’ Max sounds almost like himself as he scrambles to his feet and away from Punk. The obnoxious tone of his voice is almost relieving to hear.‘What? You clearly want it,’ Punk gestures at Max’s pants. Max glares at him and rushes to straighten out the material at his crotch, to disguise what’s happening there. But he’s obviously still lightheaded and loses his balance, swaying into the wall for support. Punk moves to steady him but Max holds out a hand.‘Don’t. Just– Don’t.’Punk obliges, staying put on the floor, not convinced he could make a smoother transition to standing than Max did and not wanting to test that theory. The last eight days without sleep are suddenly wearing on him.‘How–’ Max pushes away from the wall and wipes under his eyes. ‘You knew where to find me.’ A statement not a question.Punk grins. ‘Your, uh, friend downstairs sold you out. Bad taste there. Cute though, looks like someone we both used to know.’Max’s eyebrows drop, face darkening. ‘That’s not what I meant.’God, he sounds like a petulant child.‘Somewhere off the interstate with a diner nearby or something.’ Punk shrugs, watching Max’s expression closely. The corners of his mouth curl down like he’s upset Punk won’t quote himself word for word. But then he opens his mouth and Punk realises something else has put that look there.‘And Orlando?’Punk just meets his eye and raises an eyebrow. Really?Max breaks first like he always does. Glances down and away. He moves away from Punk like he needs the space to think and practically steps into the bucket of ice-cream Punk had left on the floor.Max stoops down and picks it up, his eyebrows drawn together. ‘I didn’t–’Punk can’t help the amused sound he makes. Max just looks so damn confused.He doesn’t even see Max move, he’s just there pulling Punk to his feet by his collar, shoving him against the wall this time, and all the while Punk can’t stop smiling. ‘Really Punk? You stole my ice-cream? What are you four?’Punk glances down at Max’s fingers knotted in his shirt. Don’t touch me, my ass. ‘Seemed only fair. You stole mine, I stole yours.’‘You bought that ice cream for me.’ Max has the audacity to sound smug about it.‘I don’t remember saying that.’ He lets his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. Waits for Max to take what he’s trying to deny himself.Max narrows his eyes. ‘You don’t even like Ben and Jerry’s.’‘I skipped dinner. I was hungry.’ Punk raises his shoulders, a slight shrug. What can I say? Max’s eyes dart down to follow the movement and get stuck on his mouth. ‘You shouldn’t have even been in my house. I could get you on breaking and entering. All that hard work and for what.’Max scoffs. ‘Please, you literally showed me where you keep your spare key.’‘You happened to be standing nearby when I couldn’t find my keys one time, that’s not the same thing.’‘You don’t bring someone home with you unless you want them in your house.’ Max’s breath fans against his face. He steps in closer to Punk. Hot all over.‘Usually,’ Punk says, reaching up to loosen Max’s hold. Max’s fingers straighten out at the slightest touch. Good boy. ‘You don’t invite someone home and then frame them for their murder the next day either.’Punk drops his hands from where they were hovering over Max’s fingers. Max makes a small noise that he probably doesn’t even register himself and moves in closer as if to compensate for the sudden loss of touch.‘Usually,’ he mocks Punk, ‘you don’t go on live TV hours after the person you fucked last night goes missing and win your title shot and then smile about it.’Okay that’s enough. Punk kicks out at Max’s shin and when he starts to double over – in surprise, Punk didn’t kick him that hard – he spins them, caging Max in against the wall again with his hands bracketing his head. Face less than a millimetre from Max’s he says: ‘I guess we’re both just over-achievers.’Max looks far too stunned to answer, wherever he is in his head it’s not here. Punk shuffles in closer to check and– Yeah, he’s hard again. Or still hard. It doesn’t matter really.‘The texts were maybe a bit much,’ Punk adds, to draw Max back.It works. Max’s eyes flash like Punk has just insulted his mother. ‘The texts were fucking genius, and you know it.’Punk shrugs again. Maybe, maybe not. He reaches down and traces one of Max’s cheeks with his hand. It’s still tacky with drying tears.‘You did out me though.’‘Oh, like you care about that shit.’ Max’s eyes flutter closed. He turns his face into Punk’s palm like it’s fucking catnip or something. The picture of peace. Punk can still taste iron on his tongue from the cut on his lip.‘I could.’Max opens his eyes to stare Punk dead in his. ‘You didn’t seem to care when you were writing whatever on your little LiveJournal.’Punk changes his grip, digging his fingers into Max’s cheek, the skin along and under his bone. Deep enough to bruise maybe. ‘The journal you read ‘cause you’re obsessed with–’Max doesn’t let him finish. Struggling against Punk’s sudden iron hold he spits: ‘Or what about that time you told the entire internet you faked your death?’‘What time was that?’‘Your second journal, Punk. Not your smartest move, you gotta admit. I have you beat with the text messages.’ He raises his chin like he’s actually accomplished something.Punk smiles down at him, all sunny innocence. ‘What second journal?’‘Don’t deny it now. You literally quoted it five–’Punk yanks his chin back down and, even though there’s no room, steps in closer. One of his thighs between Max’s legs. He pretends not to notice when Max squirms against it. ‘Max, I don’t know what you’re talking about. In fact, I’m kinda feeling a bit gaslit here. Second journal? Faking my death?’Max looks so annoyed it’s comical. His eyes bug out of his face. ‘Oh for fuck’s–’Punk kisses him. He doesn’t want to deal with the rest of this conversation. He’s just driven the better part of twenty hours, he shouldn’t have to listen to Max’s voice on top of that. Max kisses him back this time, like he just can’t stop himself anymore, his whole body surging up against Punk’s, searching him out.It’s funny, Punk almost thought Max wouldn’t let them do this again. Was near positive Max had convinced himself he was only doing this to fuck with Punk. But here he is, sucking on Punk’s bottom lip like he’s trying to drain the blood from his body through the tiny cut. Desperate as always. He can lie to himself all he wants but Max will never be able to ignore his own needs. He’s much too spoiled for that.As if to prove just how spoiled he is, Max hooks his fingers through the belt loops in Punk’s jeans and tries to close the final bit of distance between them. When Punk resists him, he whines into his mouth. Punk finds himself hushing him, running a hand through his hair to calm him down. Max’s hair feels greasy, greasier than Punk’s even. Punk almost laughs at that too. (Everything is suddenly so funny.) Have they both been avoiding showers?He pulls back, disentangling their legs from one another. He keeps his hands on Max, one in his hair, one curled around his ribs. It’s too soon to let go.Outside, it’s upwards of ninety degrees and the air conditioning in this room seems shot to hell. Max shivers in his hands anyway, like he’ll freeze without Punk. ‘Wha– What’re you doing?’ Another whine.‘We really shouldn’t,’ Punk tells him. Not, unfortunately, because he doesn’t want to. He can hear his heart rabbiting away in his chest, sending all his blood southwards. Give it a minute and he’ll be just as much of a mess as Max.‘Fucking bullshit. Why shouldn’t we?’ Max’s face scrunches up – a child told he can’t ride the cool rollercoaster at the fair. You’re too short, Maxwell. You’d break your neck.Max pushes back into Punk’s space, following him when Punk retreats backwards. Following might be a bit strong. Punk still has his hands caught up in him, keeping them stuck together. It’s more like an uncoordinated dance across the room.There is only so much floor space. Eventually, Punk’s legs hit the bed and he sits down, too tired to realise he shouldn’t. Max reminds him soon enough, climbing into his lap, knees on either side of Punk’s hips. He ducks down for another kiss and Punk humours him for a moment. But when Max decides he’s sick of Punk’s mouth and tries to shift to his jaw, angling for his neck, he pulls back again.‘What is your problem, man?’You are. At this distance, with Max above him, close but not too close, Punk can make out the details of his face for the first time since he stepped into the room. The light isn’t good, but still, Punk sees enough. Enough to know that the dark colour under Max’s eyes aren’t just from the crying he did earlier. Max looks like how Punk feels; like he hasn’t slept in over a week.It’s always weird when Punk tells the truth. The words come out a bit too light. ‘I’m tired.’Max stops where he was trying to grind down on Punk, and sits back on his haunches. A battle plays out across his face like he’s trying to make himself smirk but can’t fight off the plain concern that shows through. Punk had forgotten how open his face is, how fascinating.‘You’re tired? Fuck, you really are old.’ But Punk can feel his thumb running over his skin gently, where Max has slung his arms around his neck. Goosebumps fly up Punk’s back. Maybe it really is cold in here.When Punk doesn’t respond, Max swings out of his lap and sits down beside him on the mattress. Staring at his hands Max asks: ‘You wanna go to sleep?’Punk ignores the jab. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation but he’s getting whiplash from the vacillating moods here. ‘Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.’He starts to stand up. Max’s hand immediately finds his wrist.‘Where’re you going?’When Punk looks back at him, Max looks about a breath away from shattering. Does he really think I’m gonna leave him right now?‘I’m going to get into bed.’ He nods at his side.Max, never one to miss a beat once he realises he’s safe, schools his features into place within seconds. That douchey, fake confused you’re-so-stupid-you’re-making-me-stupid look. ‘What makes you think you can stay here?’‘Alright,’ Punk pulls away from Max’s grasp and ever so slowly heads for the door. ‘I’ll go get my own–’Max isn’t in the mood to be teased apparently. That or he just can’t take it. He sighs loudly. ‘Fine, whatever. Stay. What do I care?’It’s the middle of the day but neither of them care. The curtains are drawn already, it’s dark enough. And even if it wasn’t, Punk thinks they’re both crashing too hard from an adrenaline high to notice. He feels about one long blink away from a coma. Judging from the way Max rounds the bed to his side, like he’s swimming against a current, he’s in the same boat.The mattress squeals under their weight as they settle beneath the sheets and then falls quiet. Punk lies very still, his back to Max. He can feel eyes burning on the back of his skull, like Max is trying to laser-eye his way inside Punk’s head and figure out what he’s thinking. Punk isn’t thinking much of anything, except that he’s probably too old to be this affected by just the idea of another body close by. He’s too tired to care.He lies awake, staring at the opposite wall, until the bed creaks again – Max rolling over to turn his back to him.Punk doesn’t know what he’s doing. He maybe should have made more of a plan before he did all of this. Instead he’d fixated on two goals: find Max and kill him. He’s done the first. He’s not sure he ever really meant the second.He drifts, thinking about the planners hanging on the wall above his head, and the body next to him, so close, so carefully not touching.Punk wakes up sometime in the evening. He’s warmer than before, almost too warm, like his body has finally copped on to the fact that he is in fact in Florida in mid-May. At some point he must have moved because he’s no longer facing the wall. He’s rolled over. As has Max, who now lies snuggled into Punk, his head tucked beneath Punk’s chin, forehead pressed to collarbone. Even asleep, his grip is vice tight on Punk.Punk almost wants to shake him awake and tell him: Ease up asshole. I’m not the one who left. But he can feel where his own hands have turned to claws digging into Max’s back hard enough to bruise. He decides to ignore the whole thing.When he wakes up again, sometime the next morning, Max is gone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Oct. 13th. Anon. (4.25 pm) – NOT TIRED, NOT ALONE, NOT DEAD, NOT ANYMORE…

Call me paranoid, but I think I’m being paranoid.

So I emerge from my cave after a two day sleep fest and am making my way out of my lovely lodgings to come find the nearest puter and update you, my people, on the latest goings on. Except there’s this guy hanging around, all suited up to escort the president to his vehicle or something, and he just keeps staring at me. Well, he’s pretending not to but I can tell he is. I have half a mind to go up to him and ask him what his deal is but I tell myself it’s not worth blowing up over. Picture me turning the other cheek and going on my way like a good little pacifist. Off to put in the hours at the livejournal factory. Except – and I swear – I’m not here two minutes when I look up and see someone duck behind a shelf like they were watching me. Like I’m in a spy movie or some shit.

You can call me jumpy all you want and you’d probably have some good evidence to back you up but I htink something’s up here. There’ve been weird cars parked around the place too. Way too up market for anything the losers around here could afford…

Don’t wanna go out like this. Feel like i really could have changed stuff, really could have gotten my own back. But they messed it up like they always do and now nothing changes, everything stays the same…

If this is my last post just know everything is futile and they got me. they find me and they drag me back and it’s over for me. They’ll kill me by forcing me back to life

XxX
 
Oct. 13. Anon. (7.59 pm) – A MOTEL RECEPTION AREA IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE FOR A MEET CUTE

Okay, okay, I was being (you guessed it!) paranoid. Went home to check and there was no sign of creepy suit guy so I think I’m in the all clear. Dude must have been staring for some other reason. Who can blame him am I rihgt? There is NOTHING (and nobody) to do here. At this point I might not even turn down the offer… I’ve said too much…

For all of you who were concerned for me: I thank you very kindly now go fuck yourselves. Don;t feed my delusional ego, it will only grow up to consume me.
 
P.S. how depressing is it that I now refer to this shithole as ‘home’?

