Hate to race

Monaco 3.3

Charles walked through the streets, the rain drenching him as the storm raged on.

His mind was a mess, and each step felt like he was trudging through his own frustration and hurt, carrying the weight of his emotions, unresolved and aching. The argument kept replaying in his head, the words cutting deeper with every step.

He wanted to be angry with Max; maybe he had every right to be after how hard he'd tried, only to be met with defiance and rejection.

But the thought of it made him feel hollow.

He couldn't be angry—not really—not when he'd seen how broken Max was beneath all the anger.

Something in Charles ached that he couldn't name. He'd tried so hard to break through, but Max's walls were too high, too solid, and Charles was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to reach him. And yet, the idea of leaving Max to face everything alone felt like giving up on something he wasn't ready to lose.

He couldn't lose someone else, not after everything.

It was a feeling he couldn't shake, the pull he couldn't quite understand, a sense that there was more between them than either of them dared to admit. He'd lost too many people, seen too much taken away, and he couldn't bear the thought of another person slipping out of reach.

The storm began to ease as he made his way back to his apartment, leaving the streets washed clean but empty. Charles didn't feel the cold or the wet, too numb and distracted to care. Once he reached his building, he barely remembered the steps to his door, his hands moving automatically as he let himself in, dripping rainwater onto the floor.

The silence inside felt overwhelming, a contrast to the storm he'd left behind—and the storm that still churned within him.

He forced himself into the shower, hoping it would calm his thoughts. Hot water replaced the cold, rinsing away the rain, but nothing seemed to wash away the frustration, the ache. He leaned his head against the tile, shutting his eyes, the memory of Max's face, full of anger and pain, flashing in his mind.

Charles wanted to fix it somehow, but every time he tried, Max only pushed him further away.

Finally, he turned off the water, dried off, and got into bed, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. The room felt too quiet, the walls too close, as he lay staring at the ceiling, his mind still racing.

He knew the week ahead would be difficult—facing Max, dealing with the unresolved tension between them, pretending everything was fine when nothing felt okay.

Lying in bed, Charles couldn't help but wonder if Max was okay.

He'd tried to shake the concern all evening, but the image of Max's trashed apartment, the glass scattered across the floor, kept surfacing in his mind.

He worried that Max might do something impulsive, something reckless, but then again, wasn't that what Max always accused him of?

Of making things worse, of intruding.

He tried to dismiss the worry, but it sat heavily in his chest, gnawing at him.

The upcoming race loomed large. It was Monaco, his home, and this year's championship was closer than ever.

Fighting Max for the title, on his own streets, had always been a dream.

But now? After seeing Max like that, he felt an unfamiliar reluctance, a hesitation that left him questioning if he could really push with that same edge, knowing the weight Max was carrying. The thought unsettled him.

He didn't want to lose—not in Monaco, not in the championship. But could he chase victory knowing the price it might bring?

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