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Summary
“How am I suppose to just keep turning up and doing this?” Charles whispered, head tipping back onto Max’s shoulder. “They don’t fucking listen to me. And I’m just shit at…”
“No.” Max silenced him by sitting up straighter, shifting Charles where he leant against him, carefully lay him back onto the mattress so his feet were still planted on the floor, his back stretched out. For a start, it would do wonders for the tension Charles obviously held in his spine. Second, Max could now straddle his hips, and with the lightening fast reactions he had, grab at Charles hands and pin them above his head, stretching his arms up too, hearing his shoulders pop and release some of the stiffness that sat there. “/You/ are not shit at anything. /You/ are one of the most talented drivers out there.”
After another abysmal race in Silverstone, Charles is done. He's angry, he's blaming himself. Max is done in a different way. Luckily, the same solution will help them both.