—

Punk – The Week of the Reunion
 It takes a while for Punk to notice. When he wakes up he’s far too preoccupied trying to figure out where he is than who’s there with him.The mattress beneath him isn’t his – he knows that straight away. For some reason he thinks of Max’s bed in Long Island, all memory foam and white sheets, as good as new, like it hadn’t been slept in much. They hadn’t done much sleeping the night Punk stayed over either.He rolls over and is met with the scream of springs as they dig themselves into his back, like he’s lying on a bed of nails. He knows that sound, knows this feeling. This is not a new bed.Punk opens his eyes. It’s dark in here but light slants through a crack in the curtains, enough to tell him it’s daytime, enough to see by. He’s in a motel room alright. Dust floats through the air at a leisurely speed. Unidentified stains pattern the ceiling above him. And a strange mix of sweat, carpet cleaner, and petrol wafting in from the window, hangs in the air.For a moment, Punk is not sure when he is. Did he have a show last night? Are Joe and the others just a few doors down, sleeping in? Or is he still stuck in this hell hole, rotting from the inside out as he waits for himself to be declared dead? Probably the latter. He’ll never escape this. It’ll never end. He’ll live out the rest of his days watching headlines and writing journal entries and having nothing to live for because the one thing he loved nearly killed him.Max choking and coughing, unable to breathe even after Punk let him go – last night comes back to him all at once and he sits up quickly. Yes, he is in a motel room. But not that one. He hasn’t been in that one for the better part of a decade.He nearly flops back down in relief, heart pounding as it struggles to catch up with his head. But then he finally notices how empty the other side of the bed is.‘Max?’ Punk calls out. He’s probably just in the bathroom or something.But there’s no answer. Punk stays quiet and listens for the shower, for any sign of movement, but there’s none. Only his heartbeat ratcheting up again. This is– Max had been just here. Hadn’t he?Punk has become so used to the idea of Max being gone it’s hard to remember that he should be here now. It’s particularly hard because Max isn’t here.Punk reaches out to the space next to him. The bedding is cold beneath his hand. Okay, good to know. Disentangling himself from the sheets he stands up and looks around, like that might make Max turn up. It doesn’t but his eyes do catch on the fucking calendar store worth of planners and notes taped above the bed. One page in particular has a lot of angry red writing scrawled all over it. When he kneels on the bed to read it he finds the month of May boxed off into different days, each with the same question written over and over again.It’s unfortunate really. If it weren’t for this, Punk would be feeling the best he has all week. He slept pretty well last night.As it is, Punk’s head is spinning as he rushes for the door. He doesn’t know where Max could have gone. Doesn’t even know what his car looks like to check if it’s still in the parking lot, or if he had a car at all. Still, he bolts out of the room, needing to look for Max. Needing to put some distance between himself and the writing on the wall.May 11th: the day Max went missing; May 13th: the morning Punk found the scene in his bathroom; May 16th: the day Caster did that stupid poll about Piper. May 17th, May 19th, May 20th. Written in black pen but circled repeatedly in red sharpie, like Max had taken the time to switch colours while he wrote it, while he scheduled it in. The same three words again and again and again peppered throughout the month. Like a lighthearted suggestion: Kill self today?Punk barely gets out the door before he’s folding over the railing on the walkway outside, not sure if he’s going to throw up or just hyperventilate. He stares down at the blue of the pool below. It’s nearly hypnotic. This isn’t– Punk’s not a squeamish guy. He’s read much worse, written much worse. Hell, he’s heard much worse from Max himself.But that was in the ring.In there, under the hot lights and the weight of hundreds of eyes, anyone will say anything to keep the attention on them. And Max isn’t just anyone. He spends more time flirting with the truth than actually telling it. Punk’s done that too, he gets how it works. Sometimes you have to embellish, just to keep the audience and your opponents on their toes. Get everyone asking themselves: what is the truth? Most people never figure it out. That makes it ten times more rewarding when someone finally does. Punk thought he’d figured Max out. Thought this part was a lie.
Kill self today?
It’s so short, so simple, so unpretentious. So not intended for anyone’s eyes but Max’s. Or was it? This could all be a trick too. Max wanted to be found by him, Punk reminds himself. He could have left that there, in plain sight, waiting for Punk to see it so that he could run off and fake his death again. It’s convoluted, and revolting, and dishonest, and just the kind of thing Max would–His eyes shift away from the blue of the pool, drawn to a figure sunbathing beside it. Or maybe he just woke up earlier than me. Punk shakes out the nervous energy in his shoulders, straightens up and rolls his neck like he’s warming up for a match. He needs to get a hold of himself.He heads down to the pool, taking the opportunity to really look at Max as he does. Laid out on a sunlounger with douchey sunglasses over his eyes and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, Max looks like he could be on vacation, just soaking in the sun. Miles away from the guy who clung to Punk last night, drowning in his own tears.It’s funny, Punk can’t remember seeing a Hawaiian shirt amongst Max’s clothes when he’d looked through his room yesterday. He has a vision of Max running out this morning to buy it, desperately looking for anything that would match his fussy taste. Punk feels the corners of his mouth quirk up.Playing dress up for me, Maxwell? He almost wants to call out.He doesn’t. Because that would mean Max hasn’t brought clothes he wanted Punk to see him in. Which would mean that Max didn’t expect to see him at all. And that’s not true. Max did expect to see him again. He expected Punk to find him. That’s why Punk did.He needs to stop thinking, focus on other things.Like what a nice day it is. Hot sure, but that’s Florida. Once you get past that you can appreciate the cloudless sky, such a change from the grey city. If you squint hard enough, this could be a holiday. Punk’s already off work for the foreseeable future, he might as well enjoy himself.When he reaches Max he doesn’t get any reaction. He stands over him, blocking out the sun and still nothing. Max just lies there dead to the world. Asleep, Punk realises. How long has he been out here?Up close, Punk can see what he couldn’t in the dull light of their room: Max has a tan. A real one, his skin glowing an actual healthy light brown, punctuated by the occasional spattering of freckles. It makes him look like a real person. It makes him look nothing like Max.‘You’re up early,’ he says and has the pleasure of seeing Max startle awake, looking around wildly before he realises that Punk is above him and snaps his head back to stare up at him.‘What?’ He asks, the words slurred, voice half an octave higher than it usually is. Softer too, like all the edges in it have been dulled with sleep. This isn’t the first time Punk has heard Max like this, disorientated and purely himself in the seconds it takes him to wake up. It still surprises him though.‘I said morning, asshole.’Max, probably still lost in whatever dream he was having, pouts. ‘No you didn’t.’Punk doesn’t respond, just crosses his arms and watches Max as his brain kicks out of sleep and back to the land of the living. His posture tightens up, suddenly conscious of Punk’s eyes, and he shifts around uncomfortably until he’s sitting up. But he still has to crane his neck to meet Punk’s eyes. With his neck stretched out like that, Punk gets a full view of the bruises he left there yesterday. He smiles.‘Did you want something?’ Max pushes his sunglasses to the end of his nose, raising an eyebrow as he looks up at Punk from over the frames. Completely awake now, almost looking like himself.Punk thinks for a moment, then holds out his hand: an invitation. ‘Wanna get some breakfast?’Max swats his hand away and gets to his feet on his own, grumbling. Punk’s going to take that as a yes.
—
They end up at the diner next door. There’s nowhere else to go. Still, it feels like a novelty to Punk. All those months he’d spent camped out next to a diner and never once did he set foot inside it. He’d been too paranoid that someone would recognise him. Now, Punk is just glad to be doing something that doesn’t feel like he’s repeating himself.Max, ducking low in the booth across from him, doesn’t seem to carry the same sentiment. He catches Punk looking and glares. ‘I can’t believe I let you drag me here. You know that’s probably a crime or something, Punk – taking advantage of someone when they’re asleep. Better watch it.’‘You weren’t asleep,’ Punk tells him, opting not to mention the several dozen actual crimes they’ve both committed in the last week or so. ‘And we both need some real food.’Max makes a show of looking around at the rundown restaurant, curling his lip at the generic condiments basket on the table, the kitschy retro interior design, the patrons around them. ‘If you’re aiming for that, you might want to look elsewhere. This place wouldn’t know real food if it slapped it in the face.’Punk leans his cheek against his hand, entertained. He’d forgotten just how ridiculous Max could be about every little detail. ‘Oh and you would?’‘Uh, yeah Punk. I would. You don’t get to look like this without understanding about proper nutrition.’You don’t get to look like that without having a few issues. Punk should know, he’s had them too. He quirks an eyebrow. ‘Max, I’ve seen where you’ve been living for the past week.’Max’s expression goes blank, like he’s just been hit in the face, jaw a bit slack. God, he looks so dumb. Punk just wants to reach out and–‘Look, just try and eat something with a vitamin in it and I’ll be happy.’That brings Max back. He rolls his eyes at Punk and says: ‘Well as long as you’re happy, Punk. That’s what matters.’Punk winks at him, prompting another eye roll. But when the waiter comes to take their order Max opts for eggs and mushrooms, so Punk’s willing to take that as a win.Max still doesn’t look relaxed. It’s distracting, sitting in a diner trying to have a nice meal while there’s good music playing (Ella Fitz – these guys have taste) and the sun is shining, when the guy you’re with won’t stop shifting in his seat like his panties are riding up. He keeps scanning the room furtively. Anytime anyone so much as glances their way he turns his face towards the window.Punk gives in. ‘What is it?’‘What’s what?’ Max sinks lower in his seat as the bell above the door rings and a mom and her kid walk in. He flips his phone over on the table, looks at the screen, turns it back again.Punk just looks at him. Max peers up at him through his lashes and seems to catch his meaning. I invented every trick you know. You can’t lie to me. Not that that’s stopped him before. But it does now.Max sighs loudly. It doesn’t come off half as obnoxious when he looks this worried. ‘Someone could see us, you know. Someone could see us and recognise us.’ Even as he says it he sizes up the family at the counter like he’s expecting one of the kids to run over and start mauling him at any second.‘What, scared to be seen in public with me?’ That brings Max’s eyes right back where they belong, glaring at Punk. ‘You didn’t seem too worried about being recognised at reception.’‘That guy is an imbecile. He wouldn’t know his right from his left.’‘Fair enough,’ Punk allows. ‘But what about the store? You obviously went there with no issue.’ He gestures at the clothes Max is wearing, stuff he – as far as Punk can tell – didn’t have yesterday.Max gives him a weird look. The kind of look a new opponent gives you when they’re not sure whether you’re a genuine good sport or an asshole. Half untrusting, all unsure. Eventually Max says: ‘I didn’t look like myself then.’Before Punk can respond their food arrives. Max looks the other way, hiding his face as the plates are put down in front of them. Punk smiles at the woman and thanks her. As she’s leaving Punk hears Max mutter his thanks too. Which is… odd. Not because Punk doesn’t think Max has the ability to be polite, just that he only does it when it suits him. Here it feels like he did it just to be nice. Just because he wanted to.‘You did,’ Punk says.Max looks at him, lost.‘Look like yourself,’ he clarifies. The real tan and the old t-shirts and tracksuit bottoms; it might sound like somebody else on paper but it’s all superficial. Max is still just himself. He still manages to be the only person Punk has ever met that is completely himself. Because that self is completely a performance. ‘You did. You do.’There’s a beat where Max obviously doesn’t know how to respond. Then: ‘Whatever. None of these morons are smart enough to put it together anyway.’‘So what are you worried for?’ Punk pulls his plate towards him and starts eating. It could almost feel like they’re two normal people, sharing a meal together. If they were capable of having a civil conversation. If Max would shut up and start eating too.But because nothing in Punk’s life can be normal, Max goes on the offensive instead. ‘I’m not worried. I just think we should be careful seeing as we’re a national story.’Okay that’s funny. Punk chuckles, looking up from his plate to see Max giving him an are-you-dumb-or-do-you-have-brain-damage eyebrow raise from across the table. That just makes him laugh harder.‘Okay Max, sure. National news – that’s us.’ A few people online are interested in what’s going on, sure, but that’s just in the wrestling world. No one getting breakfast at a Floridian diner is going to give a shit about them. ‘Relax already. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news Max, but nobody cares about two random wrestlers. You’re safe, you can stop slouching.’Max’s back straightens almost instantly. Punk wonders if Max is even conscious he’s doing that.‘Punker, I don’t know where you’ve been for the past week but newsflash: we were a pretty big story when it was just me gone. And now that you are too,’ he shakes his head. ‘As much as it pains me to admit it, you were the final push. You should be thanking me. I made you what you could never make yourself: a household name.’ With that Max finally picks up his fork and digs into his eggs.Punk shakes his head. Max is trying so hard to get a rise out of him but all Punk feels right now is fond. This back and forth: it’s why he does this. Everything is a struggle between them, they can’t even talk without having to poke at one another, like cutting a promo. There might not be a mattress beneath their feet now, but they never truly left it.‘What are you smiling about?’‘You thinking you can call me Punker. It’s cute.’ He winks and watches Max’s face turn red from the corner of his eye.Max stops fidgeting about being recognised after that. He doesn’t look around half as much, just trains his eyes on Punk, glancing down at his plate when he absolutely has to. Something’s still eating at him though. Punk can tell from the line of his shoulders; the set of his jaw; the bouncing of his knee beneath the table when Punk slides his leg up next to his.‘What now?’Max shifts imperceptibly, pressing his thigh against Punk’s. The move is completely at odds with his face, his eyebrows knitted together so that he looks almost… scared. Apprehensive maybe.‘Nothing.’‘Okay.’ Punk doesn’t think about it too much. Max is just like this sometimes. He hooks his foot around Max’s. That puts a stop to the jittering anyway. Max stills and looks up at Punk in wonder. You’d think Punk had never touched him before, his mouth parts just slightly, and Punk finds himself admiring just how well a real tan goes with pink.He pushes his plate away, not hungry anymore. Not for eggs anyway. Max’s eyes follow his hand as he does it, only looking up to Punk once he pulls it away. When he finds Punk already looking at him his eyes darken.Yeah, Max is just like that sometimes.
—
The sound of the door closing behind them is a heavy one. The whole way back from the diner they’d walked side by side, in complete silence for once. They haven’t touched since Punk drew his foot away so he could stand up. Now, the desire to reach out and touch is overwhelming. Max is right there, living and breathing, impossible to ignore.There’s a breath after the door closes, sealing them inside the motel room, where they just look at each other. They haven’t talked about this morning. How Punk woke up alone, how Max was sleeping by the pool. They haven’t talked about last night either, or really anything important. Punk knows they should now. They have a lot to discuss – the earlier they start the sooner it’ll be over. Like working out when you’re not feeling it.But Punk has never been good at doing the things he should.Max sighs gently when Punk kisses him. He doesn’t seem surprised to be suddenly crowded against the wall, his body melting into Punk’s like he expected nothing less. God, Max is so entitled.Finally, that sigh seems to say, knew you couldn’t resist me. Punk hates it when he’s right.He pushes in as close as he can get, flattening Max against the wall so that he has to arch up to reach Punk’s mouth and avoid getting crushed completely. Punk’s hands search out the buttons of Max’s shirt, eager to return it to its earlier state, open and loose and welcoming. Max’s skin radiates warmth beneath Punk’s knuckles as he works. Distracting, always distracting.Punk is aware he’s maybe moving too fast. Max is all but panting into his mouth already and Punk isn’t doing much better. His lungs feel like he’s been knocked to the ground – not quite winded but close. He doesn’t slow down. His hands have felt empty ever since he woke up and what he read this morning on the planner keeps coming back to him. Three words, over and over again. Only fanning the desperate energy crawling beneath his skin.Punk just needs to touch. Remind himself that Max is there and his to do with as he likes. Then he’ll be fine.As always, Max throws a wrench in that plan. Pulling away just as Punk is reaching for his belt. It’s odd. Punk is supposed to be the one slowing them down, resisting, leaving. If this is how Max feels every time he does it, Punk almost feels sorry. Almost.Pushing in closer just isn’t possible but Punk does it anyway, plastering himself along Max’s front until he can feel every inch of him, recapturing Max’s mouth as he lines their cocks up and starts to grind them together.Max sighs again, and Punk smiles. Gotcha. Can’t pull away from that can you?But Max does. ‘Punk,’ he whines as Punk grabs his jaw and tries to get him back again. ‘No, seriously Punk– I need to shower.’They both do to be honest, Max makes a good point. The smell of sweat and diner food and death rolled over twice clings to their skin all over. But Punk just can’t bring himself to care. He steals another kiss and waits until Max is leaning into it to pull away. ‘You don’t. You’re fine. Perfect.’Max groans – or maybe it’s just a moan – and hides his face in the juncture between Punk’s shoulder and collarbone. It leaves the back of his neck exposed. Punk ducks his head, bites at it.‘Holy–’ Max starts. Punk tuts in sympathy, planting a kiss over the bitten skin to make it better.Max jolts, like that one bit of tenderness was a step too far. He gets his hands on Punk’s shoulders and pushes him an arm’s length away. Punk feels a bit like a rabid dog, held back by a stick. For some reason the thought just makes him push harder against Max’s hands.‘No.’ Max says, it sounds like he’s saying the words to himself rather than Punk. ‘No I can’t– I need–’Punk stops pushing against Max’s hands, and reaches up to cover them with his own instead. But that just seems to freak Max out more. His eyes widen like he’s a comic book character, terrified of the big bad monster. Punk doesn’t get it. It’s like every time Punk does something even slightly nice Max gets freaked out.He squeezes Max’s wrists – an attempt at reassurance – and then drops his hands. ‘I need one too.’It’s an offering. And Max accepts, nodding slightly. He takes one hand off of Punk to reach over and open the bathroom door. Then he’s sliding along the wall like he doesn’t trust Punk not to stab him in the back if he turns away from him.Punk doesn’t follow him in straight away. From outside, he can hear Max stripping off, his clothes hitting the ground as he turns on the shower. When he looks inside, he can see the muscles in Max’s back shift as he adjusts the settings, as he turns his face up to the water. The bruises on his neck gleam in the artificial light. Punk looks away, only to be met with the mess of the room. The littered floor, their unmade bed, the planner on the wall. He swallows and retreats to the bathroom.Max stays turned to the wall when Punk enters, even though he must hear the door click shut behind him. Punk suddenly feels like he’s intruding. Like he’s invited himself somewhere Max doesn’t need or want him. It doesn’t sit well. Something is off here. Max is off somehow.Punk delays getting undressed, unlacing his sneakers fully when he’d usually just kick them off. Then the shirt comes off – too quick. He takes longer with his belt and jeans, making sure to unloop the leather fully before he pulls his pants down. It’s funny, two minutes ago all he could think about was getting his hands on Max. That’s all he can really think about now still. And yet here he is, afraid to get in the shower. Afraid of what he might find in there when he does.But he can only procrastinate so long. Naked now and shivering, despite the condensation already fogging up the room (Max likes it hot), Punk steps in behind him. Another moment passes, an echo of the one out in the room. That moment right before you close the gap, when you can’t remember how to move.And then you do anyway. Punk wraps himself around Max’s back and he forgets what he was worrying about. Max tilts right back into him, hot and wet as Punk hooks his chin over his shoulder. Max’s head falls back against him, displaying those bruises again, and Punk reaches up to trace them. It’s Max’s turn to shiver. Punk feels his whole body tense against him.‘What is it?’ The same question from the diner, only this time his odds of getting an honest answer are much more favourable. Call that seduction.Max doesn’t show any sign of hearing him though. He turns his face in to meet Punk’s neck and nips at him. Getting him back. Punk pretends not to notice the slight flick of a tongue that comes out to soothe the skin, to lick up blood that hasn’t been spilt.‘Max,’ he tries again, wrapping an arm across Max’s chest to anchor him to him. ‘What is it?’Max ducks his head in response, retracting from Punk to fold in on himself, but Punk’s hold on him doesn’t let him get very far. With his free hand, Punk pulls at Max’s shoulder and turns him around. Max goes with him easy enough, but he refuses to meet Punk’s eyes.‘Maxwell.’There’s a mumble that Punk can distinguish under the rush of the shower. He opens his mouth to ask Max to repeat himself, but Max knows what he’s going to say and beats him to it. ‘Why aren’t you angry?’And that– Punk should be angry. He’s lost his title shot, his reputation, his career maybe. In nine short days, Punk has lost everything he has worked so hard for over the past year. His entire life gone, and it is Max’s fault. And yet he just can’t care.He cared yesterday, when he was strung out and vibrating just at the thought of tearing Max’s throat out. But now he thinks maybe he didn’t care all that much then either. Or maybe he cared in a different way. Because the thing is, Punk can’t be angry at Max right now. And he’s not even sure why.He doesn’t have an answer for Max and Max still won’t look at him, so Punk does the looking for both of them. He lets his eyes run rampant, devouring every inch of Max he can see. His hair flattened under the pulse of the shower. His chest flushed red with the heat. His cock half hard but undemanding between his legs. The sharp tan lines just below it, on his upper thighs, matching the lines at his neck and arms.Max’s arms. In the crook of Max’s left arm, right at the elbow, an ugly looking bruise is just starting to fade from purple to green. It’s big, taking up nearly the entire bend of the limb. Punk twists the arm so that Max’s inner elbow faces out towards him. Hot skin to hot skin: one hand high on the bicep, the other down at his forearm.Max lets him. Only whimpering like a kicked dog when Punk glances at him to check if he’s okay. He thinks those might be tears on his cheeks, but it’s hard to tell with the shower running over them.Slowly, trying not to spook him, Punk brings the arm up to eye level. This close Punk can see the veins beneath the bruise, pressing up to the surface like Max’s blood is trying to flee his overheated body. Trying to escape and find its way to Punk. This close too, Punk notices two little red dots. A vampiric puncture wound. Or the leftover traces of a needle. So that’s how Max did it. Neat, but not too neat. He must have missed on the first go around. Had to try again.Punk imagines Max’s hands shaking, trying to slide the needle home happily but those strong emotions of his getting the better of him. Was it trepidation or excitement? Or a little bit of both?For a second, Punk isn’t sure which shower he’s standing in. There is blood beneath his hands, a rag, bleach. Everything is red, crimson red, and he doesn’t want to disturb the beautiful picture Maxwell has painted for him. But he has to. He has to.Punk runs his thumb across the tender healing skin on Max’s arm and sucks air in through his mouth. Somewhere above Punk’s bent head, Max echoes him. In – no out. Maybe there is for Max, but Punk loses his exhale against skin and water, meeting the inside of Max’s elbow with his mouth.It’s not quite a kiss. There’s no press of lips, no giggly foreplay before the big guns are brought out. Punk ducks down, mouth already open, and laps at the small holes in Max’s skin with his tongue. Exploring. Prodding. Exalting in the wound Max gave himself for Punk.Max stumbles. If it wasn’t for the hold Punk has on his arm right now, Punk is sure he would sink to the ground. The sound he makes is just as dramatic though. A mess of a moan, sometimes breathy, sometimes deeply guttural. Not something someone would make consciously.Max’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, so totally out of it. Punk grins and nips at the paper thin skin beneath his mouth. Max yelps, his elbow bending reflexively to escape Punk’s teeth. He snaps his eyes open, glaring at Punk, betrayed. Punk knows he doesn’t mean it. Max is no longer only half hard where he’s pressed against Punk’s thigh.‘You did such a good job bleeding for me, Maxwell.’ Punk rubs his thumb over the bruised area in punctuation.Max shudders, goosebumps raising on the flesh beneath Punk’s hands despite the warmth of the shower and the body next to him. He lets Punk straighten his arm out again, watches as Punk brings his head back down to the small wounds and sucks at them, as if he’s trying to bleed Max dry. To taste his blood in his mouth and swallow it whole. But Max disappoints. Punk’s tongue is not met by the iron tang of his blood but by the salt of his sweat.He thinks about what it takes to bleed yourself for someone. To purposefully spill your insides out and hold them up to them for inspection. That’s devotion: boundless, unconditional.Fuck. Punk bites down, harder this time, and is rewarded with, if not broken skin, another yell from Max. He’s struggling to stand now, needing Punk to help direct him to the wall as he slips backwards. He leans against it, chest heaving with every pant, murmuring something that sounds a lot like Punk’s name over and over again. Punk does kiss Max’s skin this time. And then he can’t stop, chasing up Max’s arm to his shoulder, then along his collarbone to his neck, pausing at the sweet dark circle around Max’s throat, before rising to finally find Max’s waiting mouth.Max grabs for him as soon as their lips touch. Hands flying to his arms, right hand falling down to Punk’s left elbow. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing until Max has the bandage there almost fully unwrapped. Punk leans back – the tiniest distance and yet something in his chest heaves at it – and helps remove the thing. Once off, Max dumps it unceremoniously on the floor outside, gauze meeting tile with a wet splash.Neither of them hear it.Max has Punk’s arm up now (held out to the side like someone only bothered to nail one hand to the cross) and studies the cut Punk made across the lower part of his bicep. It’s a clean sweep splitting the old scar there – much smoother than that first time, with the dull vegetable knife – and Max traces the puffy flesh surrounding it, practically reverent. His mouth parts in what can only be described as awe.Punk swallows a lump in his throat and waits for Max to touch him, to delve inside. He doesn’t. Just keeps orbiting the open wound with his fingers, too light to hurt.‘Like this,’ Punk tells him, and places a hand over Max’s, pressing his thumb into Punk’s wound. It fucking hurts, his head falling back as something electric runs up his spine. Shards of glass dance beneath the skin of his elbow. He feels alive.‘Fuck,’ Max breathes, a break in his – until now – unbroken litany of Punk’s name. Punk follows Max’s gaze back down to his arm and dimly notes that he’s started bleeding. It’s weird, he can feel the heat of it as it seeps out of the cut and across his arm, but it feels like it’s happening to someone else. Distant. He’s too busy burning.The spray of the shower washes the blood away quickly, but more of the stuff keeps turning up to replace it. Max meets his eyes for a second, pupils blown wide as he checks for permission. He must find it on Punk’s face because he stoops slightly to press his mouth to it. To fuck– To taste Punk’s blood.It’s too much. When Max raises his head to look up at him his mouth is smeared red, messy lipstick. Punk takes him by the neck and pushes him against the wall, out of the water. Too gentle probably, but how can he risk breaking such a pretty thing? Risk being left here alone.‘Good boy,’ he whispers along Max’s jaw, resisting the urge to lick himself from Max’s mouth. ‘How do I taste?’He hovers his hand against Max’s erection, waiting for a response. Max is having difficulty finding one, too busy trying to buck up into Punk’s hand, demanding friction. But he hasn’t earned it yet.‘How do I taste?’And this time Max opens his eyes to stare into Punk’s, two pairs of black holes looking at each other, sucking one another in, hurtling towards a collision.‘Like you,’ Max finally settles on.That’ll have to be enough. Punk can deny Max for as long as he likes, but he’s never been very good at denying himself.He makes short work of Max in the end. He’s hard when he touches him and evidently not in the mindset to last. Punk’s hard too, long before Max goes to his knees, and it’s a relief when his mouth wraps around him, warm just like everything else in this room. Evidence of another body.He thinks of the last shower he stood in. How Max had filled it, how it was so marked by his absence. Negative space. He cups Max’s cheek with his palm and tells him the truth: ‘I’m so glad I found you.’Max leaves a red ring on his cock when he pulls off. Punk watches it wash away in the shower’s stream as Max stands up and rejoins him. Then Max is kissing him, spilling his blood and come into his own mouth and they sway there, sharing Punk between their tongues.
—
The days melt into each other. Punk wakes up the next morning with Max in his arms. The next morning, the same thing. And the next. And the next. And the next.Overnight the room becomes tidy and neat, and Punk is informed at length that everything has its own spot. Woe betide anyone who doesn’t put something back where it belongs. Punk pictures Max getting up in the middle of the night, extracting himself from Punk to run around like a madman and purge the room of all the trash. It’s unfortunate that the thought makes him smile.But it’s hard to shut it down when he sees the same expression reflected on Max’s face when he thinks Punk isn’t looking. It’s there pulling at the corner of his mouth even as he shakes his head at Punk grabbing a second pack of diet Pepsi in the store (it was on sale, that’s just smart budgeting). And there breaking open his face as he turns to stare at the wall wide-eyed while Punk talks to the idiot at reception, flashing his Drug Free tattoos in the guy’s face when he asks if he could spare a light. And there again thirty minutes later, smaller this time but sharper, ducking his head, Punk plastered to his back as he fucks up into him – Want to invite your friend up? Always accompanied with a blush, high on his cheeks. Always so easy to earn, or maybe just easily given.There are moments when Max isn’t so easy too. Or maybe just not easy to read. Like when he goes down to the pool for what Punk can only assume is a session of obsessively scrolling through Twitter. Punk elects to stay upstairs instead, do some tidying of his own. When Max comes back his eyes immediately fly to the blank wall above their bed, something in his expression shuttering. But he doesn’t take the planners out of the trash can, even if that isn’t their rightful place. Punk takes that as a win.But he freezes up a few days later too. He’s lying with his head pillowed on Punk’s chest, tracing the tattoos there in a dumb post-sex haze. Punk looks down at him and he doesn’t look real, too perfect, almost angelic. It’s not that Max is suddenly a good guy – Punk knows better than anyone he isn’t – but it’s like they’ve found an equilibrium. Like they’ve pushed each other into the truest versions of themselves and now they can only fit with each other. Maybe that makes Punk a bad guy. He can’t find it in himself to care. Can’t believe he ever really did. All he can care about right now is this. Whether this is real.The moment is so lovely, but Punk’s already burst it for himself, he might as well burst it for Max too. He asks when he plans to go back.‘Go back?’ Max echoes, like he genuinely hadn’t thought about it. Punk thinks about the planners crumpled in the trash only a few feet away. No I guess you didn’t. He imagines wrapping his hands around Max’s neck and shaking him back and forth until he’s limp, throttled and lifeless.He exhales and curls his fingers around the tattoo on Max’s ribs instead.The days melt into each other and everything is so almost perfect. Almost what I wanted. But Max is holding something back. They sleep together a lot and there’s no complaints there. All the violent, ugly, vulnerable things they do to each other during sex and none of it raises an issue.It’s the smaller moments, the things Punk does in passing. A kiss in the doorway on the rare occasion one of them leaves to do something on their own. Grazing Max’s hand in the queue for the checkout. Asking him to go out to eat. The kind of stuff Punk thought Max would want, and he shies away from it like it’s a spotlight he can’t bear to have on him.Something’s not right, but Punk doesn’t know how to go about bringing it up. It’s not them. They don’t talk about that stuff. They have barely spoken about why they’re here in the first place, officially dead and hiding out in a shitty motel room, with a broken air conditioner and the stink of chlorine from the pool.And the days melt into each other.Neither of them shower alone. They don’t acknowledge it, leave it an unspoken rule, but when one of them gets up in the morning the other one does too and they brave the bathroom together. There’s probably something very wrong with them. Again, Punk doesn’t know how to care.They don’t talk about why they’re here, officially dead and hiding out in a shitty motel room, except to tease each other about it.‘I can’t believe you thought you were achieving anything with that press conference.’To which Punk responds: ‘I can’t believe you trusted Caster with our texts.’To which Max throws back: ‘I can’t believe you didn’t even notice they were edited.’ Which brings Punk up short.Max, seeing him stumped, bursts out laughing. ‘You didn’t even read them! Of course not, why would you? Okay here’s a little tip for the next time Punk: if someone’s executing a smear campaign against you, fucking read the evidence they’re putting out there. Yeah, they were edited. What? Was I supposed to leave your stupid little happy birthday text in there like a chump? Fuck that, I needed you to be the bad guy.’Punk grins at that. A week after their match and the night that followed it, and somehow Punk had found out it was Max’s birthday. The Ides of March. Because of course it would be. He wasn’t about to let that pass without a comment.Another time, sitting on their bed, Max rewrapping Punk’s arm, fussing about infection and cleanliness, and for some reason Punk thinks of Larry, sniffing around at the bathroom door.He watches Max wipe the cut on his arm with disinfectant and talks to distract himself from the sting. ‘I can’t believe you left all that blood hanging around where Larry could get at it.’Max doesn’t so much as look up at him. ‘Your gremlin was fine Punk, don’t worry.’‘He could have died!’ Max looks up at him and smiles when he realises Punk is joking. That smile again. Punk doesn’t even register he’s reaching out, before Max is leaning his cheek slightly into his hand. Then in the next instance he’s pulling away, smile gone. Punk distracts himself from the sting of that too: ‘Nah, I’m sure Joe is taking good care of him.’Max doesn’t reply, but his shoulders hunch up, a guilty look in his eye. Later, when Punk walks up behind him by the pool, he catches Max looking at a photo of Piper. The look on Max’s face is indescribable. Something cleaved right in two. Punk doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there is anything to say. He turns around instead, gives Max his space.And finds himself outside the local library. He was always going to end up here, sooner or later, wasn’t he? Time was leading him back to it. Inside, he sits at a squashed little desk and stares at the screen in front of him for something close to an hour. It’s a long time before he touches the keys. It’s good to get it all out.When he returns to the room, Max is already curled up asleep, his back to the door. He stirs when Punk lies down next to him, reaching out a hand to pull him in closer. There’s a soft pressure on Punk’s shoulder and when he looks back, he realises Max has kissed it. Just like he did all those months ago during their first match in Chicago.Punk falls asleep thinking about the ring, the roar of the crowd, Max nearby, smiling at him. It’s not something he’s seen before. It’s maybe something he’d like to. It’s a good dream, a nice one, and Punk almost tricks himself into thinking there’s nothing wrong with him. With them. Because the days melt into each other, but Max is always there, waiting for him when he wakes up.Until he isn’t.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Jun. 2nd. Anon. (7.58 am) – AND ON THE THIRD DAY… (HOW TO COME BACK TO LIFE, LITERALLY, FIGURATIVELY, SPIRITUALLY)

