Hate to race

Monaco 3.2

As they ran, the world around them blurred—just dark shadows and pounding rain. The streets of Monaco, usually so vibrant and full of life, now felt empty and cold, like a maze neither of them could escape. Charles's chest burned with every step, his breath ragged from the sprint.

He could barely see through the rain, but he wasn't slowing down. He couldn't.

Max was in front of him, not looking back, his pace quickening with every step, driven by something Charles didn't understand. He was running, and Charles was chasing, but it wasn't the kind of chase Charles had ever been prepared for.

He was desperate now, calling out Max's name over and over, but the sound was swallowed by the storm, lost in the cacophony of rain and wind. He was losing him, losing him to whatever storm raged inside Max.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Max stopped.

He froze in place, his back turned to Charles, standing there in the middle of the drenched street like he couldn't take another step. His body was rigid, but he didn't move, didn't look back, just staring ahead into the storm.

Charles, who had been closing the distance between them, finally stopped when he saw Max halt, his heart pounding as the adrenaline slowed. The rain soaked him through, dripping from his hair, but he didn't care about that. He was focused entirely on Max, on whatever was happening inside of him.

Max stood still, his body trembling, but not from the cold. It wasn't the storm. It was something else. Charles couldn't tell if he was angry, broken, or just completely lost in his own mind.

"Max..." Charles's voice was strained, his words coming out between ragged breaths. He took a cautious step closer, but he didn't dare reach out.

Max didn't respond. His hands were shaking at his sides, but he didn't move, didn't say anything.

It was like he was trying to will himself to disappear, as if the storm could swallow him whole and take away whatever anger, pain, or frustration was clawing at him.

Charles couldn't take the silence. He stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "Please, Max... Let me help you." His hand hovered near his shoulder, but he stopped himself before making contact.

Max finally spoke, his voice quieter than Charles had expected, barely audible over the storm. "I don't want your help, Charles," he said, each word heavy with an emotion Charles couldn't quite place. "What don't you understand?"

For a moment, the only sound between them was the rain, pattering against the pavement and the guttering of the storm. Charles's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He wasn't sure why Max was pushing him away, why he was so insistent on doing everything alone, but it hurt.

It hurt in a way that was more than just the storm outside.

"Max..." Charles tried again, his voice shaking just slightly with frustration.

Max's posture seemed to collapse a little, his shoulders slumping, but he didn't turn around. Instead, he whispered harshly, "I never asked for this. I never asked for any of it."

Charles stood there, the words hanging between them, unsure of what to say next. He didn't have all the answers. Hell, he barely had any answers. But the feeling of needing to help, needing to be there, only grew stronger.

But Max wasn't looking at him. He wasn't even acknowledging him. He was just... standing there, alone in the rain, his body trembling harder now, but not because of the cold. He was broken, and Charles didn't know how to fix it.

There was no more shouting. No more anger. Just the soft sound of the rain, soaking them both to the bone.

Charles was already lost in the whirlwind of his own feelings, trying to reach someone who was slipping through his fingers, like water.