Hate to race

Monaco 2

Charles leaned against the railing of his friend's yacht, barely paying attention to the conversation around him. Laughter and loud music filled the air, but he was bored out of his mind, his gaze wandered over the nearby yachts, and he found himself scanning the boats out of habit more than anything. He was ready to call it a night when something caught his attention.

There, on a yacht just a few boats away, was someone —Max. Alone.

He didn't even need to see clearly to know it was Max—he could recognize him anywhere.

And he wasn't so proud that he didn't need to read the big ass "MV" sign on the side of the boat to tell.

But what caught Charles off guard was the unsteady way Max was moving, his stance loose, swaying like he had nothing grounding him at all, like he didn't have a care in the world.
Or maybe too many.

Max was standing alone, right at the edge of the yacht, his silhouette stark against the night sky. Charles strained to see, his mind jumping to the worst as he felt panic claw at him.

As if in slow motion, he watched as Max's form shifted forward.

For a split second, Charles thought maybe Max would catch himself, but he didn't.

Instead, he pushed off the edge, his body vanishing into the dark waves below.

The splash echoed through the quiet of the night. Charles felt a pang of fear he couldn't explain.

Charles stood frozen, his mind blank with shock. For one horrified moment, he thought Max had...he couldn't even finish the thought.

His friends' voices blurred into white noise around him as he kept his gaze locked on the water.

He couldn't move, couldn't even call out—he just stood there, helpless, with his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

Seconds later, Max's head surfaced, gasping for air, but it did nothing to ease the dread twisting inside Charles.

Max treaded water, his movements slow, like he was barely holding himself together. Charles's fingers curled into fists, fighting the urge to leap in and drag him back to safety himself.
Then beat the shit out of him for doing that.

Without really thinking, Charles moved. He muttered something to his friends about "getting some air," and snuck over to the small dinghy tied to the side. His friends barely noticed as he slipped away, quietly starting the motor and heading toward Max's yacht.

Max, meanwhile, seemed almost lost in the water. The cold stung, and his head felt heavy, like he couldn't think clearly.

He knew he was out of his depth, but he couldn't shake the numbness, the sense that he'd done this for some reason he didn't quite understand. He looked back toward the boats, trying to make out any figures, but everything felt distant, hazy.

Max shivered as he climbed back onto his yacht, water dripping from his clothes and hair, making small, dark puddles across the deck. The chill sobered him just enough to feel exhaustion settle heavily into his bones. He slumped onto one of the lounge chairs, still damp, staring up at the night sky with bleary eyes.

The stars swirled above him, distant and untouchable, like everything he couldn't seem to reach.

He closed his eyes, intending to just rest for a moment, but his body had other plans. The alcohol, the cold, and the loneliness wore on him, and before he knew it, sleep crept in, pulling him under. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling with a steadiness that he hadn't felt in days.

-

Every instinct told him he was overreacting. Max was an adult, and whatever he was going through was probably just...Max being Max.