‘Mysteries of life, why you meet people when you do.’ Wrote that a long time ago didn’t I? This wasn’t a mystery though, this wasn’t coincidence. Sometimes you meet people because you made them them, and then in return they make you you. Or remake you, I guess. Remind you how to be you. Not that I’d forgotten, just that I let myself care about stupid stuff like what you losers think about me. No disrespect, but you don’t know me and you never will! (I say that, but the person I’m writing this about figured me out through some tapes and some studious reading so what do I know? I’m just an old man trying to make it in the big city.)

Funny how one person can force their way into your life and scream you back to life. Feels like one day I was walking around in zombie mode, the next I was staring myself in the eye. But it wasn’t me I was looking at. Always thought that bit about the mirror just sounded cool, now I wake up every morning and don’t even have to leave the bed to see myself. I just look over and there I am, snoring next to me.

You’re gonna hate me when you read this (but then when you say you hate me we both know what that really means don’t we? ‘Love your hate’ and all that) but you did it, you made me stop giving a shit about what people think again. You brought me back. Maybe not the way you wanted – it’s been twenty years, people change, people get OLD – but you did it. Strange how your selfish need to make me myself in front of them, to show them that YOURE what I needed to come back, ended up being pretty unselfish. I could have killed you when this all started, you probably deserved it. Now I think this is probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. But maybe murder would still be justified. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe you can’t have one without the other. Romance is violent. So it goes.

I digress. Hope all you kids are watching the news and staying up to date on current affairs. It only took a decade but I finally made the headlines (whooopeeee!) check that off the bucket list. Apologies for kicking it (the bucket that is) the second time. But I’m sure you all understand. And if you don’t I dont’ give a shit. Cry me a river, maybe it can water my plants while I’m away. I’ve already got an emotional mess of my own now and he’s a full time commitment so you can all take your problems with me and shove them up your…

Can confirm cutting into your arm hurts just as much at forty-three as it did at thirty-four. Again: don’t try this at home. unless of course youre lucky like me and have someone to lick up your messes for you.

Never knew how annoying I was until I had my words repeated back at me. Never knew how awful I was until I had the same things done to me. Never knew how lonely I was until I saw it on you. But that’s what this is isn’t it? Look in the mirror and what do you see? I see you and I know you see me too. What have we done to each other, what are you thinking? Exactly what you are. Always.
 
