Hate to race lestappen

Austria

The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic clink of weights and the hum of an air conditioner. Charles wiped the sweat from his forehead, his thoughts drifting as he worked through his reps. It had been two days since the night he'd gotten drunk—so drunk he barely remembered half of it. But he did remember waking up.

He'd opened his eyes to the unfamiliar weight of someone pressed against him, their legs tangled together on a too-small couch. For a moment, he'd been too hungover to process it, but then he saw the mess of blond hair and realized it was Max.

The nausea hit him before he could think too much about why they were lying like that. He'd bolted upright, stumbling over Max's legs and into the bathroom. The rest was a blur of clutching the toilet, his stomach turning on itself until there was nothing left.

Max hadn't said much when Charles finally reappeared, just handed him water and made some vague, teasing comments about how ridiculous he'd been. Charles didn't press for details. Whatever stupid things he'd said or done, he didn't want to know. Max wasn't exactly the oversharing type anyway, so it worked out.

Yet he didn't know whether to be relieved or frustrated. He liked the idea of forgetting it, of pretending he hadn't said or done anything that might make things awkward. But there was another part of him, a quieter part, that wondered what Max thought, what Max felt. No.

He wasn't going to sit there dissecting feelings that didn't make sense when the next race was only a week away.

He shook his head, trying to focus on the weights in his hands. Across the gym, Max was finishing a set of deadlifts, his movements smooth and controlled. He looked perfectly at ease, as if none of this had affected him at all.

But Charles couldn't say the same for himself.

And as much as he wanted to bury those thoughts, they lingered, hovering at the edge of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

After the gym, Charles barely spared Max a glance as they walked to the parking lot. His bag was slung lazily over one shoulder, and his shirt stuck to his back from the lingering Monaco heat. Max veered off toward his car without a word, and Charles didn't bother saying goodbye. There was no need—friends didn't need constant acknowledgment, right?

Sliding into his own car, Charles let out a long breath, his head tipping back against the headrest. Turning the key in the ignition, Charles focused on the hum of the engine, the way it vibrated through the car and drowned out the noise in his head. He drove home on autopilot, the streets of Monaco blurring into a mess of light and shadow.

By the time he reached his apartment, the thoughts had dulled into a manageable hum. He stepped inside, dropping his bag by the door with a soft thud, and exhaled. The silence of his apartment wrapped around him, a familiar sort of loneliness that somehow didn't feel as heavy today.

Max didn't need him anymore—not in the way he had before. They were fine, normal. Friends didn't live in each other's pockets, and Charles knew this was the way it should be. Still, as he leaned against the counter in his kitchen, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was missing.

His gaze wandered to the window, where the city sprawled out beneath him. His mind itched with thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge, an undercurrent of something he didn't have the energy to name.

Why did any of it matter?

So what if Max had been worried, when Charles didn't show up at the airport?
So what if Max had let him crash at his place, putting up with all of Charles' drunken nonsense without kicking him out?

They were just friends now. Maybe not normal friends, but enough.

Charles took a long sip of water, forcing himself to focus on the cool sensation sliding down his throat. All he needed to think about was the next race. It was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that ever really had.