Hate to race lestappen

Miami

Charles didn't let go of Max, even as the police sirens faded into the background. His arms stayed wrapped around Max's body, holding him steady. They couldn't stay here much longer—he knew that—but moving felt impossible. Max's breathing was uneven against his chest, the blood and sweat mixing on his shirt.

Max was quiet now, no more erratic anger, no more switching between fury and collapse. Just silence.
Charles didn't know if that was better or worse.

After what felt like forever, Charles finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Max's face. His skin was pale, almost ghostly under the smeared blood, and his eyes were distant, somewhere far away.

"We need to get back," Charles said, his voice low but firm. Max didn't argue, didn't protest. He just nodded, still looking dazed.

They moved quietly, slipping through side streets and alleyways, managing to avoid the police still combing through the area.

Charles kept glancing at Max, who was stumbling more than walking, and his frustration grew.
Max looked like hell.
His white shirt was ruined, stained deep red, and his face was a mess of bruises and dried blood. How was he still standing?

They reached the hotel after what felt like hours of weaving through the streets. Charles led Max through the back entrance, hoping no one would notice them. Thank God the police didn't know who they were, didn't see their faces clearly in the chaos. If they had, this would've turned into a nightmare.

They managed to get to Max's room undetected. Charles shoved the door open, guiding Max inside. The second they were in, Max collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. He layed there, staring up at the ceiling, silent and broken.

Charles watched him for a moment, standing awkwardly near the door. He was still angry, still confused, but Max looked so defeated, so lost. Charles couldn't leave him like this. He didn't even want to, despite the countless reasons he had to walk away.

Charles didn't want to look at Max any more than he had to, but he had no choice. Max was laying there, silent and barely moving, covered in blood. His white shirt was soaked, his face a mess of cuts and bruises.

"You look like shit," Charles muttered, more to break the silence than anything else. Max didn't respond, just blinked slowly. Charles sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Let me clean you up."

Max stirred, sitting up slightly. His eyes flickered toward Charles but didn't stay long enough to meet his gaze. "I'm fine," he said, his voice raspy, though even he didn't sound convinced.

"You're not," Charles shot back.
Max didn't argue further.

He winced as he peeled off his bloodied shirt, tossing it aside.

The fabric, once white, was now mostly a dark red, clinging in places where blood had dried. Charles tried not to look, tried to keep his focus neutral, but his eyes betrayed him, taking in every detail of Max's bruised torso and the trail of fresh and fading cuts scattered across his skin.

Charles cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. Picking up the first-aid kit and a towel soaked in warm water. Max didn't argue, just sat onto the edge of the bed, one hand covering his face. He seemed exhausted, barely acknowledging the situation, his shoulders tight with tension.

Max didn't fight him, didn't push him away this time.

Carefully, Charles wiped at the blood on Max's face, the anger from earlier still simmering beneath the surface but muted now.
He hated this—hated the fact that despite everything, despite the violence, the chaos, and the hate that burned between them—he couldn't stop himself from caring. Max's skin was warm under his fingers, his breath shallow as Charles worked in silence.