Heart patched and bloody I remain
 
XxX

—

Maxwell Jacob Friedman – One Day Gone (Again)
There’s something wrong with Punk. Ever since he interrupted Max’s nap by the pool– No. Ever since he let go of Max’s throat the day before – forehead wrinkled, eyes gleaming, unable to finish the job – he’s been off. Maybe he’s finally snapped, lost his marbles, gone mad. Or maybe Max has finally broken him.It’s funny. Breaking Punk was all Max wanted for so long and now that he’s done it he can’t stand it. Punk is unbearable now. He always has been, but this is an entirely new level. His eyes won’t stop searching for Max’s. By the pool, at the diner, back in the room; trying to look at him, to check on him.If Max didn’t know any better he’d call it concern. But Punk doesn’t get concerned. He certainly doesn’t get concerned about Max.Furthermore, even if he is concerned – which is impossible, by the way – there’s no reason for him to be. Max is fine. Better than fine: perfect. He’s achieved exactly what he set out to achieve, even if the way it happened wasn’t exactly how he planned it. But hey, that’s why you leave yourself some wriggle room in the old schedule. Means you can move things around, adapt, overcome. Because above all else, Max is a results-oriented person. It doesn’t matter how he gets there, as long as he wins.And he has won. He got what he wanted. Punk isn’t getting that title, he’s literal miles away from it. Instead he’s where he really wants to be, here with Max. Because Max is the only person who can match him. So Max has won.
Hasn’t he?
It’s– Look, Max isn’t trying to poke holes where there are none. But Punk isn’t– He’s just not doing what he should–
Why isn’t he trying to kill me?
There are moments when it looks like he might. When Max can relax around him because Punk is playing himself perfectly. The self Max wants him to be: covered in blood, eyes burning. Dangerous, mean, awful.That’s the guy who’s waiting for Max in his room that first evening. The guy who follows Max into the shower the next morning. And thank fuck for that. Max doesn’t know what he would have done, if Punk hadn’t joined him in there. The real Punk. Or well, the real one that Max knows what to do with.Out in the hall, at breakfast, at the pool – that had been someone else entirely. Yeah, they’d argued but it had been too– Well, too soft. Max spends the morning waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for CM Punk to emerge and shatter him to pieces. To take Max’s story and expose all its weaknesses. To say: This didn’t work, you’re going to get caught out on this, how dare you copy me only to do a shitty job at it?But Punk says none of that. Well, duh. He can’t say any of that because it isn’t true. There are no weaknesses in Max’s story. He killed himself perfectly. Better than Punk did. (I hope you like my version better.) If anything, the only liability right now is Punk. He shouldn’t be here. Him killing himself jeopardises the whole thing. Punk can’t say anything to that.The problem is, Punk doesn’t say anything. Anything of consequence, that is. He says plenty of other mind-numbing bullshit. The guy really loves the sound of his own voice. But that’s okay, Max was getting bored of the silence here anyway, and Punk’s voice isn't as grating as it once was either.Still, Max feels just slightly off that whole first morning. By the time Punk’s crowding him back at the motel, Max can’t think straight. Can barely breathe. Who is the guy across from him right now? This isn’t the nice guy he left behind. But it’s not the other guy either, is it?Max can’t tell. He’s too close to it. Quite literally, too close. One second Punk is an arm’s breadth away, then a nose, then he’s licking into Max’s mouth like the only air worth breathing is coming from Max’s lungs and it’s–Look, Max understands he’s a catch. All of Long Island is tripping over themselves for him, and if the rest of America could pull their heads out of their assholes for one minute they would be too. But it’s still– It’s still Punk is the thing. Max can try but he’s never going to be able to compute that one. He should have paid more attention during math because the numbers just won’t add up.So yeah, when Punk presses in close and tangles them up in each other it feels like the first time again. As if they hadn’t just done this the day before. But Max can’t think about the day before. He can’t think at all.Pushing Punk off is hard. Maybe one of the hardest things he’s ever done. How many people can say they’ve got their childhood hero plastered to them, desperate to get in their pants, desperate for them? The average person wouldn’t be able to resist. But Max has never been average.But when he has Punk at arm’s length – after Punk bites at him and then kisses it better, after the whole of Max’s body has lit up like a candle wick racing towards incineration, annihilation, death – he can look at Punk.His eyes are glistening, dark and wild, mouth panting just slightly. Max thinks of an old clip, Ring of Honor days, Punk crawling back stage, covered in blood, delirious, euphoric. The camera clung to him for minutes as he staggered along a hotel corridor, waiting for him to speak. He’d cut his promo like that: wild-eyed, grinning, hysterical as the blood dried on his face. That’s how Punk looks now, minus the blood. And Max knows that guy, has met him before. Right here in Orlando, Punk wearing Max’s ring, the gleam of it blinding as it sped towards his face. He knows what to do with this Punk.So he lets Punk follow him into the shower. And if he’s still unsteady while he waits for Punk to come in after him, if his heart is in his throat as he undresses and steps under the water with his back to Punk, then that’s alright. Because it’s a familiar feeling. The kind of feeling you get in the ring when you’re not quite sure when your opponent is going to turn on you. Much better than not knowing if they’re going to turn at all.And then Punk’s there at his back, spinning Max around, sucking at his needle tracks, biting, kissing, whispering terrible, terrible, terribly perfect things. And Max can think again. Or, rather he doesn’t have to think anymore, because this bit is instinctive. Needing Punk is second nature to him, a base mode to fall back on. Max can reach out and take and take all that he can get, because no matter who this is in the moment, it’s always Punk. He’ll always want him more than should be possible. And Punk will always give him more than he should be able to. It’s moments like this, when they’re at each other’s throats, that Max feels like he knows Punk better than he does himself. So when it’s over and Punk is bright and sharp in his mouth, Max feels better. Choking on Punk – on his spit, his blood, his cock – Max breathes easier than he has all week.But they have to leave the shower eventually. Max is feeling too good for his bubble to burst immediately. He stays close to Punk, reasoning if he doesn’t let him out of his sight, out of his grip, then he won’t miss when he changes again. When he becomes someone different. When he decides he actually is mad, that Max does deserve to die. Or worse, when he starts doing it again, looking at Max like they’re actually–Punk lets him cling. He rolls his eyes when he catches Max looking at him in the mirror as they’re drying off. Max glares back. That gets a smile, but it’s not one of those small soft ones, those unbearably bright painful ones. This is an older smile, the kind Punk’s been pointing at him since they first got in the ring together. Almost a laugh, fond, like he can’t help but find Max funny. That’s alright. Max can live with that. He is funny.Punk tilts his head towards the bed like a question as he digs out the TV remote from the couch. Max nods and follows his lead. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t stress, just sits next to Punk on the bed and watches daytime TV. And when halfway through some cooking show, Punk glances over, one eyebrow raised, Max doesn’t panic then either. He’s too tired for that. He just goes, scooting in closer to Punk, until their shoulders and thighs are pressed together. Warm.When they go to sleep that night, Punk wraps around him immediately, no hesitation. Arm curled tight around Max’s torso, a snare, keeping him in place. Max thinks it’s completely unnecessary: it’s not him who’s in danger of leaving.But maybe it is.He feels Punk’s breath sync up with his, against his back, and knows that if he were a bit more awake he would be freaking right now. Somewhere between the bathroom and watching TV and going to bed, Punk has switched over again. Become that someone else again. Not the fake nice guy, not the old Punk. But someone who acts like he wants Max close, wants Max to stay, wants Max. Max was with him the whole time, focused on him the whole time, and somehow he missed the change. Maybe there was none. Maybe Punk had been like this the entire time.Max fakes sleep again that night. It feels like if he closes his eyes he won’t wake up again. Or that this will all disappear. He doesn’t know if he can stay here, feeling like this. If he can stand to let himself believe, even for a moment, that Punk might think about Max as much as Max thinks about him. That he missed Max the same amount. That he worried. That he cares.The arm thrown over his ribs is like an anchor, keeping him that bit more grounded in his body while weighing heavily on him. Suffocating. As if it’s compressing his lungs. And yet Max is aware of his lungs, of his breath, in a way he hasn’t been all week. He lies there on the mattress which he’s only now realising is too lumpy to possibly sleep on, and counts Punk’s breaths against his back.Having Punk here has woken him up. Max doesn’t know what he was doing for the past week, who was living here in this pigsty, because it wasn’t him. The cracking paint, the filthy carpets, the mountains of trash. Max despises anything less than four star accommodation. What possessed him to stop here? But Max knows the answer to that. Knows it’s a who not a what that crawled into his brain and made the choice for him. He shouldn’t have let it happen, should have resisted. Punk wouldn’t have been able to find him if he had. And that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? Not to be found.Punk’s hand spasms against his chest like he’s trying to reach for something in his sleep. Max covers it with his own hand, flattening Punk’s to his chest, and squints at the dark shadows of Punk’s fingers peeking through his own. There’s no light so he can’t see them, but Max doesn’t need light to know what tattoos lie there. Drug. He squeezes Punk’s hand lightly so as not to wake him, and then lifts his arm off of him.Max needs to stop thinking. Do something.It doesn’t take long to stuff all the shit scattered around the room into a trash bag. It’s only one week’s worth of stuff, messy for Max’s standards but compared to anyone else the room is practically pristine already. It really doesn’t take long to put everything back in order. Only a couple of hours.Max feels calmer once he’s finished. Cleaner. Like he can think now that he doesn’t run the risk of stepping on a reminder of his own failures every time he moves.He crawls back into bed and stares up at the ceiling. Punk burning beside him. They don’t do this: spend the night together. That time at Max’s was supposed to be a one-off. A way to lull Punk into a false sense of security before Max pulled the rug out from under him. A way to test Punk, see if he’d actually stay. Max doesn’t have any excuse for this now. No excuse for last night either. He can’t stay. He shouldn’t. If he stays then Punk will know. Know Max has no excuse for this other than wanting to be here. And Max can’t let him know that. Punk will use it against him. Won’t he?A noise breaks through the night’s silence, soft and high. It’s Punk, Max realises, whining like his mutt of a dog. He’s rolled over to face Max again, still asleep but barely. His hand is doing that thing again. Arm stretched out, fingers opening and closing, searching for something. In the grey light his face has less lines, his eyebrows drawn together earnestly, his hair fluffy and gel free where it’s crushed against the pillow. Max feels nauseous. Punk looks so young.He turns onto his side to face Punk, watches his hand flex in the empty space between them. It’s the other hand now. Free. Max lets it fret this time, reverting to his back and staring at the ceiling.‘Max?’ Punk’s voice is groggy with sleep. Maybe if Max doesn’t respond he’ll fall back asleep. No such luck, because Punk can’t let Max have anything. Not even a moment’s peace at five a.m. ‘Max?’ Punk repeats himself.Max turns his head to look at him and that’s all the permission Punk seems to need before he’s pulling Max closer. Max goes. When it’s Punk he has no other choice.‘Can’t sleep,’ he mutters, because Punk’s obviously fishing for an answer.Punk tuts sympathetically at him. The kind of noise he makes when they’re tearing at each other’s skin. I know it hurts, just bear with it a bit longer. The thing is it’s never the pain that Max can’t bear. Just Punk’s attention. ‘I’m sorry.’‘What?’ It comes out pathetic. Small. Broken. There is so much Punk should be apologising for and not much he actually would.‘I’m sorry I took so long.’Max’s heart stops, his chest seizing up, a black hole filled with pain. This is it. Punk’s finally going to do it. Kill him. ‘What?’Punk jostles him closer, bringing Max back onto his side until their noses are practically touching. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to find you. It’s not fun is it? Sitting around with your own thoughts in a room like this.’‘Was it like this the first time you did it?’ It’s the only thing he can think to say, too busy waiting for Punk to move. To attack.Punk hums, a quiet vibration in the dark. Then there’s the sound of sheets shifting and Punk’s weight is suddenly settling on top of Max.This is it. Max closes his eyes, relief washing through his veins. Their whole weird act makes sense now. Punk was trying to give him a nice day before he took him out back to shoot him. That’s fine, that almost makes sense – if you run it through Punk’s old man logic. It makes more sense than the alternative anyway, so Max is fine with it. Welcomes it even, tilting his chin up so that Punk can get a good grip on his throat.But no grip comes. Warm hands cup Max’s face, and then Punk is kissing him. No tongue, no teeth, just the pressure of his lips. The way you kiss someone when you’re trying to comfort them.‘Not this part,’ he whispers between kisses, running his thumbs over Max’s cheeks.Even though he doesn’t want to, Max understands what Punk is saying. It shouldn’t be possible for his brain to switch tracks so fast, but when it’s Punk Max finds he can do most things. Anything. So he stops thinking about choking, about sleep, about blankness, and starts thinking about being alone. About sitting in a motel room, melting as you wait to be found. And you don’t want to be found. You need to stay gone. To make a point. To make things right. And it’s lonely and it’s miserable but it’s better than where you were before, so you can’t be found. But you will be.Max knows how some of that feels. But he never really thought about being found. He didn’t have that hanging over him. He didn’t have that to cling to. And no matter what Punk does to him now it can’t be as bad as whatever reduced Punk to a smear of himself before. Not quite dead, not quite alive. Whatever Punk does to him now, he won’t leave him in the in-between. This thing between them is more divisive than that.Punk hovers over him, two gleams of light trying to peer into Max’s eyes in the dark. Max squeezes his wrist – he understands. The hands on his face tighten, almost bruising. Max leans into it, is sure he’ll crumble apart when Punk lets go of him.Punk doesn’t let go.
—
Max isn’t paranoid. Punk is up to something. He just can’t figure out what.He didn’t kill him when he had the chance. In bed, in the shower, when he first appeared, anytime they’re alone together: Punk doesn’t kill him. Max is not an imbecile, he can put two and two together. Punk hasn’t killed him, ergo Punk isn’t trying to kill him. So what then?Max stews over it for nearly two weeks while Punk smiles at him and says words that would almost be nice if they came from anyone else’s mouth. As Punk throws out Max’s planners, his checklist with one last thing left to do on it. Deliberates on it while Punk lets him rewrap his arm dressing. Thinks about it when he watches Punk struggle and fail to take a shower by himself, and thinks about it some more when Punk lets Max take him by the hand and lead him into the bathroom and shower together. When Punk fucks him and sometimes instead of biting he just kisses. When they go to the store and instead of criticising Max he joins in when Max starts mocking other people.Two plus two equals four. There’s only one answer. There’s only one solution to this equation too: Punk is deliberately torturing him.It makes sense. Why kill Max just once if he can keep him alive and twist the knife over and over and over again.Punk came here to kill him. But he didn’t, he let go. So he must be gearing up for something worse. Maybe he’s trying to lull Max into a false sense of security. Max has never been able to keep just how much Punk means to him a secret. Just how much he wants Punk. Wants these last few days to have been what they felt like – something real.Max can’t stay here. He’s better than those stupid marks Punk fools week after week. He’s smarter than that. If Punk wants to play dirty, then by all means, Max won’t stop him. But Max isn’t going to hang around for the game.Or that’s what he keeps telling himself. And then Punk will do something else, something so very Punk, and Max will feel the corners of his mouth tick up and think: What’s the harm in just pretending for a bit?But there is harm, serious harm, the harm is the only thing that’s real here. Max can sit here and pretend that everything is fine and dandy, that Punk likes spending time with him, that he doesn’t want to see him dead for everything he’s done to him, that he loves him. But that’s how you get distracted, that’s how you get played. Max should know, from all games he’s rigged in the past.He’s just never been on the other side of it. Of course it would be Punk who makes him the sucker. Only Punk could reduce him to something so small, so pathetic, so like all the prey Max has chewed up and spat out behind him in the past. It almost makes him feel sorry for them. Almost.But Punk is messy, out of practice after all those years of playing the nice guy. All he has to do is ask one question and he’s shown his hand.‘When do you want to go back?’Everything falls into place. So that’s what Punk is doing. Punk wants to drag him back to life and humiliate him. Show the world that, no, Max is fine actually, just being dramatic. Nothing was actually wrong, he wasn’t in danger. Which is bullshit. Because something was wrong. Max was in danger. Just like he is now, teetering on the edge of trusting that Punk won’t leave. Which he will. Just as soon as he has the whole world’s beady little eyes bearing down on Max, scrutinising him, judging him for everything that he’s done, Punk will leave again. So Max was right all along, everything he’s done has been justified – but they won’t get that. Punk doesn’t get that. Only Max does.He needs to go. And still he stays.It’s too easy. Sleeping with Punk, laughing with Punk, trusting Punk. Too easy. Max is getting used to this, to the way it feels when Punk touches him just to touch him, not to hurt or bruise or bleed. The brush of Punk’s fingers over the tattoo on his ribs. The wet trail of Punk’s mouth against his neck, his chest, his thighs. The press of his skin against his back in the night. Sometimes Max even sleeps.It’s miserable. If Max lets himself fall for this, everything will be ruined. If he lets himself get talked into going back, Max will be ruined. He can’t do it. He won’t.And yet there’s not an inconsiderable part of him that wants to. That wants to do whatever Punk wants him to do, and more. So much more. Max is extra wary of that part. That’s where the danger lies, deep in the youngest softest parts of himself.He kicks that part down with regularly scheduled check-ins on the internet. It’s funny: that first week alone here Max couldn’t get himself to put his phone down. Now he has to force himself away from Punk to get time to scroll through Twitter.And it’s not as if there’s nothing of interest there. There is: they’re talking about him. Him and Punk. Max reads hundreds of idiots lay out their most unimaginative theories about serial killers and kidnappings and freak coincidences. It’s enough to make a guy sick, to be faced with this much stupidity. Is this what mankind has come to? A bunch of illiterate virgins typing away at their keyboards, uniformed and unintelligent? The answer is right in front of them. What happened to MJF? CM Punk killed him, that’s what. End of story. And then Punk killed himself or whatever, that bit’s not relevant. The rare few seem to understand this, but not enough to inspire any great faith in humanity. Not enough to make Max want to continue lurking.He makes himself do it anyway. Every evening he leaves the room and curls up with his phone on what’s now become his sun-lounger. Sometimes Punk joins him, but not often, and when he does they don’t talk. It gives him a good hour free to think mostly, so Max takes it.Because everyone has decided to be so boring, Max is less up to date on what the people think than he’d like to be. But there are a few things that jump out to him.Like how, since Punk left, the police have been using Max’s other friends to make appeals to the public. Posers, traitors, attention whores. Caster makes the most of it. He’s made TV appearances, done press conferences, even released a cringey rap track about Max (with all proceeds going to help further the search. As if.). And if that weren’t repulsive enough, he won’t stop posting photos of Piper.Piper, uncomfortably curled up on a disgusting old cushion. Piper, trying to lick herself but finding her privacy invaded by an obtrusive camera. Piper, eating out of her bowl, which obviously hasn’t been washed properly. Max can see smudges on its shiny surface. And worse, he can see the off-brand box of cat food on a shelf in the background. All those instructions he left and Caster still can’t get the right kibble. And yet he finds the time to gloat over the fact that Max left her with him.Piper. Piper. Max has been missing her in the abstract. A constant dull pang at the back of his head every time he lay down and there was no ball of fur to curl up on his chest, to purr at him in time with his heartbeat. Caster’s gallery of photos sharpens that pain, makes it acute.How could he leave her behind? How could he be so stupid? Of course Caster isn’t taking good care of her. What did he expect? But he couldn’t have left her with anyone else, or just abandon her at his apartment. Punk could have taken her. And then what?Neither of them deserve her. Neither of them know how to look after her. Only Max knows what she needs. He should have tried harder to fit her into his plan, find a way to bring her with him. The best part of him, and he left her to the mercy of idiots.When Punk brings up Larry it’s the final straw.‘He could have died!’ he says, and Max rolls his eyes. No, he couldn’t have. Max knows how to control a tiny rodent, thank you very much.But later when he opens up Twitter to see yet another photo of Caster clutching Piper to him – her claws digging into him, the caption another plea for information on Caster’s missing boyfriend – Max thinks: Larry couldn’t have died, but Piper might. Bad enough that Max isn’t there to care for her, now she’s being used as a prop in someone else’s false narrative.It’s like having the collar removed from around his neck. Suddenly Max can move freely, breathe easily, go where he wants. And where he wants to go is Long Island, to get his cat, and set the record straight.Punk wants him to go back? Fine. Caster and the world are praying for his return? Perfect. It’s not what he planned, not the story he set out to tell. But that story was derailed when Punk decided to inject his voice into it. Now everyone is trying to tell their own version. But Max will fix that. Max will take back the narrative. From Caster and Twitter and all the morons who can’t understand a basic story when it’s laid out in front of them. From Punk and his sickly sweet mouth, his honeyed lies, his searching hands. Max is going back to tell everyone the truth.But going means leaving again. Leaving Punk. Max just has to remind himself that it’s what Punk deserves: to be left again and again until he understands that he can’t fool Max. Not anymore. Max abandoned his faith in him long ago, when Punk abandoned him.See, Punk might mock him for always mimicking him, but even in a derivative artform you have to shake things up. Theme and variation. Because Max might be leaving, again, just like Punk did, again, but there’s one thing that separates them. A flaw in the reflection.Max is leaving, but he’s not going to come back to him. Not ever. He’s stopping this idiotic cycle. Because he’s better than that.
