Hate to race lestappen

We Ignite Silverstone

Note: This chapter contains sensitive content. If you are easily triggered or would prefer to know specific warnings beforehand, please scroll to the end of the chapter for a detailed trigger warning.

*

Max didn't mean to say anything.

That day in the interviews, when his voice cut through the room like a blade, when he snapped before he even thought about what he was doing—he hadn't meant to.

It wasn't calculated. It wasn't planned. It wasn't even real in his mind. Just another moment that would blur into all the others, another dream within a dream within a dream.

To be honest, he didn't really remember.
That wasn't new.

For over a year now, maybe longer, things just—faded. He woke up and couldn't remember what he ate the day before. If he ate at all. Conversations felt like echoes in his head, things people said dissolving before he could process them. He'd forget entire days if they weren't tied to something strong enough to stick—like pain, or fear, or anger.

The bad things stayed. Those were carved into his brain, into his fucking bones. His childhood, his father's voice, the accidents, the fights—all of that was sharp. But the good? The quiet moments? The laughter? He swore those disappeared before he could even hold on.

It killed him that he couldn't remember what he thought half the time. That when the interviewers asked about his father, or about Charles—fuck, especially about Charles—he had nothing to say. Not because he was hiding anything. Not because he wanted to keep his life private.

But because he genuinely didn't remember.

And that made him angry.

Max had spent the last few days doing everything to shove it down. The rage that burned under his skin, the irritation that came for no reason, the frustration he couldn't understand. He knew he had been too fucking much in that interview, knew the way he snapped at the media guy was uncalled for, knew he shouldn't have let his temper flare—

But he couldn't help it.
He couldn't stop himself.

It wasn't even about Charles. Not really. It wasn't about what was asked. It was the feeling of something scratching at his brain, something slipping through his fingers, something lost in the fog inside his head that made him feel like he was fucking drowning.

So, yeah. He had walked out.
And, yeah, he had ignored Charles.

Not because he was mad at him. Not because he wanted to. But because Charles was the only person who ever looked at him and saw it.

Saw the way his hands clenched and his jaw tightened. Saw the exhaustion on his face, the way his mind scattered, the way he wasn't okay.

Max didn't want Charles to see that.
He didn't want anyone to see that.

So he ignored him. It was the right thing to do.

Because what the fuck was Max supposed to say if Charles asked? If he wanted to know something simple, something that normal people would know about themselves—like their favorite fucking color—and Max had no idea?

What would Charles think if he knew Max didn't even know who the fuck he was anymore?

Max clenched his teeth, shaking the thought out of his head. He was better now. Better than before, at least.

He wasn't drinking much anymore. He barely even talked anymore. He had stopped smoking weed entirely—not that he ever really had before, but now it was completely off the table.

Charles didn't need to know that the cigarettes he had weren't even his.

That he had stolen them.
That he didn't know why.
That he just wanted out of his head.