Chapter Text
After Wardlow betrayed Maxwell and left him lying in the ring, Punk didn't waste a second. He snatched the ring, made the count, and won.
Phil, all bruised and bloodied, grabbed the chain and celebrated with the crowd, who were loudly chanting his name.
Meanwhile, Maxwell... well, he was silently suffering over losing Wardlow and feeling the humiliation of losing to his childhood idol.
After Phil celebrated a bit longer, it was time to head to the hotel. God, he couldn't wait to get there, to rest and wash off the grime caked on his tattooed body.
Once inside, silence quickly settled in. It was heavier than the steel chain Punk still felt burning against his neck. The smell of iron and soap filled the air as he tried to scrub the last traces of Maxwell's blood from his knuckles. He was definitely going to take a long shower, to rest in peace and enjoy his sweet victory.
Of course, the fussy little brat wanted—needed—to get back that precious little object. According to him, Punk didn't deserve it; no one was better than the wonderful MJF.
The defeat still tasted horrible, so he decided to go to the hotel bar to drown his sorrows.
One tequila turned into two, and so on, until Max told himself enough was enough. He wasn't drunk yet, but that's what he wanted—to erase that night from his memory.
When Maxwell started his journey back to his room, he decided to find out which room that arrogant old man Punk was in. Obviously, he needed to get his precious item back.
Or... would he do it tomorrow? Definitely, tomorrow was a day off, until Wednesday.
But what would a coherent person in Maxwell's shoes do? They'd go tomorrow, talk nicely, and ask for the item back. But we know Maxwell's desperation weighs heavier. So, he'll go now, even if it's weird to knock on someone's door at 3 AM.
Committed to whatever happened, the politically correct Maxwell was nowhere to be seen. He went to Punk's room.
Someone had told him which room he was in. Did he believe it or not? Either way, Maxwell wasn't thinking straight, so he went to the one he thought was Punk's room.
Still no sound from the other side. He thought no one was there and was about to give up, but he'd already been humiliated enough, so what was one more try?
Suddenly, he heard something from behind the door. And... bingo. He was right.
He could see a completely different Punk. Asleep, wearing a worn-out band t-shirt and dark, greyish-green boxers that, in his eyes, didn't look half bad.
Maxwell was speechless; he hadn't expected that sight. Phil, for his part, said nothing, waiting for the young man with the enormous ego to speak.
The silence became a bit awkward, especially since Max hadn't showered, which was unusual for him. Phil cleared his throat, trying to snap Max out of his daze.
"So, Max? What brings you to my room at three in the morning?" Phil said, his tone tired and slightly annoyed.
Maxwell blinked, checking if this was real. It definitely was.
"Huh? Yeah, right, I came to get back something that's mine. Come on, Punk, I don't have all day to wait for you," the younger man said with that trademark arrogant tone.
"Oh, right, I guess you mean the ring. No. I'm not giving it to you. Couldn't you wait until tomorrow?" he said, laughing at the sight of Maxwell looking like a lost puppy.
"Don't you laugh at me, Phil! Give it to me now!" Maxwell's voice went up several octaves, turning into that childish tantrum he throws when the world doesn't bend to his will. He started waving his hands frantically, pointing into the room desperately. "That ring is a symbol of my status! It's my life! You're nobody to take it from me, you washed-up old man! Open the damn door or I'll tear this hotel apart!"
Phil rolled his eyes, noticing a couple of lights turning on in the hallway. He didn't want to deal with hotel security or a tabloid scandal tomorrow.
"Just get in, idiot. You're going to wake up the whole roster." Phil grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and yanked him inside, slamming the door shut.
Maxwell stumbled in, fists still clenched. The smell of cheap tequila coming off him was unbearable.
"You stink, Max. Of cheap booze and desperation," Phil said, crossing his arms, blocking the way to the bed. "I'm not giving you anything in this state. Look at you, you still have dried blood on your face and you're sweating out that crap you drank."
"Don't tell me what to do!" Max yelled, though his voice cracked a little at the end. Exhaustion was winning the battle against his ego.
"Here's the deal: either you get in the shower right now and take off those disgusting clothes, or I'll kick you out into the hallway and keep the ring forever. Your choice."
Maxwell grumbled, muttering insults under his breath, but Punk's cold, authoritative stare made him back down. He shuffled clumsily into the bathroom.
Minutes later, Maxwell emerged in a cloud of steam, hair damp and eyes downcast. Phil handed him a black t-shirt, one of those old, soft cotton ones he'd worn a thousand times.
