Chapter Text
By the end of the day, the piece of paper in Max’s pocket has been thoroughly warmed up. He can’t feel it with every walking step, but he’s overly aware of its existence while he’s extra cautious when handling orders, afraid to spill something on himself more than ever.
Sebastian clearly side-eyes him the rest of the shift. Max tries to ignore it to the best of his abilities, tries to not show his excitement by sweeping the floor slower than usual and taking his sweet time wiping the counters. He doesn’t know if Sebastian notices or not, but the man simply takes his apron in his hand and waves him upstairs at some point with a smile unapologetically placed on his face.
He takes the stairs double, like he usually does, and plops down on the couch. Max doesn’t waste another second, taking the note out of his trousers and letting the fibers of it breathe.
The creases run along the scrap in a cross, and momentarily Max panics a little, thinking that he can’t read a digit anymore—but it’s been spared. Every single digit stares back at him, clear as day, in a handwriting so neat that he’s envious. His finger traces where Charles has signed with the nickname he had given him back then, all those years ago, confused at why he would refer to himself that way when they never truly got along.
Max is actively lying to himself when he tells himself that he doesn’t smile at it.
He’s had the entire day to think about why Charles would want to reach out, why he would refer to him as a friend, but he hasn’t found any answers yet.
They weren't friends. His father always told him that he's not to play around with other children, that socializing with people older than him would be better for his development—he’s not to waste time on immaturity.
So he didn't try to be friends with anyone. Went out of his way to pursue the lack of those relations. None at school, none when he was at the karting rink, and arguing was always the easiest way to deal with the kids at competitions. If they didn't like him, then his father wouldn't see them lingering around him—at least that's what he thought.
For some reason, no matter where he went, Charles would be in a five meter reach. Always just a call away. Not that he ever sought out conversation, but there was something about knowing another kid, being acquainted with someone, that was nice to think about. There were other contenders his age too, sure—he couldn't forget about George or Alex, Carlos too—but he talked to them even less.
But Charles had called them friends.
Max never had friends past the age of eight or so, so he wouldn't know what the word meant nowadays; Daniel certainly acts as if they were friends, and then there's Jenson who's only ever been nice to him and knows what he needs no matter what's going on. Sebastian would be a friend too, of course—but just maybe, maybe, the term brother would fit him better.
He's never voicing that thought though.
His mind still can't wrap around the situation. The want for contact.
He doesn't get to dwell on it anymore.
“Max?” Jenson's voice echoes through the halls, making Max perk up. Then closer, “Wanna help me with dinner? I could need a hand.” He's peeking through the door now, leaning against the frame. “Seb's still showering. And I don't feel like waiting for him.”
“Oh, uh, yeah—” He quickly folds the note back together and shoves it back down his pocket, a little aggressive as he gets up. “I can help.”
“Perfect. Come on, I wanna make pizza, like, actual pizza, not the store-bought-dough-bullshit Seb likes, and we get to pick the toppings—”
The note, and Charles, quickly move to the back of his mind.
Looks like all he needed was a proper distraction.
He still hasn’t messaged Charles.
It’s been longer than a week now. Nine days, to be exact—not that he kept count everyday, no—he just realized that today upon finding the note in his trousers again.
He was gonna do laundry. Now, he's sitting on top of a heap of dirty clothes, staring at it again like a deer in headlights.
He’s still not sure if he wants to message Charles. If he should. But, what he does know is that he feels bad—Charles had written in full caps, said to message him please, and Max’s biggest fear right now is that maybe he needs to tell him something.
So he suppresses the rising anxiety tingling in his chest, stretches along the floor to grab his phone and shakily types the digits into his contacts. His thumbs hover for a second as he bounces back between saving the number as Charles or Charlie, but he shakes his head and just settles on Charlie.
Not like he's going to tell him.
Digit for digit he checks the number twice, thrice, pre-types a message, deletes half of it, adds another paragraph, removes it just as quickly, and lets it sit there for a bit.
hey. im so sorry. i didnt mean to leave you hanging. did you need something? what do you mean, we were “friends” i thought you hated me howd you know i work here? its max
Maybe he shouldn't. The thought marinates while he stares at it. Thankfully he can’t see if Charles is online or not, because truly, that would only make it worse—he doesn’t use his phone often, on account of his father, but he does know that that option only unlocks after both have saved the other’s number.