—
Caster answers the door on the seventh ring. The guy looks like he just rolled out of bed; clothes rumpled, face puffy, rubbing at red eyes. It takes him too long to open his eyes enough to recognise Max. Max doesn’t have that kind of time. He pushes past Caster and into his apartment, dumping the bag of cat food on the island before looking around.‘Where’s Piper?’Caster stands with the door still open, eyes wide, mouth gaping like he’s never seen another human being before. Max strides across the room and shuts the door before anyone has the chance to look in and see him walking around, very much alive and very much well.Or, well. He will be well, when he sees his cat.‘Where’s Piper?’ He’s slightly less patient this time, but it looks like a sharp tone is the only thing that’s going to get through Caster’s thick skull. He waves a hand in front of his face. ‘Hello?’Caster blinks like some kind of animated character that’s just been hit over the head with a mallet. It would be comical if Max wasn’t so worried that Caster had managed to kill Piper in the brief period since he last posted a photo of her online. He’s about to open his mouth to let Caster know just how much that better not be the case when Caster finally finds his tongue.‘You’re alive?’ There are tears in his eyes but he’s grinning too, like he can’t decide which emotion to fix on. It’s pathetic. Max curls up his nose and steps back into the room. Away from him.‘Uh, yes, Caster. Unless people have suddenly started rising from their graves and walking around I think it’s quite obvious that I’m alive.’This is when Max ought to give Caster a dressing down for messing with his narrative, for posting all that – frankly borderline homophobic – shit about them online, for baiting Punk with that poll. But Max decides he isn’t worth it. He’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, and besides. There’s really only one thing Max feels like doing right now and it doesn’t involve shouting.Piper isn’t in the main room from what he can see, so he heads for Caster’s bedroom. He needs to see her, hold her, maybe watch her chest rise and fall a few times. Then he’ll feel better. Then he’ll be able to put up with whatever questions Caster will undoubtedly throw at him.Caster follows Max to his room, lingering behind him, dumbstruck. That’s fine by Max. He doesn’t want to talk right now. Opening the door in the silence of the apartment makes it feel like a bigger deal than it is. The hinge squeals as it swings open slowly, a grating noise. Max shivers and steps into the room.There is no horror show, no dead cat. Just Piper, curled up asleep on one of the pillows. The day’s driving must be catching up with him, because Max has a hard time getting his legs to move towards her. He gets there eventually, perching on the side of the bed so as not to disturb her too much. He watches her for a second, watches her back expand and shrink under her fur: alive. A bit skinnier maybe – Caster definitely has not been giving her five regularly spaced meals a day – but alive.Suddenly she’s chirping as she comes awake and Max’s hand is there massaging the space between her ears. He watches it move, feels ten thousand miles away, feels completely rooted in right now.Piper nudges up into his hand and then she must smell that it’s Max because she’s getting up and creeping languidly into his lap. He blinks and holds her tighter than he maybe should, ignores the wetness under his eyes.‘I told you her nutrition needs minding. Look at her! She’s basically wasted away!’This would of course be when Caster finds his voice again. ‘Where were you? What happened? Are you okay? Where’s Punk? Did he do this to you?’ It all comes out in a rushed jumble and Max can only understand some of it.Max’s back is to him, which comes in useful when Max turns after a carefully counted ten seconds of traumatised silence and says, tears glinting in his eyes, lip trembling just the right amount: ‘Don’t make me relive it tonight.’Caster, the fucking mark, falls for it. ‘No, yeah. That makes sense.’ He mimes smacking his forehead. ‘I’ll um– Do you want me to do anything? Call the cops? Ambulance? Are you hurt?’Max shakes his head, resisting the urge to gesture at himself, at his body in all its whole and entire glory. No, he doesn’t need a fucking doctor. He needs Caster to give him and his cat some privacy.‘No cops. I just can’t– I can’t do it tonight.’ He looks up at Caster through clumped together eyelashes. He probably looks a lot like Caster does right now: open and vulnerable and unmoored. Good. Let Caster think Max is stooping to his level of emotional immaturity. Let him think they’re having a moment.He’ll need that tomorrow when he tells Caster all about what really went down.How Punk preyed on him, blackmailed him into going to Chicago, and then kidnapped him, only to fake his own death when the consequences of his actions started to catch up to him. Max will say it: it’s a pretty good story, considering the material Punk left him to work with. Max doesn’t have the energy to tell it tonight though. This kind of story requires very specific conditions, one of those being that he’s in a condition to tell it.Right now, he’s going to be honest, he feels like shit. Sixteen hours – that’s like a marathon in driving terms. No, he needs to keep this for tomorrow when he’ll be well rested and in peak form. The best he can do right now is this little pity-party performance. And it is the best pity-party going, if the way Caster is eating it up is anything to judge by. Anyone else would have collapsed the moment they got out of the car. But not Max. He’s in the midst of giving a Tony Award-worthy performance and he’s only getting started.‘Okay, no cops.’ Caster smiles encouragingly. ‘Anything I can do for you right now?’ He steps forwards, arms spread. ‘How about a cuddle?’Max has to force himself to stay seated and not launch himself across the room to strangle Caster. ‘I think I need to be alone right now. With Piper. To, you know… unpack it all.’Caster drops his arms, dejected and nods solemnly. ‘Yeah, of course. Feel free to um…’ Then he seems to think of something else and brightens. ‘I’m glad you knew you could come here. To crash, I mean, when you’re in trouble. My door’s always open for my… friends.’ He winks at that last bit but – Max will be damned – he actually looks genuine. It’s sickening.‘Thanks. I’m gonna–’ Max motions towards the bed, instead of making the gagging motion he wants to, and leans into the broken depressed look Caster’s been responding so well to.Caster turns to leave but Max calls him back. ‘Max?’ He keeps his voice small. Caster looks struck at hearing his own name. ‘You won’t tell anyone I’m here just yet, will you? Promise?’Caster pauses, like he actually has to think it over, and Max has a moment’s crisis. Has he misjudged his power here? Will Caster actually do whatever Max tells him to? Or has he just blown this entire thing for himself? But then Caster bends over, fucking bows, and puts on a weird accent: ‘As you wish.’Max wrinkles his nose. ‘What?’‘It’s from–’ Caster waves a hand. ‘Nevermind.’And then he’s gone. Max listens for a while, just to be sure. He’s exhausted, fighting sleep back through sheer force of will, but he won’t be able to rest properly without knowing he’s made the right call. So he sits very still on the bed for what feels like an hour and listens. Only moving to pet Piper as she purrs herself to sleep again, her little bird bones vibrating in his lap, in constant movement. If he concentrates hard enough Max thinks he can feel her heart beating.At some point he hears Caster in the next room on the phone to someone. Bowens, Max thinks, if the constant references to scissoring are anything to go off. Max spends the entire call with one hand twisted in the sheets beneath him as the other worries gently at the scruff of Piper’s neck. This is it. Caster will tell Bowens about him and then it’ll all be over. Because that’s how it works. When you have a partner you tell them everything. No hiding, no secrets, no lies. Right? Max wouldn’t know.He’d been so stupid to come back. Why couldn’t he have just packed his bags and booked it to some other shitty city in this stupid country? He couldn’t have gotten much worse than Florida anyway.But he had to come back for Piper. Piper, who nuzzles into his hand as he pets her, deep in sleep but somehow still knowing that Max is there.Caster’s voice picks up a bit in the other room and Max realises he’s apologising. Profusely. He only catches a few words, but what he hears is enough to relax him. Caster is cancelling plans. That’s all. He’s cancelling plans so that Bowens won’t come over here and find Max. Caster is doing just as Max told him to. The world feels right again. What’s a friendship, what’s a partnership, what’s love in the face of Max’s perfect manipulation? Nothing, that’s what.Max lays back, shifting Piper to her favourite spot on his chest, and closes his eyes. It’s a lot easier to sleep like this: alone, with no one to stab him in the back, or curl around it and whisper something awful in his ear.When Max opens his eyes in the morning, the first thing he sees is Caster’s face. He springs out of the bed, pulling the covers with him (it’s cold for June in Long Island), and has the pleasure of watching Caster startle awake, wide-eyed and disorientated. Serves the pervert right.‘What are you doing?’ Max demands.Caster looks at the mattress, then over at Max where he’s cocooned in the sheets. Piper brushes up against Max’s ankle and mews. Hungry.‘Uh, what does it look like? Trying to sleep. Why, what did you think I was doing?’ The last bit he punctuates with a suggestive eyebrow raise.‘And you couldn’t do that on your sofa because…?’ Max realises he’s still holding the duvet and flings it back towards the bed. He’s still fully clothed, except for his shoes, which seem to have disappeared during the night. He doesn’t remember getting under the covers either – another mystery.‘Oh that thing? Nah, I’m way too tall to fit on that. And before you start I know how much you like your modesty and all, but I didn’t want to disturb you and make you move. Didn’t want you to put your back out on my mean old couch.’ Caster pouts and then grins, like he’s just reinvented chivalry from first principles.Max has several things he would like to say to that. He bites them back and imagines putting his fist through Caster’s face instead. It’s a good mental image, takes some of his stress away.‘Thanks,’ he offers instead. Because that’s the part he needs to play now – the grateful friend in need.Friend. Ha. As if either of them really care about each other. Caster might be obsessed with him, but it’s all vanity. He just wants to steal a bit of Max’s spotlight. Max can’t fault him for that. Who wouldn’t do that, if they couldn’t get a spotlight of their own? Still, just because he can’t fault Caster doesn’t mean he has to like him.But he has to pretend like he does right now. So that Caster will buy into his story and back him up when the time comes. Max doesn’t have any evidence, so he’s going to need a witness. Caster is ideal because, while he probably won’t believe any of the shit Max will tell him, he won’t dispute it either. He’ll know that going along with Max will get cameras on him, and that’s all the encouragement he’ll need. Fucking attention whore.That’s how they spend the first half of the day: both of them acting like they like each other, like they have no ulterior motives, like they’re friends. It’s a nice change from being with Punk. At least with Caster Max knows they both know none of this is real. With Punk Max could never shake the feeling Punk expected him to believe they were really – there’s no other way to put it – in love.Caster makes them both breakfast, checking in with Max every five seconds to make sure he’ll eat what he’s cooking. He will. (Scrambled egg whites and low fat high protein yoghurt – they have their differences, but if there’s one thing they can agree on it’s the importance of good nutrition.)Max spends the whole meal waiting for Caster to ask him what happened, but Caster seems determined to talk about anything else. When Max eventually tries to bring it up himself, Caster shuts him down.‘Don’t. I know you’re not ready to open up yet, and that’s okay. You’ve been through a trauma. When you want to talk, I’ll hold space for you.’‘I want to talk now,’ Max gets out before he gets shushed.‘Just eat,’ Caster instructs, holding his fork up against Max’s mouth to shut him up. Max swipes it away, and resolves to tell him later. Caster will hear him out, whether he likes it or not.But when they finish eating and Max tries to talk again, Caster interrupts him, insisting they watch a movie.‘It’ll be good for you to just do nothing for a while.’Max wants to scream that nothing is all he’s been doing for a while, but he doesn’t. He counts to ten and sits down on the sofa while Caster loads up some weird pseudo-Shakespearean film from the eighties.‘Can’t believe you didn’t know Princess Bride.’ Caster shakes his head, as the blonde twink on screen mumbles the words as you wish for the eleventh time in under a minute.‘I don’t really watch anything but wrestling,’ Max admits and thinks of Punk. Thinks of the knowing look he gave Max when he told him the same thing. Thinks of Punk talking about watching back old promos on his LiveJournal.Caster gives him a pitying look. ‘That’s just sad, man.’Max shrugs. It really just depends where your priorities lie. Still, he can see how this could be nice. Sitting back with Piper asleep in his lap, switching his brain off as nonsense plays out on the screen in front of you. It’s almost… relaxing.It gets boring fast though. Max fidgets with his phone for a bit, but doesn’t really read anything. He needs to get Caster to listen to him. Make sure he gets his story perfectly straight now while it’s sharp in his brain. But everytime Max tries to say anything, Caster shushes him again with bullshit generic therapy speak. It’s hard to remember he needs to be nice to the guy when he’s this infuriating. Max curls his hands into fists and waits for the movie to be over.But when the movie ends Caster’s phone dings. A text from Bowens.‘Shit, I gotta go, Max. I cancelled on him last night and it’ll look suspicious if I don’t go today. He’s been worried about me ever since–’ He glances at Max. ‘Nevermind. You’ll be okay here right? I won’t be long.’No, Max will not be okay. He’s not okay right now. How is he supposed to feel okay when his plans keep getting derailed by absolute imbeciles? But Caster’s right. It’ll look suspicious if he suddenly starts cancelling on people all over the place. Max needs him to have an airtight alibi.‘Caster, I couldn’t give two shits. Do whatever, I don’t care.’So Caster goes. Max stays on the couch and fucks around on his phone for a while, still not reading what’s in front of him. He should focus. Catch up on what people have been saying. But there’s something about the apartment around him that keeps distracting him. Every now and then some noise or other will break through the dead quiet and Max will spend a few minutes looking around to find the source.He shouldn’t be this jumpy. It’s never anything big; neighbours’ voices, gurgling pipes, the walls settling. It’s just he hasn’t had to deal with silence in a long time. The last few weeks he’s always had someone to distract from it.It’s nothing he can’t conquer. Max will adjust, he’s great with change, he’ll get over it. And really, it’s not change at all. Just reverting back to the way things were before. Before Punk. Punk wasn’t there and then he was and now he’s not again. It’s nothing Max hasn’t dealt with before. He’ll adjust.Only that it’s hard to remember that there was a time before Punk. Because there wasn’t really. He’d always been in Max’s life in some form or other. For most of it he was just a collection of pixels on a screen. But still. He was there.But Max will adjust.He is adjusted. He’s so adjusted in fact, that he takes a shower – by himself because he’s not a freak like Punk who needs someone to hold their hand through it. It’s good to wash yesterday’s drive and the stink of Caster’s detergent off of him. It gives him something to do anyway.But when he’s done, dressed, hair drying in the air, he doesn’t know what to do next. In a horrific turn of events, Max finds himself wishing Caster were there. Not because he wants his sparkling company or anything, just that talking to him is the only task he needs to do right now. Other than that all he can do is wander aimlessly around the guy’s place, poking at dull object after dull object. Seriously, could Caster be more boring? What kind of a wrestler doesn’t have a home gym?The motel was better than this. At least there he could go outside. Sit by the pool, go to the store, put up with Punk when he was around.No. No, that was not better. Punk was tormenting him, trying to get in his head, drive him insane. Max is much better off where he is. Where he can control all the variables, make sure he makes his comeback the way he wants to. Not made a fool by anyone else. He just needs to shut off that train of thought, sit down, and get himself to work.He means to open Twitter. He really does! It’s just that he already has the tab open on his phone, right there asking to be read. And really, Twitter is a toxic feedback loop preying on people’s attention anyway. Why should he give it his, when this is right here?It’s research really. Fact checking if you want to get technical about things. Rereading Punk’s anonymous journal isn’t Max indulging himself, it’s making sure he got everything right. That he didn’t make the same mistakes Punk did. That he did it better than him.His browser takes a moment to reload in a new wifi zone, refreshing the page at the slowest pace known to mankind. (Naturally, Caster’s wifi is shit. Max shouldn’t have expected differently.)Max taps his foot against the floor, only realising he’s doing it when Piper stirs awake next to him on the couch and mewls at him. He apologises to her in soft whispers and tries to keep still.Punk’s journals always bring this out in him. Mostly it’s just the early stuff, the stuff he actually put his name on. Something about picturing Punk at Max’s age, scrambling around the indies, trying to make it big. The anger there, the drive… Reading the other journal is another thing altogether. Max was just a kid when he read the first journal. And even then it was a historical artefact. A record of his favourite wrestler’s early days. This second one? Max had been seventeen. He’d read along as it came out. If reading the first one made him want to be Punk, the second one made him want to meet him. Again, meet him again. Revisiting it now – Max will admit it – is kind of ironic. He never got to be that young Punk; he couldn’t bring him back. But he’s done everything that other guy did, seen everything through his eyes. Max died and emulated him and met him along the way too. He couldn’t get his childhood wish but he did get his teenage one. It sucks.It’s the best thing to ever happen to him.The worst fucking thing to happen to him is this fucking wifi, which will just not–The page loads in and Max can’t make sense of it for a second. This isn’t– He must have the wrong tab. He checks, but no. It’s apparently the right one. This stupid piece of crap browser made by shit for brains developers must be malfunctioning. Or someone hacked LiveJournal. Or this journal in particular. Or–Or Punk has updated it. After nine years. He’s updated it.As he said before, Max has been reading these journals since he was a kid. He knows them like the back of his hand. Knows them better than Punk does, probably. Probably knows Punk better than Punk does full stop. A lot can happen in nine years, but people don’t change. Not really. Not Punk. So when Max opens the latest entry to this anonymous journal that he’s known for nearly a decade belongs to Punk, he can tell it’s him from just the opening line. Because it’s an old line. Punk’s quoting himself, like the narcissist that he is.And it’s– Max won’t lie and say he’s not interested in whatever bullshit Punk has decided to say about this, about him. He is. He’ll never not be interested in what Punk has to say. It’s just that as he gets further and further into the entry it gets harder and harder to remember that this is all a lie. That it’s not real. That this is all a play from Punk.One thing Max always took for granted from the journals: it was the one place Punk could be genuine. As genuine as he got anyway. Because no one important read them. Not really. Just friends and fans. He could say whatever he wanted there, be whoever he wanted. Be himself. That’s the impression Max’s young brain came up with anyway. That the guy writing these words was the real CM Punk. The same guy who wasn’t afraid to spit the truth at lazy drunk crowds, who would raise his chin and bare his neck to the world because he was completely, honestly himself. And that made him better than everyone else.But this entry can’t be honest. Can’t be genuine. The things Punk says– The things Punk says to Max–Max’s heart thuds in his chest. The ugliest parts of him, the parts he tried to lock away long ago, latch onto every word. Young and naive and finally hearing everything they’ve ever wanted to, from the only person they ever wanted to hear it from. And Max can’t stop them.Because as much as Max wants to, as much as Max needs to, he can’t find the lie. What Punk has written about him – this sickly sweet love letter – it just reads true.Max doesn’t know–His heart is going to explode, is going to burst out of his ribcage and fuck up his pecs. It’s beating so loudly Piper seems to be able to hear it, waking again to frown at him from her cushion.Max left because Punk was lying to him. He was lying wasn’t he? All those soft touches, all those lovely words, they were all just an act. Weren’t they? Because if they were real, if it wasn’t an act, if Punk really was being himself, being honest, then Max doesn’t know what to do. Because he might just have fucked up the one thing he ever wanted in life and–And that’s not his heart. Hearts can’t beat that loudly. This sound is external, hand pounding against wood, steadily speeding up. There is someone knocking on the door.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Someone knocks on the door and Max allows himself ten seconds (the length of time it takes to inhale, hold, put down his phone, pet Piper, and exhale) to believe it’s Caster. Fucking imbecile probably just forgot his keys.But unfortunately, Max is too smart for that. He knows Caster took his keys because he made sure to watch each and every move Caster made before he left. Just to make sure he wasn’t trying to screw Max over. And besides, Max can put two and two together; he knows that isn’t Caster at the door.Also: Punk has started yelling out in the hall. So that’s a bit of a giveaway.‘Max!’ He’s no longer knocking – this is full on hammering at the door. Max hopes Caster’s neighbours are out. The good people of Long Island don’t need to be disturbed by a demented old fool in the middle of the day. ‘Max, I know you’re in there. Come on!’It’s hilarious how breathing techniques never work when you actually need them. Every therapist Max has ever had has gone on and on and on about the great benefits of conscious breathing, how it helps counteract the fight or flight reflex. Well Max has never been just one thing, fight or flight – his brain tends to go straight to fight and flight. Which sucks because when those two instincts meet they kind of leave you frozen for a minute. And then breathing, thinking, remaining conscious, become quite hard.So Max settles for sitting on the couch, staring at the door like the dumb good-for-nothing idiot that he is, listening as Punk continues to shout the apartment block down.