Hate to race lestappen

Could've Been Worse

Charles woke up to sunlight spilling through the pale curtains of his childhood bedroom, bright and soft and entirely too loud. He blinked slowly, confusion already sitting heavy on his chest before he could even think.

This... wasn't Daniel's yacht.

He sat up quickly, a very bad idea.

The world tilted on its axis and his stomach turned with it. His head felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull and left it on repeat. Every beat of his heart echoed in his brain like a drumline.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, swinging his legs off the bed, hands immediately gripping the mattress to anchor himself.

His room. He was in his room. At his mother's house. The same bed he'd slept in as a kid. The same dumb f1 poster on the wall he never took down.

How?

Fuck if he remembers.

He stood up, then immediately regretted everything.

Stumbling across the room, he barely made it to the en suite bathroom before he fell to his knees and threw up into the toilet. He clutched the porcelain like it was the only stable thing left in his universe, and honestly, maybe it was.

He'd never been more thankful for a bathroom connected to his room.

When it was over, he rested his forehead against the cool seat, eyes closed, breathing hard. He felt like death. He looked like death, probably. But weirdly—under the nausea, the pounding headache, the shame of last night's blackout—he also felt lighter.

God, he really wished he didn't remember what he'd said to Max. The words were like foggy little knives in his head. He didn't want to think about them, couldn't even let himself dwell on it yet. His brain couldn't process anything past need water bad, bed good right now.

Charles rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, then stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot. And he was missing his shirt.

Sighing, he made his way back into his room, rifling through a suitcase still unpacked from his trip to Ibiza, until he found a plain white one. He threw it on, the fabric soft and loose against his skin, still slightly cold. His shorts from last night still on, but he didn't have the energy to care.

He padded out of the room, towards the familiar stairs, barefoot and heavy-footed.

Because seriously, what the hell happened last night? How the fuck had he gotten here?

Charles shuffled down the stairs like a man who had just clawed his way back from the dead. The kitchen tiles were cold under his feet, and each step felt like it echoed straight into his skull. His head was throbbing, stomach still swaying from earlier—and if he hadn't already vomited what he was sure were parts of his internal organs, he definitely would've done it again.

He moved on autopilot, heading straight for the cabinet where his mother kept the emergency painkillers. He popped two into his mouth dry, grimacing as they caught on the back of his throat, then reached for a glass and turned the tap on full blast.

He chugged the water like a lifeline, bracing himself against the counter with one hand, willing his body not to rebel again.

"Morning, sunshine," came Arthur's too-chipper voice from behind him, and Charles nearly dropped the glass.

He turned slowly, half-expecting his brother to be wearing a halo of mockery—and sure enough, there it was: Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, bowl of cereal in front of him, grinning like the smug bastard he was born to be.