When Max pulled it over his head, he froze. The fabric was soaked with Phil's smell: a mix of plain soap, coffee, and that metallic scent that never quite went away. It was a "clean" smell, the smell of someone in control. For a second, Max's heart skipped a beat; he felt like the kid in the picture, the one who admired Punk above all else.
"It's huge on you," Phil commented with a sigh, breaking the spell. "The ring's over there, on the nightstand. Take it and go to your room."
Maxwell took the ring proudly, but when he looked at the door and then the dark hallway, his legs felt like lead. The alcohol was wearing off, leaving only a raw emotional exhaustion.
"I... I don't think I can make it to my room, Phil," Max whispered, his shoulders slumping, all arrogance gone.
Phil stared at him. He could kick him out, he should. But seeing Max there, in his t-shirt with red-rimmed eyes, made him sigh again.
"The bed's big, Maxwell. But if you try anything, I swear that chain match will feel like a walk in the park. Just lie down and go to sleep."
Phil turned off the main light, leaving only the faint glow from the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. He lay down on his side of the bed, his back to Max, marking an invisible but clear boundary.
Maxwell, on the other hand, was rigid. The feel of the clean sheet against Phil's t-shirt made him feel strange. He wasn't the "Better than you" anymore; he was just a kid from Long Island who'd lost his most prized possession and his bodyguard on the same day. In the darkness, the humiliation of defeat hurt more than the cuts on his forehead.
The silence started to weigh on him. Max slowly turned, looking at the silhouette of Punk's back. He could see the Pepsi logo tattoo on his shoulder and Phil's calm breathing.
"Phil..." Max whispered, his voice barely a thread.
"Go to sleep, Max."
"Do you really think I'm a brat?" The question came out unfiltered, stripped of all his usual arrogance.
Phil didn't answer right away. He sighed, and though he didn't turn around, his voice was less harsh.
"I think you're a talented guy who decided being an asshole was easier than being a person. Now go to sleep."
Maxwell felt a lump in his throat. Without thinking much, driven by that mix of exhaustion and alcohol-induced vulnerability, he slid a little closer. He timidly reached out and barely touched the edge of the shirt Phil was wearing. Not getting an immediate rejection, he gathered his courage and pressed his forehead against Phil's back, searching for that human warmth he was missing.
Phil tensed at the contact. His muscles stiffened for a second, and Max held his breath, waiting for the hit or the insult. But nothing came.
"I'm cold," Max lied in a whisper, even though the room was perfectly warm. It was the cold of loneliness, not the weather.
Phil let out a long sigh, the kind that says "I can't believe I'm doing this." Without turning around, he reached an arm back and, with a brusque but not violent movement, took Max's hand that was clutching his shirt and let it go, only to briefly intertwine his fingers with the younger man's before letting go and allowing Max to settle closer.
"Just for today, Maxwell," Phil said, his voice rough. "Tomorrow we go back to hating each other."
Max didn't reply. He closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of soap and Phil that emanated from the pillow and the t-shirt.
Maxwell didn't stop at just touching him. He needed to feel like he wasn't alone in that abyss of his defeat. With a slow movement, he slid his arm over Phil's waist, wrapping him in a clumsy, tight hug, hiding his face between his shoulder blades.
Phil froze. His mind told him to push this arrogant kid away, but his body, exhausted from the chain and the punches, felt a strange warmth. It wasn't unpleasant. It was as if, for a moment, the "Voice of the Voiceless" was finally hearing the silent cry of someone who needed him. Phil didn't return the hug, but he didn't move either; he let Max anchor himself to him until the younger man's breathing became heavy and rhythmic. He fell asleep under the weight of Max's arm, accepting that affection that no one else dared to give the "monster."
---
THE NEXT MORNING
When the first ray of sunlight slipped through the curtains, Maxwell instinctively reached out for that warmth, but only found the cold sheet. He snapped his eyes open, heart racing. He was alone in the big bed.
For a second, an involuntary smile crossed his face as he remembered the smell of the t-shirt and the solidness of Phil's back. He felt... light. Happy. But that happiness was replaced by a sharp emptiness when he saw the empty room.
"Phil?" he whispered, but only the sound of the coffee maker in the corner answered him.
Phil came out of the bathroom, already dressed in his own black clothes, looking impeccable despite the purple bruises on his face. Seeing Max awake and disheveled in his t-shirt, Phil raised an eyebrow.
"About time, Sleeping Beauty. Coffee's ready and check-out is in an hour."
Maxwell felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He had hugged him! He'd slept like a baby clinging to him! The panic of vulnerability hit him, and automatically, his face transformed. He wrinkled his nose and regained that nasal, arrogant tone that irritated everyone so much.
"It's about time you got up, old man!" Maxwell said, jumping out of bed and pretending to inspect his ring with disdain. "This bed is garbage, my whole body hurts. And your clothes..." he made a disgusted face, even though inside he wanted to pack it in his suitcase. "Smells like a thrift store. Give me my ring, I'm going to my actual suite."
Phil stared at him with that half-smile of someone who knows exactly what's going through the other's head.
"The ring's there, Max. And so's the door. Don't forget to wash your face, you still have a little bit of 'honesty' stuck in your eyes."
---
The hotel lobby buzzed with the electric energy of the day after a PPV. The air smelled of fresh coffee and the constant murmur of wrestlers and crew dragging their suitcases towards the exit.
In a corner, Phil leaned against the counter, a cap pulled low and a black hoodie hiding the bandages and bruises the chain had left on his wrists. He was talking calmly with Bryan Danielson when the rhythmic click of designer shoes on marble made several people turn their heads.
It was Maxwell. He was wearing an impeccable cream-colored suit, his Burberry scarf perfectly knotted, and of course, the diamond sparkling on his finger as if he were the center of the universe. His face held that trademark toxic confidence, though his eyes, if anyone looked closely, still carried the exhaustion from the night before.
"Well, well, well!" Max's voice resonated through the lobby, cutting off conversations. "Look what the tide dragged in. Phil, my dear, did you run out of quarters for the laundromat, or is that the new 'washed-up legend' look you're trying to pull to get some sympathy?"
Phil turned slowly. Danielson let out a small laugh and moved away slightly, letting the scene play out.
Maxwell stepped closer until he was just inches away, invading Phil's personal space, just like he had at three in the morning, but this time with a icy smile and eyes full of fake superiority.
"I slept like a dream in my five-star suite, surrounded by luxury and success," Max lied, lifting his chin to compensate for the height difference. "Not like some people, who look like they spent the night alone, licking their wounds in a single room that smells like defeat. You should be grateful I didn't have you arrested for theft, old man. That ring returned to its rightful owner because, at the end of the day, you're just a fraud living off past glories."
Maxwell laughed, a rehearsed, loud laugh, seeking complicity from those watching. Phil didn't flinch. There were no shouts, no insults, no tantrums. He simply straightened up, maintained his calm posture, and looked Max in the eyes with that analytical calm that so infuriated the younger man.
Phil glanced down at the ring on Max's finger, then back at his eyes, and let out a half-smile, short and dry. A smile that wasn't mocking, but pure understanding.
"I'm glad you got your toy back, Max," Phil said calmly, clearly enough for those nearby to hear. "I hope it gives you all the security you so desperately need."
Phil didn't wait for a response. He gave Max's arm a couple of soft pats—the same arm that had desperately wrapped around him just hours earlier—and walked past him towards the hotel exit. He didn't look back.
Maxwell stood there, smile frozen, heart hammering against his ribs. Phil's silence had been far more destructive than any promo. He had left him alone in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by people, but feeling exactly the same emptiness he felt when he woke up to find the bed cold.
---
The image of Phil raising his arm with the World Championship was still fresh in everyone's mind, but the news of his surgery and immediate departure left a strange void in the AEW locker room.
For Maxwell, the first few days were a festival of hypocrisy. He went out in his expensive suits, mocking the "fragility" of the old champion, saying the title should return to his hands by divine decree. But when the lights went out and the private plane dropped him at home, the mask fell off piece by piece.
Two months had passed since he last saw Phil. Sixty days without that look that judged him and understood him at the same time.
One night, unable to sleep, Max opened the bottom drawer of his closet. There, hidden beneath his authentic silk scarves, was the worn-out hardcore band t-shirt. He took it out carefully, as if it were a sacred relic.
He sat on the edge of his enormous bed and buried his face in the fabric. Phil's smell was almost gone now, replaced by the scent of the luxury fabric softener in Max's house, but if he closed his eyes tight, he could still feel the texture of Punk's back and the sound of his breathing in the hotel room.
"Damn old man," Max whispered into the darkness, clutching the shirt to his chest.
He felt pathetic. Him, the man who had everything, was taking comfort in a piece of old cotton because it was the only physical link he had left to the only person who had seen him be human for a few hours. During those two months, Max didn't just fight for the title; he fought against the urge to send him a message, to find out how his foot was, to know if Phil ever thought about that 3 AM hug.
He put the t-shirt on. It was still huge on him, and as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror, the reflection didn't show him the "Salt of the Earth," but that little kid who just wanted to be accepted by his hero.
"Come back soon," he murmured to the mirror. "Come back so I can hate you again. Because this missing you thing is killing me."