‘Max, I swear to God! If you don’t let me in right now–’Max’s brain feels like jelly. He knows he’s thinking, but all his thoughts seem miles away. He can only see them through thick goop, they’re not going to reach him anytime soon. Only one is strong enough to swim through the useless sludge in his head and surface: How did he get here this fast?It’s as if Max reading his LiveJournal summoned him here. Rather than Punk’s own murderous bloodlust.‘Maxwell, open the fucking door this instant.’ The fight and flight tendencies cancel each other out and Max’s brain is eager to fill the void of indecision with some clear instructions. Max stands and goes to the door.He feels outside of his body. Calm and collected. He hasn’t felt this way since the first time they were in the ring together, in the moments before the bell rang and everything went to shit. No, that’s not right. He felt like this when Punk cut him open for the first time, just the two of them alone together in Punk’s bathroom. He felt it too a couple weeks ago when Punk appeared and threw him into the wall. Tried to choke him out. Max would have let him.That’s how he feels right now: completely surrendered. Punk has come to kill him and Max finds he doesn’t mind. Whatever happens happens. Whatever Punk wants to do to him, he’ll let him do.Punk’s fist is raised mid air, about to collide with the poor abused paintwork of Caster’s door, when Max opens it. Punk stops before he hits Max and lets his arm hang there, eyes round like he wasn’t expecting Max to actually do what he asked.Max shrugs and waves a hand towards the apartment in invitation. ‘Happy now you’ve let the entire building know I’m here?’Punk recovers from his shock quickly and steps past Max. He’s not a foot inside before Max has the door locked again. ‘Caster’s a Max too, they’re not going to–’Somehow, Punk is suddenly six feet away and stumbling back into the coffee table. He’s clutching at his nose, coughing. When he looks up and his eyes meet Max’s, they’re sparkling. Max doesn’t know if it’s reproach or approval, annoyance or joy, hate or–Max’s hand starts to sting and the fact that he just sucker punched Punk hits him like a ton of bricks. Punk’s answering chop is nothing in comparison. Max widens his stance to absorb it, and then they’re locked up and staggering around Caster’s living space, struggling for control.‘You fucking asshole,’ Max hears himself say. Sees it really, his spit hitting the bridge of Punk’s nose, the high points of his cheekbones. Somehow, Punk’s nose isn’t bleeding, despite the hit it took. That’s a shame.‘Oh, I’m the asshole?’ Punk steps in close, faster than Max was anticipating, and nearly manages to kick his feet out from under him. Max scrambles to find his balance, his legs hitting against that lovely glass coffee table again. Would be a pity if anyone were to go through it.‘Yeah, you are.’Punk has a vice tight grip on Max’s upper arms but he sacrifices it to take a hold of the back of his neck instead, one hand finding Max’s ear and twisting it. ‘Thought that was what you wanted me to be.’‘Fuck you,’ Max tells him sincerely, and knees him in the nuts.Punk lets him go in favour of doubling over. Max takes a moment to bathe in the glory of getting CM Punk with the same move twice, before he grabs him by the shoulders and steers him around so that it’s Punk with his back to the table, not Max. Then he punches him – same move twice again – and Punk goes flying back.Max gets a split second to enjoy the sound of all that glass shattering on impact, before he’s rolling around in it himself. He doesn’t remember falling, doesn’t feel it either. Can only feel the warm trickle of blood – on his hands, knees, face – and the soft cushion of Punk beneath him.Punk’s hands are still screwed up in Max’s hoodie where he wrenched him down with him as he fell. Max sits up, ignoring the way he’s currently straddling Punk, knees on either side of his hips, digging into shards of glass. Ignoring the way Punk looks up at him, his face a bloody mess, his body completely relaxed into what must be complete agony. He took the brunt of the fall, after all. Max ignores that thought too and swats at Punk’s hands, trying to extricate himself from his grasp.No such luck. His fingers are slick with blood and keep sliding off. He can’t get a purchase. Punk laughs up at him, which only makes Max try harder. And fail harder.‘Let me go!’ He means for it to come out commanding. But even to Max’s ears it sounds like a dog yapping at its owner. A small dog. One of those gay white fluffy things.Max gives up on loosening Punk’s grip and takes another jab at his head instead. But Punk, despite smiling up at Max like he just won a title, is able to dodge out of the way and avoid it, leaving Max to drive his hand down into a carpet of glass. He curses and tries to roll off of Punk, but still Punk won’t let him go. In fact, his hands only twist tighter in Max’s hoodie – probably stretching the material, Max thinks uselessly – to tug Max towards him. Max is in a lot of pain, he’s distracted, and not in the best form. So it’s not his fault, okay? It’s not his fault when Punk pulls him down and Max goes with it and then they’re nose to nose and all Punk has to do is lean up.And then there’s blood in Max’s mouth. Punk’s mostly – to start with – but then Punk bites down hard on Max’s lower lip and he can feel the flesh there split open and start to leak all over them. Into both of their panting mouths. It’s hot, slick and wet. Less a kiss than an attack, another way Punk has found to hurt Max. Max feels like he could get drunk off of this. Knows that if he stays here any longer, kneeling over Punk in the broken glass and splintered wood, he will never want to leave. He wants to melt through the floor and make an early exit to hell. He wants to die right now and not have to deal with this – all of this.He settles for poking Punk in the eye instead.That gets Punk. Too late, he goes to protect himself, bracketing his head to save it from an attack that’s already occurred. Max doesn’t hang around to watch. He crawls off of Punk and staggers to his feet. His mouth feels like it’s been torn open – the gaping side of an antelope torn open by a lion’s teeth. Prey meets predator.He needs to get away from Punk. He wants to curl back on top of him. Wants Punk to kill him already. Needs to kill Punk before he gets the chance.He limps forwards, aware of Punk getting to his feet behind him. He’s slow though. Slower than Max. More banged up. If Max can get to the bedroom in the next few moments, he’ll be able to lock himself in and– Do what? Call the police? Wait for Caster to come back? Max doesn’t know, he’ll figure it out when he gets in there.He never gets the chance. He reaches the bedroom, shuts the door and is reaching for the lock when Punk barges inside. There isn’t even one of those cliche little struggles over the door, with one person pushing it open, the other holding it closed. One moment Punk is outside and the next he’s in.It probably has a lot to do with Max stepping back and sliding along the wall away from the door instead of putting his weight behind it. But Max choses to blame Caster’s shitty overcomplicated locks instead. He’s not going to die trying to get a low quality item to do its job. Yeah, no thanks. He’d much rather just run.Or, well, make a measured retreat of his own accord. Max is not being forced back. He’s certainly not being stalked. That would make him the prey. Which he isn’t. He simply chose to take a step backwards at the exact same time Punk stepped forwards. Chalk it up to coincidence. And when it happens again, well that’s just muscle memory from the ring. They’re circling each other, no one’s got the upper hand here.
Punk is going to kill him.
Okay, so he’s a bit the prey. Only because Punk is insane. He must not have bothered to gell his hair back this morning – it’s all disordered chaos falling into his eyes like strips of dark shadow. With the blood from his nose and the mess of his mouth, it makes him look worse than Max has ever seen him. A true nightmare.Max takes another step back as Punk comes another step closer. It’s like they can’t have more than six feet between them at any time. Like Punk won’t let them. Like he still thinks the chain is tying them together. All Max can think is that they must look like reverse images of each other. One moves forward, the other moves back. One does the killing, one gets killed.Max doesn’t even realise Punk has walked him back into the ensuite until his hips hit the sink, too lost in his thoughts. He’s starting to think he might in fact be panicking. All that cortisol can’t be good for his metabolism. Not that that matters anymore. Because he’s going to die right now.‘Where are you going, Maxwell?’ Punk has stopped in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame like this is just another day, like he’s not actively bleeding and serial-killer-creeping after Max. Punk tilts his head in fake concern. ‘What is it? Nowhere left to run? Nowhere to leave to now, huh?’Max swallows. This was all a mistake. He should have just stayed in Orlando. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as bad there. Maybe Max would have just gone to sleep one night and not woken up the next. Maybe Punk would have made it easy for him. Because Punk’s not going to go easy on him now. He’s going to do this in the worst way possible. He’s going to make Max look into his eyes as he kills him. Make sure he’s the last thing Max ever sees.Max hates that he doesn’t hate that. It’s just he can’t think of a better way to go. He’d want to be the last thing Punk saw too. Make him stare at the better, sharper, crueller thing his mistakes created as the life drains out of him.But Punk’s going to make Max wait. Make him squirm. He takes one step towards Max and then stops again. ‘Why did you do it Max? Why did you leave?’Max can’t tell if he’s talking about Orlando or the first time so he doesn’t say anything. He curls his fingers around the countertop behind him. It digs into the cuts left by the glass on his hands. The pain is bright, awakening. It just makes him more anxious for Punk to come closer.He does. He’s three feet away now. If Max concentrated he might be able to feel his breath in the air between them.Punk’s eyes slide off of Max to something behind him – the mirror, Max thinks – and then snap back again. ‘It couldn’t have been about getting the people to love you. Because they don’t.’‘They do.’‘They don’t. They love a Max that doesn’t betray people, that doesn’t cheat. Someone who doesn’t yell and scream and scratch. They love the guy that’s nice; the guy that’s palatable. Who has friends and cares about them. They love a Max that doesn’t exist. They only tolerate you when you’re crying.’Max can hear them roaring in his ears. The sweat of his palms pressed against the microphone. The register of the noise changing subtly as he spoke. From boos to cheers just like that. It’s easy to make people love you when you’re willing to cleave yourself in two. When you know their love won’t last. ‘So do you.’Punk narrows his eyes and steps forwards again. He’s so close. Max wants to shrink away, fall back through the glass behind him and disappear. More than that, he wants to reach out and touch, check that Punk’s actually here. That he actually chased Max back to New York. Even if it was just to kill him. Especially if it was to kill him. There’s something more concrete about Punk hunting Max down again because he wants to kill him, not just because he wants him. Something more honest. Something true.‘Is that what this is about?’ Punk’s voice is mocking, uncaring, fake. But that doesn’t matter. The reason he’s here is real, Max doesn’t care about what he says. ‘Getting me to look at you? To put up with you? You just wanted my attention so badly and I had moved on. You couldn’t have that. Not greedy little Max. Did I not give you enough? Was it not enough to bleed you, to fuck you, to ruin you?’Okay. Max cares a bit about what Punk says. But only when it’s so glaringly a lie that it would physically hurt not to call him on it. ‘You think you could ruin me? Really, Punk? You wouldn’t even know where to start. Please, you were never enough.’The fog in Max’s mind is melting away. He still can’t think straight, but it’s not because he’s on the cusp of a panic attack. No, this is something else. This nervous energy is almost pleasant, a buzz looking for release. Max holds it back, waiting for a good time.Then Punk’s smiling at him, looking like he did in the ring the first time they spoke to each other. Mean and familiar. ‘Oh, did I disappoint you Maxwell?’And that’s familiar too. Familiar and awful and nothing Max wants to hear again. Belatedly he recognises that buzzing beneath his skin as anger. He wants to hurt Punk. Make sure he never says anything like that again. Make sure he never says anything again.Punk makes a sound when his back hits the wall. It’s not a surprised sound. Not a gasp, not the kind of noise someone makes when they’re in pain. It’s more of a laugh. It vibrates up Punk’s throat from beneath Max’s hands.He tightens his fingers. Punk doesn’t fight back, just juts his chin out, challenging Max to look at him. When Max meets his eyes even those are laughing at him. Taunting, giddy, like Max is doing exactly what he wants him to.It’s a stupid thing to do. Max could separate his head from his body right now, could end him in a moment, and still he teases. It’s stupid, but then Punk’s never been the brightest.He’s certainly not being smart right now. Max’s hands bruising his neck and he still opens his mouth, eager to let out whatever awful thing he thinks Max just needs to hear. ‘Do it. Go on.’Max’s hands flex against Punk’s skin. Max has to focus to keep them still. His body always betrays him when he’s this close to Punk. Always ready to do what Punk says, even if Max isn’t. But it’s fine. Max can get around it. He can control himself. Deny himself. Because it’s not what he really wants; it’s just what his body thinks it wants. Punk is good at that: making you think you want something. But you don’t. Max doesn’t.He doesn’t want to kill him just yet.Punk is oblivious to this. He bares his teeth again, bright white against the bathroom tiles by his head. ‘We both know you won’t. You can’t. Because I do know how to ruin you and you’re never gonna find that in anyone else. No one can make you feel like I do. Because you’ll never want them too. I’m all you want.’‘You don’t know what I want.’‘Don’t lie, Maxwell. There’s no one here who’s going to fall for it. Look,’ he gestures around the room, moving his head with it, as much as he can against the restraints of Max’s hands, ‘no audience. Just you and–’Max readjusts his hands, moving one from the throat to slam his forearm across Punk’s chest – a bar holding Punk still against the wall. Punk glances down and tilts his head like it’s some kind of curiosity rather than a threat to his respiratory system. Max can’t shake the feeling that he might be enjoying this. Knowing Punk he probably is.When he starts talking again it’s like he wasn’t even interrupted. ‘You don’t have to say it Max. We both know. I’m all you want. So why are you acting like you want more? What more is there to want?’The way he says it. The way he raises his head, throat morphing into the shape of Max’s palm. The way he raises his arms out to the side, and still doesn’t touch Max, doesn’t push him off. The way he looks Max dead in his eyes. It all screams the same thing, pulling the words right from a scuffed old box in the darkest corner of Max’s mind, not even bothering to speak them out loud: I am your whole world.Max feels ill. Why does Punk have to do this to him? Those two weeks of burning torture with Punk’s unfaltering attention. The journal entry. Now this. It’s as if Punk has made it his mission to make Max’s life pure misery. If this is his way of getting revenge for everything Max has done, then Max will give it to him. It’s working.So Max will just have to work harder. He leans in close, putting his whole weight behind his arm, his hand, cutting off Punk’s air. ‘You’re nothing, Punk. You think I want you? You think I want a sad sack of sagging skin and wasting muscle? I don’t want you at all. Never did. I just wanted you to drop the act and you know what? I regret it. At least when you were pretending to be someone else I could still fool myself into thinking the old Punk was in there. But you let him waste away too. Or maybe he never existed to begin with.’Somehow, Punk still finds this funny. He chuckles, mute and choked beneath Max’s hands. Despite himself Max eases up a bit, curious to hear what he’s going to say.‘Cute.’ The first thing Punk gets out when Max lets him breathe and Max falls back on top of him, vision blurring in frustration. But Punk stops him this time, pushing at Max’s shoulders so that, while he retains his grasp on Punk’s throat, he can’t put enough weight behind it to do any serious damage.‘Cute,’ he repeats, and he looks about two seconds from bending at the waist and giggling, like he used to in the ring. Max hates him. ‘Right, I’m old and I’m not me, so you don’t want me. Okay, now we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t you try saying something real?’His tone is so light, so joyously mocking, Max doesn’t even have to think before he spits on him. ‘I wish you were dead.’Punk wipes the spit from cheek. When his hand comes back a mess of saliva and blood he looks delighted. He’s deranged. Max is sharing oxygen with an actual monster.He needs to get out of here. He wants to lick Punk’s hand clean. He stays right where he is.‘Oh, so that’s what you want. Me dead.’ Punk lets go of Max’s shoulder and holds both hands up in mock surrender. Max’s skin feels cold where Punk is no longer touching him. ‘Go on then. Kill me.’When Max doesn’t move, Punk pouts. ‘Except that’s not what you want, is it Max? You don’t want me dead. You didn’t leave to try and kill me. You just didn’t want me to get the championship.’‘That’s not true.’‘No? Maybe not.’ He leans into Max, nearly nose to nose. Up this close he just looks like a mess of red. Max can smell the blood all over him. ‘But it’s so pathetic. So you. I wouldn’t step aside and let you just take the title so you had to get me out of the way. Anything to avoid putting the work in.’He grabs at Max’s hoodie, yanks him in impossibly closer and snarls against his mouth. ‘You’re an embarrassment. To yourself, to wrestling, to me. I said something with my death. What did you say? That you couldn’t beat me. That’s all.’It’s Max’s turn to smile. ‘Don’t act like you weren’t flattered. Me copying you – your head is so twisted you probably got off on it when you figured out what I was doing.’Punk raises an eyebrow. Maybe. But then he’s smiling again, that sick twist at the corner of his mouth like he knows whatever he’s going to say next will hit Max where it hurts. ‘But I fucked it up, didn’t I? That’s why you left the second time.’It’s not a question, but Max thinks he sees one in Punk’s eyes anyway. He’s not sure – it’s probably just a trick of the light – Punk sounds so sure of himself. Max nods anyway.It’s enough encouragement for Punk to continue. ‘Yeah, maybe I didn’t give you what you really wanted.’Max furrows his brow. Punk’s trying to fool him, he has to be. He’d never admit to being wrong.Punk shrugs, and then he finally gets to the stinger. ‘I don’t really go out for murder-suicide. Not that you were ever too big on murder. And you were just too shy to ask for the other part.’ He glances down at Max’s hand where it lies loose on his neck, more a light touch than a malicious hold.Max can’t think about that though. He’s too busy trying not to think about the other bit. He remembers coming back from the pool one morning, his planners in the trash. He’d thought Punk had just gotten sick of looking at them. He knew he must have seen them, all those dates circled in red – Punk was too obsessed with him not to have read all of it. But still. He’d presumed they’d never talk about it. That Punk would just kill him, and that would be that.Hearing it out loud is something else.Distantly Max registers that he’s trembling. That he’s shaking so much he’s completely lost his grip on Punk’s throat, that his other arm slid off of his chest. Something wet rolls off the end of his chin but that’s probably just blood from earlier.He expects his voice to come out small, defeated, disgustingly sad. It’s a nice surprise when Max finds himself snarling instead. ‘You don’t get it. It doesn’t matter what I want, Punk. It never has. It’s about what you want and what you want just so happens to be exactly what I want but you won’t let yourself have it.’Punk shakes his head. Wrong, wrong, wrong. ‘We’re not the same person, Max. You can try and pretend we are but I don’t want anything that you do. I don’t want to die with you.’ But that look is in his eye again, something unsteady wavering there.‘No, we’re not the same person. You’re right about that. Because I’m better than you.’Punk huffs, amused, but he still looks off. ‘Still on that?’‘I am, though. I don’t lie to myself. I know what I want and I go and get it. That’s what I did with you. Just a few tears – that’s all it took! – and I had you. I mean how would you ever want someone else again? Who else would stage their death for you? Who else would drag you back to life when you were dead in the ground? Who else would let you kill them?’Punk shifts half a breath closer, mouth dark, eyes dark, totally consuming. Max wants to push him away, wants to insist that he let him crawl into his chest. He keeps standing there, keeps talking.‘But somehow I ended up giving you everything you could want and you still weren’t enough. Because you actually expected me to love you unconditionally when you were never gonna give me anything in return. Well, maybe I have some conditions, Punk!’ Punk tries to say something but Max is used to getting his points across. It’s not difficult to drown him out. ‘Maybe I think I deserve something in return. Maybe I think I’ve earned that. But you’ve got nothing to give me. You’re just a dried up old man who’s only capable of lying. You’re–’‘I love you because you love me.’Max blinks. He heard that wrong.Punk keeps talking, looking at Max intently, like he’s finally figured him out. Like he understands. ‘That’s what this has all been about? You want me to stay, you want me to love you back? Well I do. I–’‘Shut up!’ But Punk already has. Max doesn’t remember wrapping both of his hands around Punk’s throat again, he just knows that they’re there now, squeezing, collapsing the cartilage beneath them, smudging blood all over Punk’s too pale skin. Just knows that Punk is holding them, weak and still so powerful, able to force Max to let up just by touching him.He pulls Max’s hands away from his neck. Holds them between their bodies like they’re something precious and not the noose that was trying to kill him a second ago.He says it again, a whisper: ‘I love you.’Somewhere to Max’s left, Piper mewls.Max freezes.Piper. Piper. He let them fight all over the apartment, smash a fucking glass table where Piper could have she could have walked on it and died.Max turns to the door, sure that he’s going to see her little body limping towards him, fur matted and lank with blood. Instead he finds her sitting contented in the doorway, looking up at the two of them, head cocked. She mews again.Max begins to move but somehow Punk beats him to it, crouching down to get level with her.‘Don’t–’ he starts only to see Piper push her head up into Punk’s proffered hand.Max is hallucinating. It’s the only reasonable explanation. Somewhere along the way he had a stroke, or he hit his head too hard and now he’s hallucinating.He watches Piper sniff at Punk curiously, decide she likes him, wind herself around his legs, purring all the while, and he thinks maybe now he’s going to have that panic attack. This is the straw that’ll break the proverbial camel’s back. It’s just too much. Punk going from saying that to– To this.
Somebody sobs. It can’t be Max, because he would never in a million years make the small, whining, trapped-animal sounds that are echoing around the ensuite right now. Bouncing against the hard surfaces to clash with each other.

Just because Punk is petting Max’s cat.

He’s whispering to her now, scratching behind her ears as she looks up at him, so trusting. Max didn’t raise her to be like this. She should be clawing the strange man’s eyes out, not nudging her head into his leg.

And letting him pick her up.

Max is in hell. That’s the only explanation. He died and went to hell and everything that’s happened since has been his own personal torture chamber. Because Punk is the devil and he’s personally designed this to break Max and–

Punk, somehow standing again and in front of Max, holding Piper in his arms, her head tucked over his shoulder, relaxed. Max can’t do anything but look at them. Some wretched part of his brain keeps letting him know that the two of them, standing there together, are his entire world, less than a foot away. It’s the worst thing he could possibly think.

Except that maybe it isn’t. The way Punk is looking at him now: eyes narrowed but not mean, just considering. Max can’t be sure but–

‘Is this real?’ He asks and Punk’s expression crumples in reaction. He just looks so sad. It’s unbearable. Why couldn’t he just kill Max? Why did he have to make him feel like this?

Punk stoops to let Piper back down to the floor and then he’s back in Max’s space. Holding his face, swaying closer.

When they kiss it’s like so many times before. The sharp taste of iron, the bite of teeth, Punk’s tongue always pressing for more, more. Less a kiss and more two wounds pressing against each other, stinging each other, always hurting. But maybe it’s different too. Or it makes all the times before different. Because maybe Punk chased Max down not because he wanted to kill him but for something else. Because maybe Punk actually–

‘Say it again?’

And he does, murmured against Max’s lips, just for him.

They don’t separate for a long time. It’s like the last time Punk found him: both of them too wrecked to do anything more and both of them still wanting it anyway. Sometimes it feels like they’ll always want more when it comes to each other. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe there’s more to give.

When they do pull apart it’s not very far. Punk seems to think he’s got free reign to hold Max’s hands now and Max doesn’t have the energy to burst his bubble. There’s no harm in letting him think he can get away with it for one night. Punk’s such a romantic it’ll probably make his month. Besides, it’s not the worst thing Max has had to put up with.

He squeezes Punk’s fingers and tries to remember where they are. ‘Caster’s not going to be gone long.’

‘So?’ Punk says it like it’s simple. Let him find us, what do I care?

‘So, we shouldn’t be here when he comes back.’

‘Why not?’ Punk tilts his head to the side like he genuinely doesn’t know.

Max opens his mouth, ready to go on a tirade, but then Punk smiles at him and Max realises that he knows. He’s just playing with him.

‘This is real right?’ He asks again, just to check.

Punk presses back into him, leaving no room between their bodies. Max wishes he could look in the mirror, he wants to know how they look like this; so closely intertwined they could be one body. But his back is to the mirror, so he has to settle for Punk’s words: ‘It is.’

Two small words should not be able to leave him this unmoored, but Max has had a long day. He’s going to cut himself some slack. He tucks his face into Punk’s neck. ‘Then I think I know how to avoid any of this shit,’ he waves a hand in the direction of Caster’s living room, meaning the carnage it contains, meaning the rest of it too, ‘landing on us.’

He can feel Punk’s grin on the back of his neck, evil and sharp. But it’s not pointed at him. It’s for him. So Max can appreciate it for the beautiful thing that it is. Punk understands. They’re thinking the same thing.

‘Maxwell Jacob Friedman, will you come back from the dead with me?’

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Jun 8. CM Punk. (11.59pm) FOR VALENTINE’S DAY I THOUGHT I’D GET MYSELF A DOG (AND I’M VERY SERIOUS ABOUT ANIMAL RIGHTS)

I’m not gonna lie, I’m disappointed in you guys. Yeah, I know I go about telling everyone they can love me or hate me, I don’t care (you’re still looking at me aren’t ya?) but seriously. You thought I would KILL someone? Other people have been going around parading the fact that a certain someone left a certain cat with them (which sounded weird to me from the offset, but what do I know?) But riiiight. It must be old Punker who killed MJF. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I was being targetted here. Good thing I know better right?

You’ll probably have seen our dramatic return tonight (if you haven’t what are you doing ehre? Go be an active citizen involved with current affairs and watch it. Then we’ll talk) I know everyone’s asking the same questions, so I thought I’d log onto this defunct site and try to answer them. Cos I’m such a gentleman that way.

So:

a. ‘Did I really save max from being murdered?’
I’m not at liberty to say for fear of being punched for portraying him as a victim so… yes. Yes I did. NEXT!

b. ‘Why was this case so confusing to follow?’
Idk you’d have to ask the guy who committed the crime.

c. ‘Are you gonna say who that is?’
I don’t wanna get anyone suspended (again. if you know what I mean)

d. ‘Was that an in-ring proposal at the end there?’
No. MAybe. Find out more this Sunday with RJ City! (I’m sure we’ll be getting a call any minute now to book us on there)

Mr. Punk will be taking no more questions at the moment. Gotta go wash all this blood off…

