Hate to race lestappen

Belgium

Charles didn't say much. He hadn't, not since waking up in that plane again with Daniel sitting stiff and silent at his side.

Not since the pain in his body stopped feeling sharp and started feeling like background noise.

He'd been home, in Monaco, under his own roof—but it didn't feel like home anymore. Daniel had refused to leave. Charles had told him to, more than once. But Daniel just shrugged every time and went about making tea or tidying up or pretending not to look when Charles flinched trying to sit down.

Charles hadn't showered. He couldn't.
He hadn't even taken off the shirt from the hospital until it clung too damply to his skin from night sweats.

He couldn't look at himself.

Couldn't see the bruises, the swelling, the marks that would fade slower than the world would allow him to explain.

The day had gone quiet. Daniel was somewhere in the kitchen, humming off-key to distract the weight in the air.

He knew Daniel had told him something. About a message. About Max being okay. That he hadn't left him on purpose. That Jos was keeping him on some kind of lockdown.
That it was complicated.

But Charles couldn't wrap his head around any of it. Max was okay. That was the important part. That was what he held on to. Max was okay.

Still—there was something in Daniel's voice that didn't sit right. Something withheld, maybe. But Charles didn't have the strength to dig for it. Didn't want to.

He just knew one thing with absolute clarity.

He had been attacked and left in the street like he was nothing.

And Max—Max had never said I love you back.

The thought lingered like blood under his fingernails.

Charles stood in the bathroom, shirtless now, staring at the white tiles of the shower like they might bite him.

He stepped in and the second the water hit his skin, his whole body locked.

His eyes snapped shut. He clenched his teeth. Brought a hand up to his chest. The water ran over his back, his shoulders, down his spine—but it wasn't warm anymore. It was cold, biting, indifferent.

The water hitting his scalp was nothing, it was harmless, but something cracked open. He flinched hard, nearly slipping. Pressed himself back against the wall. His hands trembled as he caught himself.

A sound came out of him. Not a sob. Just breath pushed through his throat like he didn't have control of it.

He didn't cry.

But something in him wanted to.

He stayed under the water until his skin turned pink and raw. Until he'd scrubbed his hands five times and still felt unclean.

When he finally came out, towel wrapped low, skin steaming, Daniel was waiting—gentle, quiet, and holding a little bag of makeup like it was first aid.

Daniel hovered in the kitchen now, pretending to check his phone, pretending not to look. The silence settled in again, heavy and unspoken.

Charles blinked at the ceiling, ribs flaring with every breath. Tomorrow, he would be in Spa.

Driving at 300 kilometers per hour with a body that felt like it might break in half.

And Max would be there too.

That was the part he didn't understand. If Jos was keeping him locked down, why was Spa different? Why could Max show up there? Why could they all pretend nothing had happened?