He sinks a little into the pile of fabric below him, cold all of a sudden. Looks at the time on top of the screen, glances back down, rubs his hands together to get some feeling into his freezing fingers, contemplates some more.
“Fuck. I’m pathetic.”
He clicks send.
The first tick appears, then the second—and then he regrets it already and turns the phone around. It’s time to clean up and continue, he decides all of a sudden, so he slides his phone across the floor against the next wall and sorts the laundry into their respective baskets.
He can't do anything besides wait after putting the first load into the washing machine, so he folds the blanket on the couch and wipes the fabric down so it's the same light shade, adds a smiley and sits down for a moment.
He’s still antsy. If there's one thing he's learned from Jenson over the small time frame he's been here, it is that tea is a godsend. He walks to the kitchen next, puts the kettle on and grabs the tea Jenson always makes for him, and starts cleaning up there. There’s a lot more to do—dishes, wipe the floor, tidy the table—and he’s content with that, relieved even.
He’s in the middle of clearing out the dishwasher when Jenson steps in, probably having heard the kettle.
“Tea? Without me?!” he feigns betrayal dramatically, making Max giggle faintly through tight lips.
Max grabs him a cup in response, and puts the tea in that he always sees Jenson drink. It's some floral blend with mint—it bites at his nose, as strong as it is, so he wrinkles his nose.
He's got no idea what Sebastian's favourite tea is. The guy always takes something else, not even looking at the packaging—if he's drinking tea at all. Most of the time he's drinking coffee like his life depends on it, and then he has the audacity to forbid him caffeine.
Fucking hypocrite.
“Wow. That much of a hassle to make tea for me?”
“What? No, what do you mean?” The sound of water bubbling forces him to speak up. He takes the kettle off its stand before the switch can bounce back up and fills their cups—Jenson’s first, then his.
“You look like I pissed in your cup.” With a thanks Jenson takes his cup, bobbing the bag up and down in the water.
“No, it's not you,” he says, focused on sloshing the liquid around in a swirl. Lavender aroma quickly fills his senses. Thankfully Jenson is standing a bit to the side, far enough for the mint not to attack him.
Jenson takes a seat at his usual spot, confidently setting down the cup on the table Max just cleaned. Max follows suit, albeit much more careful when he sets his cup down, scared to spill some of the liquid.
“Who else pissed in your cup then?”
It's an invitation. To talk about what's bothering him—who is—and it's so damn appealing. Sebastian always has an open ear for him, but he knows Charles. As a family friend—what if he said something wrong?
He bites. “I had this—just this guy I've known for a bit now reached out to me. Like. He passed along a note with his number and asked me to message him. We haven't seen each other in a while.”
Jenson hums. “Good guy or bad guy?”
“Oh, no, good, definitely good.” But they argued a lot. And he doesn't know if their rivalry ploy had enemy notes to it. “No, yeah. Decent enough.”
But also: Friend.
“Kid from karting. My age. Actually—his birthday is just two weeks after mine. Never let it down that I was older than him.” He coughs up nothing more than a laugh. “Pissed him off real good.”
“So, old friends reconciling? Is that what this is?” Jenson presses out the teabag with his fingers, being the absolute maniac he is, and throws it into the sink. “Are you worried things have changed?”
He takes a second to think. “I don't… know if we were actually friends. So I don't know why he wanted me to message him.
“That's—isn’t that weird? You don't see the guy you hated for most of your childhood for a few weeks, maybe months, and then you track him down and ask his boss to pass along his number. What even—” His eyebrows pull together in confusion, expression portraying all of the conflicting thoughts he's had over the past days.
“And, admittedly, I kind of forgot to message him. But you can't blame me, okay, I feel bad about it.” Max’s hands jump up in a deflective manner. “I should've messaged him immediately, but then you asked me to help with something, so I forgot. I can't be perfect alllll the fucking time.”
Jenson looks like he wants to object, but he seems to know better and stays silent.
“And just now I found the note again. So I messaged him. By the way, what do you even say. The fuck? ‘Oh, hey, what the fuck do you want from me?’”
Jenson snorts at his bluntness, and takes the chance to remove Max's teabag for him. He'd forgotten about that, honestly.
“How about, and now hear me out, ