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“Go home, you idiot.” Max mutters to himself.
His feet operate on autopilot, carrying him forward as his mind screams at him. Slung over his shoulder in a duffel bag, the Triple B feels heavier than his last top set bench record.
The sky is beginning to spit rain, just to spite Max and his terrible ideas, and because of course it is in the shitty asshole back end of nowhere.
It’s New Year’s Eve. He is the youngest reigning AEW champion of goddamn world. He should be out slamming rats and popping bottles. What the fuck is he doing here?
He can barely feel his knuckles rapping on the front door, even as his stomach clenches and rolls.
His mind races ahead as the lock begins to turn. What if there are other people over that he’s going to have to stay in character around, who will be front row and centre for his obvious humiliation?
It’s in this moment that he turns on his heel, not moving anywhere near fast enough, to head back towards the filthy street. This was a bad idea.
“Aren’t you a little old to be playing knock and run, Maxwell?”
Max shivers, forces himself to breathe though the strange sensation that wells in his chest at the too familiar tone speaking his name, as smug as it is amused. He composes his face before he turns.
Punk is leaning in the doorframe, with his tattooed arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing ratty jeans and a faded tee, never one to indulge in proper lounge wear even though he’s no doubt a certified millionaire. The money he’s saved by purchasing decrepit hotel rooms or barely functional transport in the short time Max has had the displeasure of working with him is mind blowing.
Had, past tense.
Plastering a sickeningly saccharine smile to his face, Max turns curtly. As always, his mouth is running away with itself before he can get a handle on his words.
“It’s this new outreach program we have for pathetic retirees. Making sure they don’t off themselves during the holiday season. Bad for business, the image, you know?”
“Uh huh.” The older man rakes him over with his steady gaze. Max feels the strap of the duffel slipping from his shoulder, grabs it subconsciously, ducking his head unintentionally as he readjusts it.
He knows what this looks like.
“Are you going to stand there getting soaked to inevitably track mud inside, or…?”
To his own horror, Max is moving in the direction of the door before he can stop himself. Saving some face, he deliberately doesn’t wait for the occupant of the doorway to move, dropping a well sculpted shoulder as he passes.
“I’m not staying.”
“Good. I’ve got plans.” Punk says, just watches him with his infuriatingly dark eyes.
“We both know that’s not true, Stone Cold Steve Sober.” Max rolls his eyes. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes, indulging in the wet footprints he drags through the hall before he makes for the stairs without pausing.
The climb takes more out of him he anticipates. He blames jet lag, the busy schedule, the lack of cardio in his program. Ignores the odd sensation of comfort that settles over him, a weighted blanket of sensation that makes his eye lids suddenly heavy.
“So what’s your excuse, then?” Punk calls, bemused, from the bottom of the stairs before following at a respectable distance after him.
He claimed to know Maxwell so well, to have modelled him as a younger version of himself. If they’re so similar, the paths of their careers so intertwined by destiny, the mastermind can figure it out for himself.
Once he’s in the bedroom, Maxwell dumps his bag on the floor, temporarily forgetting the championship belt inside that peeks through the hastily zipped opening.
He lands hard on the edge of the solid mattress, engaging his core just enough not to fall backwards before toeing off one of his sneakers.
When Punk stalls in the doorway, he doesn’t even bother to glance down at the belt, even as the stylish redesign catches enticingly in the low lamp light. Max was expecting some smart ass comment about how the modifications are worse than Cena’s turntable travesty, but be continues to focus on the shorter man with that infuriatingly knowing gaze.
“Why is it so cold in here? Can’t you afford heating on your generous pension or do you just choose to go without?” Max snaps irritably, for something to say.
He nearly freezes when he realises there is a mirror directly in front of him, pointing his head downwards as he pointedly avoids his own reflection.
His hair is a mess of unkempt curls and half washed out product. Even his dutiful skin care routine can’t conceal the pronounced bags hanging under his glassy eyes. Abandoned the tanner and suits for sweats and the largest hoodie he could find, telling himself it was his best attempt at going incognito at the airport. Really, he was past the point of caring about his appearance, of giving a shit about anything.
“You look tired. Pale.”
The observation spoken out loud cracks open the fissure that had settled in the cavity of Max’s chest all the way through. He presses a hand there instinctively, attempting to catch his breathe as he holds himself together.
“Carrying the company will do that to you.”
Punk is suddenly kneeling in front of him, too close to seeing his failing attempts to hold himself together.
Because he appreciates the toll that being champion takes, always having to watch your own back. A parade of losers post Punk pose no real challenge, but they have everything to gain and all you need to do is make on false slip. The responsibility of knowing that even with paid flunkies, and contractual obligation and arguments with management, the only person that you’re going to fail isn’t going to be the fans if you drop the ball or the belt.
It’s yourself.
“Can I touch you?”
The request is so soft, so painfully earnest from the greatest liar that Max has ever know that it takes his own breath away when he finds himself nodding.
Calloused fingers cup his chin, but don’t force his head upwards. The fingers gently rest there, caressing. He’s never been addicted to a substance in his life but it takes everything into him not to lean into the touch that he’s been craving with the desperation of the truly afflicted for weeks.
“You’ve been crying again.”
Max stubbornly keeps his chin down.
Shit, he cannot start bawling again even as his eyes begin to itch. He thought he’d got it all out on the way from the airport. He can always blame the stupid red eye flight, or the poors spreading their germs.
“It’s allergies.” He lies, pathetically.
“Look at me, Maxwell.”
He glances up and the understanding levelled there is enough to make his composure shatter into a million pieces, the carefully crafted facade he maintains out for the public that demands it of him washing away effortlessly.
“Don’t.”
His head drops again as if his neck can’t manage to hold it up, helpless beneath the scrutiny he’s dodged for so long. There is no ring to roll out of now, no villainous obstacle to throw between them to block the path.
He’s chosen this.
To his surprise, Punk goes with it.
Max nearly jerks his leg away when he feels his sock being slipped off. Goes to protest, but Punk only grumbles, a gristly but gentle warning not to push this.
The younger man flops backwards, like a petulant child, but allows the fuss to be made. Making snow angels with his arms and legs, messing up and the bedspread and the laughter and cursing that follows from below, seems like the best possible way to streamline the process and break the tension between them.
“You’re such a little asshole.” Punk laughs after finally wrangling the shoes off his far from stationary feet.
The minor effort of fending off the distorted attempt at affection has left Max feeling like he’s gone thirty minutes in the ring. Instead of questioning whether he should be wrestling more actively, it just leaves him drained.
Laying down suddenly feels like a mistake. He mutters something unintelligible.
When Punk manhandles him out of the bed and up into his arms, Max’s brain lights up in a way it hasn’t in a while.
The older man smiles down at him crookedly, before finally, blessedly closing the distance between them. The kiss is excruciatingly gentle, the barest brush of his lips. It still leaves Max wanting, chasing desperately after the contact he’s been denied for so long.
“Needy boy. Let’s get this off you.” Punk chuckles, spinning them around. He grabs the hem of the hoodie and drags it up and over Max’s head without preamble.
It’s been a long time since they’ve done this. The younger man is only ever honest with himself, even if he’ll never speak the words out loud. He can feel the older man’s body pressed against his, both firm and soft, pliant and sure, as he wrestles himself out of the confining clothing.
Maybe this trip would be worth his while after all.
Max whines in disappointment when he’s deposited on a chair before the older man abandons him. He watches from beneath his thick eyelashes as the bed is turned down in a decidedly domestic, unsexy way.
His inner deviant pokes out it’s forked tongue in appreciation when he’s presented with a satisfying view when the older man bends over in front of him to smooth the bedding he’d previously rumpled.
“Been skipping leg day, old man?” Max teases, “You’re ass is getting flabby.”
“What a shame: You’re the one who travelled half way across the country for it and you’re telling me you don’t want none?” Punk glances over his shoulder, with a coy raising of his eyebrow.
He has the audacity to wiggle a little in his hideous jeans.
Oh, Max wants, alright.
“Shut up.”
“You can kiss the rim, as far as I’m concerned…”
The potential that follows from the banter is interrupted with a loud yawn that Max isn’t quick enough to suppress with his hand.
He feels as though he’s only been sitting for a second before Punk pulling him to his feet with a careful coordination that he doesn’t want to consider too closely. Being bundled up in the older man’s arms makes him feel ever bit of the age difference between them.
He pushes the young man back onto the bed, letting him free fall. The thud onto the mattress, the gentle bounce that deliciously stretches his compressed lumbar spine, causes him to sigh in relief after hours of being squashed into an uncomfortable middle seat in cattle class. He vows to only fly private from this moment forward.
Punk moves around the side of the bed, grabbing the edges of his sweats before pulling them down, cautiously untangling the material from the younger man’s ankles.
Max pillows his biceps behind his head, a cocky smirk on his faces as he flexes them invitingly. Freed from another layer, his cock begins to fatten up in his tight underwear in anticipation of the inviting prospect of finally having what it’s been denied for so long.
The expectant smile fades to an irritated glower when Punk takes his time folding his sweats and depositing them on the chair. He grinds his ass into the mattress, unable to help the desperate desire for friction.
“Ready for your nap?”
“Excuse me?” Max shoots upright so quickly in exclamation it nearly makes his head spin.
The old man had the audacity to stand there with his hands on his hips, grinning lazily down at him.
“Be honest with yourself. I know you’re…what do the kids call it…’down to fuck’, He even makes air quotes with his fingers, before repeating his hand on his hips, “But do you really think you’re up for going to town on me right now?”
It takes everything in Max’s extensive power to resist the urge to grab a pillow, blind him with it and then punch him in his droopy, annoyingly attractive face.
“As world champion, I am currently in peak physical condition, something you’ve never known the first thing about,” He retorts, spelling it out as his voice drops with sarcasm, “So yeah, I’m ready to rail you like any other ring rat.”
It was the wrong thing to say to get his way and comes out snippier than intended. He tells himself it’s just because he’s impatient to get settled between those unfairly plush thighs; bury himself in that thick ass and put the elasticity back into that saggy skin by smacking it red raw.
Punk nods as if considering, biting his lip. His tongue toys, ghosting the spot where the metal ring used to be before countering expertly.
“Okay, let’s talk performance. How many hours sleep have you had in the last week?“
“Enough.”
“Have you eaten today?”
Max’s lips screw shut into what is definitely a bratty pout.
Dammit.
“How about yesterday?”
“I’m cutting.”
“Bullshit. You’re not a prize fighter, despite the delusional rhetoric you tell yourself, and you’re not on the roster this week.”
“So you do pay attention to me, Daddy.” Max grins. He must be loopy from the travel because he can’t stop himself from preening beneath the undeniable attention.
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise, dipshit. And yeah, what if I do? I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands to keep tabs on my hot little piece of ass.” Punk rolls his eyes, before gently dropping to his knees to crawl up the bed.
The sight shouldn’t be as enticing as it is and Max feels his mouth go dry when the old man drags up his thighs, before settling in his lap. He presses the younger man back into the mattress with a hand planted in his chest.
Dragging a hand down over his back, he pulls his hoodie and shirt together up over his head. It’s such a douche move, but Max immediately finds himself attempting to swallow his own tongue in response.
Punk’s bare chest is possibly more delicious than he remembers, the faded tattoos covered with a smattering of dark hair. The lack of smooth surface makes some strange twinge in Max’s stomach, a reminder of how much he’s secretly missed not being on the road with him anymore.
The protest is swallowed up in the all claiming connection of their mouthes that follows. Any further attempt is aborted when the slick muscle of the older man’s tongue is pressed into the exposed opening.
Making out is fun, but his dick is insisting on getting involved in the action after going too long untended.
Max scrambles up onto his elbows, attempting to wrap around an arm around his neck to deepen the contact. In a manoeuvre that could’ve been stolen from MJF’s own playbook, Punk rolls off to the side, leaving Max to literally reach for him with grabby hands, achingly hard and empty.
“Tease.”
“You’re impatient, I get it...” Punk attempts to sooth, propping a hand under his head as though they’re engaging in consensual pillow talk. He knows it’s to stop himself from touching him further; distracting them both as he delivers his sermon in that self important way of his that makes everyone but Max sit up and take notice.
“Uh, duh!” Max replies dumbly.
Smooth play, dumb ass.
“I get it, but we’re not in a hotel room with thirty minutes before a match. We don’t need to rush…”
The bubble of desperation rises in Max’s throat, spilling out over his lips before he can stop it.
“Come on, don’t make me beg. I haven’t seen you in a month…two months? It’s been…”
Torture, he doesn’t say.
Punk cuts him off with another kiss that is slower this time, dreamier, drawn out in its effectiveness. It reminds Max of slipping into a bath after a long time on the road. It tastes like coming home.
They remain like that for a long time, moving gently against each other, defamiliarising. When they break apart, a thin line of spit hangs between their parted lips.
Punk licks it off, before making very deliberate eye contact.
“I want you, but I need you to fuck me properly.”
Max swallows, nods, rendered speechless by the blunt declaration.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to rest.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, I’m young and virile and…”
Even as he complains, Max is allowing Punk to reposition him both to be comfortable, rearranging the covers to drape around them.
He settles finally when the older man drapes a thigh over his own and pulls him close.
“I better find your cock pressed up against my ass when I wake up.” He snits, even as he feels his lashes fluttering shut.
A few hours of sleep won’t hurt him, especially if he can wake immediately to make the old man pay for the delay.
Punk chuckles before biting his ear lobe, making him squirm.
“If I don’t wake up with you inside me, I’m going to be disappointed.”
Challenged accepted.