Hate to race lestappen

United Kingdom

Charles didn't know what to do with himself anymore.

It wasn't just the confusion—though God, there was plenty of that. It was the fact that he didn't even know how to feel, let alone what to do with those feelings.

He hated when Max ignored him. Despised it, really. It made his skin itch, made something coil tightly in his chest like a wound-up spring. It was like withdrawal, the absence of something he didn't even realize he craved until it was gone.

But then, when Max was around, Charles felt just as restless. He loved when he was.

Which made no sense. Because when they were around each other, all they did was fight, or dance around whatever this was, or—worse—get too close in a way that made Charles's head spin.

Their entire relationship—if he could even call it that—was built on chaos. It had always been this volatile, electric thing, too intense to be controlled, too unstable to settle into something normal.

And yet, Charles kept trying to mold it into something that made sense. Something he could understand.

He wanted to be the only person Max talked to. He wanted Max to seek him out, to trust him, to stop shutting him out like some stranger. He wanted Max to need him in a way that was dangerous to admit.

But every time he got close, Max would pull away. Or maybe Charles did. He wasn't even sure anymore.

All he knew was that they had spent the last week like strangers, not texting, not seeing each other outside of the few required obligations for Formula 1. And sure, most of that was because of their schedules—media, training, team duties.

But Charles knew it wasn't just that.

He felt it in the silences. In the way Max had deliberately avoided being near him when they could have talked. In how he had gone out of his way to make sure there was always someone else between them in meetings or PR events.

Max was ignoring him again. And Charles hated it. It made him angry, yes—but mostly, it made him tired.

Because what was he supposed to do? He couldn't force Max to talk to him. Couldn't demand answers when he didn't even know what questions to ask anymore.

Max was doing better than before, at least. Charles had to believe that. It was the only thing keeping him from cracking.

Because if he let himself think about it too much—if he let his mind drift back to those nights where he had found Max completely out of it, bruised and bloody, drowning himself in alcohol and drugs just to escape—he would lose it.

He didn't want to save Max from being hurt anymore.

Not because he didn't care—he cared too much, that was the problem—but because he wasn't sure if he could.

And he was tired of trying. He didn't want to be the one who had to pick Max up off the ground every time he shattered. He didn't want to find him passed out in alleyways or shaking in hospital beds or crying in his sleep on Charles' couch, whispering things he would never say when awake.

Charles clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the soft fabric in his lap.

The peace of a T-shirt. Max's. The one he had given him that night, after Charles had lost it.

When Max had almost died in Qatar, when Charles had relapsed.

His fingers brushed absently over the fabric, tracing the worn edges.

It wasn't something they talked about—just another thing on the long list of unspoken between them—but still, Max had noticed. And Charles had hated that, but also... he hadn't.