Hate to race

Australia 1.2

Charles hurried Max out of the hospital, half carrying him as they slipped into the dark streets, the cool night air biting at their skin. He didn't know where they were going, his mind racing as he weighed his options.

Max needed to be away from this place, away from whatever had sent him spiraling into panic.

He looked around, thinking fast. His hotel wasn't far—too far for the team or anyone to notice.
It would have to do.

After what felt like hours, though it had only been minutes, they reached the hotel. Charles fumbled with the key, pushing open the door.
Max was pale, eyes wide, still trembling.

He kept muttering under his breath, disconnected words, things that made no sense. Charles hated seeing him like this—so broken, so unlike the Max he fought on the track.

Max could barely keep his eyes open. The events from earlier—the hospital, ripping out the IV—were a blur, and he felt somehow worse now than he had then.

Charles led him inside, guiding him toward the couch. Max was grateful just to sit down, but the moment he did, the room seemed to tilt and spin around him.

His body felt heavy, too heavy, and his head was pounding.

Something wasn't right.

Max looked down and noticed a spot of blood spreading on his sleeve. He winced, remembering how he had torn out the cannula at the hospital.
The bandage had come loose, and his arm was bleeding again, but he hadn't noticed until now.

"Shit," he muttered, staring at the dark red stain.

Charles, still moving with a kind of rushed, nervous energy, turned his head sharply at Max's words. His eyes widened when he saw the blood. "You're bleeding," Charles said, quickly moving to his side. "Fuck, why didn't you say something?"

Max tried to shrug, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. "I didn't... realize," he mumbled, his words slurred.

He could feel his body giving up, his strength slipping away with each passing second. The dizziness grew worse, and he closed his eyes, hoping it would help, but it only made the nausea stronger. He felt himself sinking deeper into the couch, his limbs going limp.

"Max?" Charles's voice was sharper now, more urgent. "Hey, no. Stay awake."

Max's head lolled to the side as he fought to stay conscious.

He could barely make sense of what was happening. The pain, the exhaustion, the memories of everything that had gone wrong—it was too much.

He could feel himself drifting off, the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.

"No, n—.." Max murmured weakly, trying to fight it.

Charles was suddenly right in front of him, gripping his shoulders tightly, shaking him a bit. "Max, no. Stay with me. You can't pass out, okay?" His voice was tight with panic.

Max blinked sluggishly, his vision blurring as he tried to focus on Charles's face.

It was so hard to keep his eyes open, so hard to stay awake. His head swayed, and he felt Charles's hand lightly slap his face, trying to wake him.

"Come on, Max, wake up," Charles urged, slapping him gently again. His other hand was already working on Max's arm, trying to stop the bleeding. "You're okay, you're gonna be alright."

Max groaned, but it was more a sound of exhaustion than anything else. He was aware of Charles working quickly, wrapping his arm, stopping the blood, but it was hard to focus.