Hate to race lestappen

Branches Don't Break

Max's place was too neat for someone like him—modern and silent, with walls that didn't echo but held things in. They filled it with life. With mornings spent barefoot in the kitchen, with Max making coffee too strong and Charles refusing to drink it unless it came with something sweet.

With late afternoon walks when they said they needed air but really just didn't want to talk about racing. With nights where the silence didn't weigh on them anymore. Just being close was enough.

It was everything Charles wanted. And it scared the hell out of him.

He would wake up sometimes and just watch Max sleep beside him, curled on his side like it was the only way he ever really rested. Charles would trace over the bruises under his own skin, still faintly visible, and remember the hospital—how he'd opened his eyes and seen him there.

And that was it. All the anger, all the frustration, the hurt he'd carried around for weeks—it had disappeared like it was never real. Like it had only existed to pass the time until Max came back.

Charles knew that probably wasn't healthy. He'd read things, heard people say it wasn't right to forgive so fast. That love shouldn't mean erasing pain.

But what if it did? What if love was the thing that made forgiveness feel like breathing?

He didn't know.

They'd talked, at least. About the things that happened after the attack. Max had told him about Jos. About the fight. About how he promised it was over—that Jos would leave them alone now.

Charles believed him.

Max hadn't cried or broken or collapsed under it, but there was something in his voice that had been different.

And Charles had said sorry, too. He'd admitted he ignored him when it mattered. That he shut down, when maybe Max needed him loud. They both fucked up, and somehow, they were okay. Because they wanted to be.

Charles never stopped loving him.

He didn't even realize how much until Max stood in front of him again.

But still—some nights, doubt would creep in. Not about Max. About everything else.

The championship was too close. A handful of points separated them. After everything, they were still rivals on paper, on track, in headlines.

Charles didn't know how to separate the adrenaline from the affection. He was scared that when the season returned, so would the noise. The tension. The silence between them.

That racing would demand something from them they couldn't give without tearing at this fragile, strange thing they had now.

Max never said anything about it. And Charles didn't ask.

They were okay. And that was enough—for now.

But he couldn't help but wonder: How long could they keep being okay before the world asked them to choose again?

Charles kept thinking that. Like if he said it out loud, something would shift, or a hole would tear in the quiet peace they'd somehow fallen into. Like he was waiting for the catch.

Because there should be one, right?

A weeks ago, he had woken up in a hospital, half-drenched in pain, confused and angry and lost. A week ago, Max was still someone he loved but couldn't look at without feeling a little sick. A week ago, they were barely speaking.

And now they were here. In the sun. In something that felt like forgiveness even though they hadn't written it down or explained it all the way through.