XpunkX

—

Punk – The Day of the Reunion
 It doesn’t take long to get out of Caster’s apartment. All Max wants is Piper and the carrier she came in, everything else he turns his nose up at.‘This is quite literally the cheapest food available,’ Max tells Punk, shaking the box he finds in one of the cupboards at him. Punk just shrugs. He’s not really versed on the dos and don'ts of cat care. Sue him, he’s not a cat guy.Max doesn’t even want the clothes he brought with him. He takes one look at the duffel bag Punk finds in the bedroom and then turns away. Punk gets it. Remembers burning all the stuff he’d worn pretty soon after he was dragged back to the world of the living the first time. Remembers feeling cold despite the fire in front of him. He’d wanted to destroy any evidence his little stunt ever happened, make sure nothing would ever remind him of it again. Yet here he is nearly a decade later, following the guy who dug it all up for him across the country. A living breathing reminder of the worst moments in his life, and for some reason Punk doesn’t want to burn him down too.He watches the muscles shift in Max’s back as he picks up Piper and when Punk knows he’s not watching he picks up the bag. Max might not want a reminder of the past few weeks, but Punk does. Doesn’t want to listen to Max bitch about leaving the bag behind either when he inevitably decides he needs something from it.He should probably be more wary of Max. Should probably be angry with him. But there’s too much to be angry at. Where should he start? That little stunt from five minutes ago, when Max tried to jump him? That was just cute. How about waking up alone in Florida yesterday morning? Dramatic, but that’s Max. Or what about the time Max stole yet another of Punk’s iconic moments and framed him for his murder? Romance isn’t dead, yipee!The truth is, Punk just isn’t mad. He would have– Hell, he did do the same when he was Max’s age. And besides, after tonight Punk understands. He always understood Max, but now he gets it. Max is an insecure idiot in need of constant reassurance; but Punk gets it.Max eyes the bag in Punk’s hand when he turns back around but he doesn’t say anything. Punk reads that as permission to keep it.And so they take Piper and her carrier and they go. Punk hovers on the way out the door. Caster’s living room is a mess of glass and misplaced furniture. A proper crime scene. This looks familiar, Punk thinks, but it’s not really. It just looks like something he imagined a while ago. Nothing real.But this is real: letting Max lead the way out of the room, walking down the corridor to the lift together, standing shoulder to shoulder as they descend. Leaving together. After all that time spent worrying over who would leave first, they do it together.In the garage they argue over whose car to take. Max insists his would be more comfortable for Piper because it’s bigger. Punk doesn’t see how the size of the car would affect a tiny cat, but when he says this Max just accuses him of animal cruelty so Punk drops it.He starts in on Max’s expensive taste instead. He recognises Max’s car from the motel parking lot in Orlando. Remembers he thought it was too nice for a place like that. He hadn’t known it was Max’s then but if he’d thought it through, he would have figured. Loud and obnoxious. Perfect for Max. Punk can’t believe he thought he’d go undetected in the thing.Max demands to see his rental then and Punk has the honour of pointing out the piece of crap he’s been dragging around the country for the past few weeks. It was on its last legs on the way up here. Punk’s pretty sure if he drove it any further it would fall apart. That doesn’t stop him from arguing for it though. He can’t just give in to Max without making him squirm; that’d be lazy.And besides, it’s fun. Neither of them can keep a straight face as they hash it out. It’s like the first time they spoke in the ring all over again: both of them struggling to not fall over themselves laughing, to show that they find each other entertaining. Except maybe this time they don’t struggle as hard. Maybe this time they don’t have to.Punk does give in eventually. Maybe it’s sooner than he should have – certainly sooner than he would have before – but they need to get a move on. He’s just being practical. The self-satisfied smirk that Max gives him when Punk lets him win the meaningless argument is just an added bonus.He doesn’t let Max drive though. Punk’s still the one in control here, he needs to make that clear. Not that Max makes any move to, quite happy to sit shotgun and coo over Piper for the entire ride.Except that, as they drive to Max’s place, once Max manages to drag his eyes away from Piper and turn them inevitably to Punk, the two of them start to plan. And the thing is, it’s quite easy to plan with Max. Sometimes Punk will open his mouth to suggest something and Max will say the exact same thing – only faster – taking the words right out of Punk’s mouth. It’s a freaky kind of mind-meld situation. Punk has to keep reminding himself that Max grew up watching him, that he learned from him; of course he’s able to come up with the same stuff. With great stuff.So if it feels like Punk is losing control – well, he’s not really. He’s just sharing it with himself. An older version of himself that Max is able to emulate, to channel like some freaky robot that’s downloaded his consciousness, straight out of a sci-fi story.Punk tries to shake the idea out of his head and finds that it’s quite easy to do. He just has to focus on the directions Max gives him every now and then, on the blur of the traffic lights outside, on the heat of Max’s thigh beneath his hand.He falls into something not quite approaching sleep, but maybe meditation, as he drives. Piper’s purring rises and falls, a constant drone low in the background of the evening.This is what it must feel like to be at peace,Jesus Christ you’re getting soft in your old age, Punker.He is. He doesn’t really mind.When they pull up down the street from Max’s building it’s clear they’re not going to get in. There’s a cop car parked right outside and even from here Punk can see a bored officer hanging around by the lobby door.‘Why the fuck are those bozos still here?’ Max squints out the windscreen, as if he expects the answer to present itself if he just glares hard enough.Punk shrugs. ‘Maybe they’re waiting to see if you’ll come back.’‘Don’t they have anything better to do than just sit around all day? That’s like– a complete waste of tax dollars or something!’‘They’re not at my place,’ Punk offers, biting back a smile. He reaches across and strokes Piper’s back. The corner of Max’s eyes flick down to track the movement before they flit away again, pretending they didn’t see.Joe, when Punk had called him on from a payphone the day before to check on Larry, had said the cops had cleared off as soon as they could. Ruled it as a suicide or some shit.To which Punk responded: But there wasn’t any body.Punk could almost see the grimace Joe was pulling on the other end. His silence was answer enough: Nobody really cares enough to find one.‘'Course they’re not. Who gives a shit if a piece of trash murderer–’‘Suspected murderer,’ Punk interjects, just for something to say.‘Whatever,’ Max grumbles, eyes still trained on the cop in the street, but then he pulls them away to give Punk a smirk and gets stuck there, like he can’t look away. Good, Punk can’t either. ‘Of course they don’t care if you go missing. But a young generational talent such as myself, cut down before my prime? That’s national news right there.’Punk doesn’t bother to point out that they both made national headlines, that the story only went national when Punk decided to pull his stunt. It feels weird to him that the cops would just drop his case like this, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that he can lean across and kiss Max and wipe that smug expression from his face.‘They only care about you because they don’t know you,’ Punk tells him, running a thumb along Max’s cheek. ‘They don’t care about the real you.’‘But you do.’ It’s not a question but Max says it like it is, looking up at Punk through his lashes like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to believe what he just said.Punk kisses him again. That seems to be enough.It takes a bit more than a kiss to get Max to admit that they won’t be able to get into his apartment. Takes even more to get him to agree to going to Chicago.‘Do you know how many times I’ve been to that shithole in the last month?’ Punk tells him that’s his own fault, lets him give out about Punk’s perverted need to get revenge as he pulls the car out of park and gets them back on the road.All this driving is starting to feel like punishment to Punk too. He’s glad they took Max’s car now. Turns out you get what you pay for when it comes to comfort and the seats on Punk’s rental were thread-bare and duct-taped together. Not a safe environment for a cat, that’s for sure.Max spends an hour fidgeting in the passenger seat and then another hour before he insists Punk pull over and let him drive. Punk acquiesces easily enough. He hasn’t slept since he woke up in their room to find half of the bed cold and empty and he could probably use a rest. That’s not why he takes the next exit off the highway to switch out though. He could go another few hours if he pushed himself. No, he lets Max drive because he so obviously needs to be doing something with his hands.Max is homesick. That much is obvious from the moment they leave his apartment building in the rear view. He keeps glancing back, almost wistful, as it shrinks behind them. Punk doesn’t get it; he has his cat, he has Punk, what more could he need? His grey lifeless apartment, apparently.Punk sets his jaw. We’ll be back, he promises Max in his head. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s not like Max is in here with him. It just feels like he is sometimes.So Max drives for a few hours. Punk isn’t allowed to hold Piper, Max packs her carefully away into her box and then spends ten minutes fussing over how to secure it in the back before he’s happy enough to sit down and get going.They talk a bit, then they don’t. Punk begins to drift off at some point. Right before he lets sleep pull him under he remembers reading something about how Max maybe killed his high school girlfriend in a traffic accident. That should be enough to bolt Punk awake, keep him wired for the rest of the ride. Instead it just further lulls him to sleep. Max has already had his shot at killing Punk. He didn’t take it. Couldn’t. Punk isn’t one of Max’s little girlfriends, he’s it. Max isn’t going to endanger the one thing in life he loves more than himself.Punk’s vindicated when he wakes up to Max’s hand carefully pushing Punk’s hair back out of his face as he waits for a light to turn green. They’re stopped at an intersection – very much still on the road and not in a ditch somewhere.Punk turns his face into Max’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. A shiver runs up through Max’s sides, his eyes widening as he realises Punk’s awake.‘Eyes on the road, Maxwell,’ Punk’s voice comes out groggy as he sits up in his seat and stretches. Punk can see Max fighting with himself, trying to track both the movement of Punk’s back as it arches away from the seat, and the traffic in front of him. The instinct to follow Punk’s instructions wins out though, and soon Max is clutching at the wheel like his life depends on it, eyes glued to the road.Punk smirks and watches Max’s profile unashamedly, looking his fill. Now that he’s allowed, he’s going to abuse that power. Make Max squirm in his seat for a while.He lets his hand rest high on Max’s thigh, watches the bob of Max’s throat as he swallows, takes in the gradual tightening of the fabric at Max’s crotch. They’re both exhausted. They’ve been driving all night and they’re not half way there. They’re cut up to hell and they’re covered in each other’s blood. Dealing with this now is a bad idea.Punk’s a big fan of bad ideas. He tells Max to pull over.It’s a squeeze, doing this in the car. Punk once again has to concede that taking Max’s car was the better idea; if it’s tight here he doesn’t want to know what it would have been like in his piece of crap. As it is they keep elbowing each other, their bodies meeting at odd angles in the cramped space. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and Punk hasn’t had this much fun since his twenties. They can’t even kiss properly like this: teeth clashing, tongues bitten, breath caught and panted back at one another. They keep laughing into each other’s mouths.They don’t last very long. Neither of them complain about it though, and maybe that’s a testament to how tired they both are, but Punk decides to call it growth.Afterwards, they change seats again and Punk drives the next leg in a pleasant lull of conversation. If you had told Punk six months ago that he’d be driving cross-country for eighteen hours with Maxwell Jacob Friedman, he would have said it sounded like the fastest way to get a headache. As it is, they sit in a comfortable silence for the next while – the closest approximation to peace that Punk has had in a long time. They have nothing more to say to each other, not tonight anyway, so they sit and let the miles pass and when the sun rises over the highway they watch that in silence too.They alternate two more times on their journey but it’s Punk who drives them into Chicago. He hadn’t really thought about it while he was gone. It was just the last place he was before he left and when he left he was more focused on what he was running to than what he was running from. Now, as they follow the route Punk always takes, he feels the arms of his hometown wrap around him like a hug from a family member who only loves you because they’re so used to seeing you. It’s sort of comforting.They pull into his driveway sometime past midday. Max springs out straight away, complaining about his stiff legs, before rushing to see to Piper. Punk’s slower getting out.It’s nothing big – stupid really – but he had a thought while he was parking and he can’t shake it from his mind. Chalk it up to exhaustion, to not being able think straight, to blood loss and sheer stress, but as they pulled up Punk thought: We’re home.Frankly, Punk’s not afraid to call it a Freudian slip. Just that maybe that freaks him out a bit.‘Falling asleep, old man?’ Punk didn’t notice the driver door open but suddenly Max is looming over him, getting in his face.‘Step back, I gotta get out.’ Max just steps in, grabs his arm and hoists Punk up himself, grin blindingly wide.He looks like an over-eager puppy, looking for a pat on the head for being a general nuisance. But when Punk obliges him Max doesn’t seem to appreciate the gesture, swatting his hand away from his hair and turning away in a huff.Punk grins and follows him around to the trunk to fetch his bag too. He didn’t bring much with him when he left; just a few changes of clothes, enough for what he thought would be a weekend away at most. Max, on the other hand, has to lug out the huge bag of cat food he made them stop for. That, combined with Piper’s box and the duffle Punk pretends not to see, is enough to unbalance him and Punk gets great entertainment out of watching him try not to drop anything on his way to the door.When Punk unlocks it, Larry all but attacks them, jumping up at Punk in greeting before sniffing at Max and Piper’s box curiously. Max has met him before and each time he acts like he despises him. He tries this time too, shooing Larry away from Piper with an angry flick of his hand, but Punk can see the almost fond look in his eye.He picks Larry up anyway. He’d missed the old troublemaker.‘Welcome home, I guess,’ Joe calls out from somewhere and Punk feels Max stiffen beside him.Okay, so maybe he should have mentioned that Joe would be here. But it’s his house, he can have whoever he wants over without telling Max about it.‘Hey, Joe,’ Punk says as the guy emerges from the kitchen. He looks like he’s about to say something when he also freezes, staring at Max with a what-the-fuck-is-this glare that Punk has only ever experienced first-hand before.Okay, so maybe he should have told Joe that Max was coming with him too. But again: his house. The rest of them are just guests.Guest or not, Joe doesn’t take long to throw out the manners book and charges Max. Max, hands full and still processing Joe’s presence, doesn’t have a chance to defend himself. The paint work cracks as Max is slammed into it and Punk only has a second to grimace over how much that’s going to cost to get fixed before Max is screaming at him.‘Get your dog, Punk!’Punk looks down at Larry in his arms and then back at Max. He shrugs. What do you mean? He’s right here.‘I’m not the dog in this situation, punk,’ Joe snarls into Max’s face and Punk once again finds himself a spectator to something he’s personally experienced at the hands of Samoa Joe. He should probably interject, break it up before anyone gets hurt. But it doesn’t look too serious and besides, he’s kind of having fun.And then Piper makes a sound from her box and Punk’s back in Caster’s bathroom, watching Max crumple in front of him. All of those mind games and in the end all it took to ruin Max was the truth.‘Alright, that’s enough.’ Punk lets Larry down and pushes at Joe’s shoulder, easing his way between Max and him in the slight hope that Joe doesn’t feel like shoving him around too.It works. Joe steps back, holding his hands up, eyebrows raised in mock surrender. Punk can feel Max peeking out from behind him, taunting Joe.‘What was that, buddy? Who’s the–’‘Max, upstairs. Now.’ Punk doesn’t look away from Joe as he points at the stairs. He needs to get Joe alone to explain things to him. Then maybe they won’t have (another) murder on their hands.‘I’m not going to just do whatever you–’ Punk does turn around this time, hand automatically finding Max’s neck like a dagger sinking home. But he’s not looking to do damage, it’s more of a reminder, running his thumb along Max’s pulse as their eyes meet, everything they’ve done to each other passing between them in a millisecond.‘Please?’ Punk whispers – not because he cares if Joe hears but because it’ll make Max think he does – and has the pleasure of seeing Max’s expression fall apart for the second time in twenty four hours. He has him now. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’Max goes. Grumbling all the while, but he goes.And then there’s just Joe, looking at him expectantly. Punk gets the distinct idea that if he doesn’t explain himself quick, Max won’t be the only one getting shoved into a wall today. There are so many egos to consider in this house right now. God, why does Punk surround himself with such drama queens?‘So–’ He begins and then trails off. How does he start?‘I thought,’ Joe says evenly, ‘that the plan was to hunt him down, make him regret what he did, drag him back, and set the record straight.’Punk nods along. So Joe was listening that night Punk sat him down and laid it all out for him. Punk thought he’d been a bit too gone at that point – Joe drank like he was at a funeral, rushing from one beer to the next like he was desperate to forget what was happening around him. It’s kind of touching to find your friends actually do listen when you open your mouth. ‘It was.’‘Was,’ Joe catches, demonstrating his great listening skills once again. ‘As in: not anymore. Because now you’re bringing the kid home like he’s your prom date or something.’‘He’s not a kid.’‘Really?’ Joe’s eyebrows try to escape into his hair. ‘That’s the hill you’re gonna die on? Punk, the guy tried to frame you for his murder.’Punk shrugs. ‘I don’t think he really meant it. Or well– He meant it, but he didn’t mean it. Y’know?’Joe pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. ‘No, Punk. I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t want to.’‘Great, so–’‘–But I think I need to for my sanity.’ Joe looks like the words physically pain him to say. Punk knows the feeling. He’s the one who has to live this insanity.‘Yeah, alright. Let’s just…’ He gestures towards the kitchen: Let me have coffee and I’ll tell you everything.But they don’t make it to the kitchen. There’s a crash and then another and Punk jumps before he realises it was just a door slamming, a bag thudding to the ground. Joe glances up at the ceiling and then back at Punk.‘Yeah… I’m gonna split.’ Punk probably does a very bad job at keeping the relief off of his face. Joe points a warning finger at him. ‘But don’t think you’re getting off that easy. You’re gonna explain this to me. Soon.’Punk mock salutes him. It earns him a nice old frown. ‘I’ll explain,’ he promises. ‘Exactly like last time.’Joe raises an eyebrow.Fuck you, man. Not– ‘Okay, not exactly like last time.’Joe rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. Punk can tell. ‘Go make nice with your girl. Let me live in ignorant bliss for a bit longer.’ He turns to leave but Punk puts a hand on his arm, and asks when Joe’s flight is, if he needs a ride to the airport, but Joe just gives the stairs a significant look as if to say: You’ve got your hands full here, and waves him off. He called a cab when he saw them arrive.Weren’t planning on hanging around long were you? Punk thinks bitterly and then instantly regrets it. Joe spent the last few weeks dog- and house-sitting for him. He probably just wants to get home. Punk can’t blame him for that.When the cab arrives, Punk insists on carrying Joe’s bags out. Joe laughs at him, but he doesn’t try to stop him so Punk takes that as a win.At the car, Joe makes him swear that he’ll call and arrange a time to fill him in. It’s so unexpected, so unlike Joe to care this much about something he wouldn’t consider his business, that Punk agrees immediately. It’s Joe, he can’t exactly refuse him.He waits at the curb for the taxi to pull away, and then turns back to his house. His neighbour, Mrs. Butler, is on her porch again. He waves to her like last time and, like last time, she doesn’t wave back. Punk wonders if she’s been watching the news.There goes the only pet-sitter he has in the city. Just another thing in his life Max has ruined. Punk finds he doesn’t really mind.Inside, Larry’s waiting for him at the door. His tail is wagging back and forth but he’s half crouched, cowering almost. When Punk steps inside, he scampers over towards the stairs and then sits down, looking up at them warily.‘I know how you feel, buddy,’ Punk says and bends down to scratch his ears.He shouldn’t feel like this, he just spent hours upon hours with Max in the car. Spent weeks living out of his pocket before that. But it’s different being back home; back here where everything they’ve done in these rooms is right there, ready to come back at any moment.Punk swallows. He’s being ridiculous.It’s like forcing himself through jelly, but he climbs the stairs. His steps sound too heavy with no other sound to drown them out. On the landing he tries to avoid looking at the bathroom door but his eyes won’t stay away. He remembers the iron scent, clogging up his throat. The blast of bleach as he scrubbed it away. He’d done it before – with Max’s own blood even – but that last time was different.This is different too: standing in his bedroom doorway, looking at Max’s back where he faces towards the window, caught up in his phone, his bag beside him. That’s what Punk gets stuck on – Max’s bag. Obviously, Max had brought a bag with him whenever he came to stay before. But this feels different. The open pet carrier next to it, the way Max seems perfectly at home on his bed. It’s more… permanent.He clears his throat. ‘Joe left.’‘Cool.’ Max doesn’t turn around, barely even moves to show he’s heard him.Oh great, the silent treatment. Punk looks around and realises there’s no cat in the cat box. ‘Where’s Piper?’All that gets is a jut of the chin. It’s like dealing with a moody teenager. Punk looks in the direction Max indicated anyway to find Piper sitting on the window sill, staring down at the street below. Part of the window above her is open, Punk doesn’t like that.He walks over and picks her up, holding her tight to him as he approaches Max and crouches down next to him. He takes in the downturn of Max’s mouth as he tries not to look at Punk. His thumb swiping on the screen in front of him speeds up, too fast to actually read anything. ‘Are you seriously sulking right now?’Max does look over then and immediately extracts Piper from his arms. ‘Stop picking her up like that.’‘Are you jealous about Joe, is that it?’Max acts like he didn’t hear him. ‘Seriously Punk, she’s not a toy okay? She’s a living, breathing being that has feelings and she’s been through a very traumatic time. You can’t just–’‘'Cause you don’t need to be,’ Punk continues. If Max isn’t going to be derailed then he isn’t either. ‘Joe’s just… Joe.’ Yeah, that’s all he’s got. He’s not going to try to explain Joe right now.Max doesn’t respond, only curling a possessive arm around Piper, holding her to his chest like he’s trying to push her into his ribcage.Fine. Punk will concede. Compromise and all that. ‘What traumatic time? Caster was probably doting on her like she was his–’There’s a scrambling of claws against wooden floors and then Larry is there, trotting around the end of the bed towards them. He must have gotten excited by the sound of voices. Piper stiffens in Max’s lap and stands, arching her back and tilting her head like she’s confused by the presence of another hairy four-legged thing. Punk wonders if she’s seen another animal at all since Max adopted her. Probably not.‘Punk, get your dog,’ Max says. The echo of earlier makes Punk smile and Max, although he tries to hide it by glaring at him, hears it too. Punk can see it.He doesn’t move – he wants to see how this turns out – so Larry comes up to Max’s knees undeterred and rests his chin there. Above him, Piper stirs again and tiptoes towards him, hesitantly sticking her neck out, sniffing at the stranger in front of her.‘Punk,’ Max warns, as Piper bends down to come nose to nose with Larry. Larry takes that as all the encouragement he needs and jumps up to put his two front paws on Max’s legs.‘Punk!’ It’s not a warning anymore, but it’s too late. Piper’s mid-air before Punk registers she’s left Max’s lap and then she’s landing on the bed behind them, rushing to take shelter in the pillows by the headboard. Larry might be over-eager to make a new friend, but he is house-trained. He doesn’t try to follow her up, just turns to Punk with a puzzled look like he’s not quite sure what just happened.Punk can’t stop it. He bursts out laughing. It takes a moment but he manages to get it under control enough to pet his dog and tell him: ‘Sorry, bud. Maybe take it slower next time?’When he glances up at Max, he looks scandalised. It’s enough to set Punk off again. And then, the weirdest thing, Max starts laughing too. The skin around Max’s mouth and nose crinkle whenever he smiles. Punk reaches up to trace those lines now. Max stills under his hand, looking a bit unsure, but the joy doesn’t leave his eyes – that stays – and then they’re okay again.Punk’s beginning to think they’ll be okay again for a while.There’s still a lot to talk about, to plan, to go over. They hadn’t taken full advantage of their time in the car; they could have been talking the whole way. Punk knows that’s what Max wanted. But it just seems so pointless, so arbitrary. Why detail their return down to the minute when they both know things never go the way you expect them to – the way you want them to – anyway? Usually everything just blows up in your face and you have to improvise.Max tugs at his wrist and Punk goes, rising to meet his waiting mouth, his warm hands, his breathy little gasps. Yeah, things never go how you planned them to. Sometimes they work out better than you could imagine.They can worry about everything in the morning, Punk decides as he pushes Max to lie back on the bed, and if that fails, they’re evidently very good at improvising.
—
All they’d really discussed on the drive from New York to Chicago was the scene they’d left behind them. They hadn’t cleaned up any of the mess but that wasn’t the issue. In fact, they were banking on circumstantial evidence to point the cops towards Caster. No, what they couldn’t agree on was whether or not to call in an anonymous tip or wait and see if Caster would do it himself. Max had been all for the latter, insisting that Caster was just such a blind idiot that he’d dig himself into trouble without any extra help. Punk wasn’t convinced. It felt like taking a chance on something they couldn’t really control. Plus, he knew Ellis and Williams (if they were still heading the case) and they weren’t dumb. But Max had the phone, so he got the final say. They didn’t call.Okay yes: Punk does know that he could have pulled over and found a phone if he really wanted to. That’s how he’d called Joe the day before, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to win the argument. Or at least wind Max up enough so that even if Punk didn’t technically win, he still got to see Max all riled up and squirming. That much is a victory in and of itself.He’s getting a similar flush of victory now as he digs through his kitchen knife drawer, listening to Max go through a detailed list of why Punk should do what he wants him to. It’s a long list, Punk tunes out most of it – keeps searching for what he’s looking for. It’s in here somewhere, why does everything go missing just when you need it?‘And finally,’ Max is saying from his seat at the kitchen table where he’s being no help, ‘you literally did one last week so you can’t say you’ve moved on.’‘I’m not writing another LiveJournal entry, Max.’ Punk doesn’t turn around but he can feel Max’s glare on the back of his head. Cute. Now get over here and help me look. He doesn’t say that. It’s really a one person job.Or he doesn’t think he says it, but Max comes to lean against the counter top and peer into the drawer like he heard it anyway.‘There.’ He points and, sure enough, there’s the knife sharpener lodged down the side of the plastic insert that holds the rest of Punk’s cooking utensils.‘Thanks,’ Punk grunts.‘Think you might need glasses, old man.’ Max dodges the eye-poke Punk tries to get him with and comes up beaming, hands held up in acquiescence. Not that he’s surrendered his original topic: ‘But seriously dude, you can’t just end it on some soppy over-emotional anonymous post like that. Where’s the catharsis? The narrative conclusion?’‘Okay, first of all dude: ‘over-emotional’? Really? Nice toxic ideal of masculinity you’ve got there. Secondly? Let’s be real, you were probably crying like a girl over all the nice shit I said about you. You brought me back… This is probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me… I know you Max. You probably got hard over all that stuff. Did you jerk off to my love letter with your own tears, Maxwell?’Max tilts his head. ‘Actually, I had a panic attack.’Punk can picture it: Max flushing red as he struggles to catch his breath, cradling his phone in his lap as his hands tighten more and more, threatening to break the screen. It’s easy to forget just how young Max is sometimes, how vulnerable. But Punk has had reminder after reminder thrown in his face these past weeks. Something like guilt tugs at his gut.He opens his mouth to– What? Apologise? To do something anyway, when he glances at Max. The guy’s grinning like a maniac.‘Your face,’ he wheezes between laughs. ‘Priceless. For someone who works the crowd as much as you do you’d really think you’d be able to tell when it’s happening to you.’Punk takes the sharpener out of the drawer and points it at Max. ‘I’m not writing another entry.’
—
Holding a knife against Max’s skin is strange. He’s done it before of course. In this very bathtub even: slid a blade lightly over Max’s forehead and watched as he bled all over himself. Punk was never going to get that night out of his head. Max kneeling in front of him, dripping red, eager-eyed, his neck bared at Punk as he looked up at him: it was like Punk had transported them back to the ring.In a way, what he’s about to do now will bring them back to the ring too. Bloodied and shocking and alive. It’s funny, it all seems to have originated from that one match. Everything they’ve done since just a desperate spiral as they try to claw their way to something they’ll never get back.But that’s not true either.Punk glances up at Max’s face. He’s concentrated on the spot where the cold metal meets his skin just above the bend of his elbow but he must feel himself being watched because he raises his eyes to meet Punk’s. He looks a little spooked, anticipating the pain maybe, but there’s something beyond that too, something familiar.This didn’t start with the dog collar match. The way Max is looking at him now is the exact way he looked at him the first time they were in the ring together. Max’s hand held out between them, smug and expectant on the surface. But beneath, beneath there was nothing but starstruck nerves and the oldest kind of desire.That’s what Punk sees on Max’s face now, just below the thin layer of anxiety you get right before a show: want and love. And something new too: trust.For the first time since they met, Punk is in a position to hurt Max and Max trusts that he won’t. Knows that he won’t. It’s the little victories in life, you know?Max hisses as the knife splits his skin and digs his fingers into the back of the hand Punk gave him for support like a vice. Punk shushes him with soft encouragement and presses a kiss in the side of his head.Okay, so technically Punk is hurting him. But not in a way that counts. Not in a way either of them don’t want.Max stays clutching at his hand as they sit and watch the slow drip of his blood into the bucket below. His hold is so tight Punk is sure he’s going to break something if Max doesn’t let go, or at least wind up with some pretty impressive bruising. It’ll be worth it though. For this, for their final showstopper, for Max, it’ll be worth it.Punk’s not sure how they ended up doing it this way. Max spent a long while expounding over scarring and the threat of muscle damage, the risk of infection, about how much more hygienic and clean and simple a needle would be, but Punk can’t remember ever suggesting they do it like this. And despite all that, here they are: huddled over a bucket. Punk’s not complaining though; he wasn’t exactly keen on having track marks on his arm.The bruise on the inside of Max’s elbow has long since faded in the weeks since he bled himself in this very room. But Punk thinks he can still see the small holes there, two tiny pinpricks of red, one from where he missed, the other where the needle sank home.Punk’s own arm is still only scabbed over. He’d probably cut deeper than necessary the last time, probably did some damage to a tattoo or two as well, too caught up in the homicidal fantasies he was cooking up to notice that he was taking his anger out on himself. It’s going to scar, a nice straight one right under the more jagged white line from the first time round. They curl around his left bicep, irremovable reminders of the past.When it comes to his turn, he tells Max to cut his right arm. Somewhere Punk would have trouble cutting himself, somewhere fresh. He wants to keep this memory separate from the others, even though he knows they’ll always be linked, overlapping like superimposed film as time ticks on. Maybe one day he won’t be able to tell one memory from the other. They’ll all look the same.Max isn’t doing much to help Punk distinguish between time. Once his arm is wrapped in a bandage and the knife – now in his hand – has been wiped clean, he goes to his knees on the tiles, positioning himself in front of Punk where he’s perched on the bathtub. To have Max like this: gazing up at him like he’s the centre of the universe – the only thing worthy of Max’s attention – it’s something Punk will never get tired of no matter how often he sees it. And he has seen it a lot now.But there’s variation too. Like now, when, before bringing the knife down on Punk’s right arm, Max brushes his thumb over his left and all the tender flesh still knitting itself back together. It’s either unconscious or completely deliberate (Punk’s willing to bet on the latter considering who he’s dealing with) but Max runs his tongue over his bottom lip, pulling it back to hold it between his teeth. To bite it.Punk can still feel Max’s tongue licking up the blood from the cut Max is barely touching now. Can still feel the sting of it as his tongue parted the skin on either side and pushed inside.He tries to suppress the shiver that runs through him. The look Max sends him tells him he did a bad job. That Max knows exactly what he’s thinking about.But they have a job to do, a crime to stage, a return to make, so Punk shakes his head. ‘Come on, just do it.’Max rolls his eyes but, as always, he does what Punk tells him to.As Punk’s arm starts to sting, and then hurt in earnest, Punk realises it’s the first time Max has cut him. The first time Max has cut him here anyway. Not the first time Max has made him bleed, not by a long shot, but still. It’s something special. Something of a milestone.Distantly, he wonders if this will be the last time either of them bleed in this bathroom. He looks at the glee in Max’s eyes, as he watches the blood race down Punk’s arm and drip down into the bucket to join his own, considers the light giddy feeling Punk’s feeling himself. No. It won’t be the last time. Not by a long shot.
—
It’s still technically Tuesday, but Punk thinks it’s late enough to call it morning. Missouri’s only a four hour drive – barely anything at all compared to what they’ve been doing recently. Still, if they want to get there in enough time to prepare before for tonight’s show they have to leave early.In the kitchen, Max is still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fusses, making sure there’s enough food in Piper’s bowl, that the tap is left just slightly on so that she can get water if she wants it. Apparently she only drinks running water. Max tells him she has a purpose-bought fountain in his apartment to drink from.That is the most spoiled cat in the world, Punk thinks, not for the first time. But he holds his tongue. Not because he thinks he needs to censor himself around Max. Just because he knows that isn’t the issue right now.Max spent the last few weeks miserable that he was so far away from Piper. Now he has to leave her again. It’s only for a few hours, they should be back late tonight, but Punk gets it. He gets a bit emotional saying goodbye to Larry too.Larry doesn’t though. He doesn’t seem to know, or care, about what’s going on around him, content to just sit in bed and watch his new friend hop around the raised surfaces in the room. She’s avoiding him, but he doesn’t get that. Larry’s got that kind of ignorant hope that’s undefeatable. It’s infectious. Punk can’t help but think that maybe someday, with enough exposure, the two of them will learn how to co-exist. Maybe.He gives Larry one last kiss on the head and heads out to the door to wait for Max. After a few minutes he joins him. He’s got smudges of blood drying on his skin, and red stains all over his clothes. Punk looks just the same. The cuts on their hands from Caster’s broken coffee table and the odd bruise here and there adds to the effect. They look like they survived some kind of life-or-death struggle.Punk guesses that’s not entirely false.He brushes an odd looking blob of blood away from the corner of Max’s mouth. For a minute he wonders what it would taste like but decides against tempting fate with a blood disease. They’ve painted themselves in a mix of both their blood. It seemed fitting that way. Like tying a neat bow on the whole thing.Here we are, covered in ourselves. I can’t tell where you begin and where I end. Romance all the way down.Punk and Max leave Punk’s house on a Wednesday morning (technically, Tuesday night), alive and well. But the rest of the world won’t find out until this evening.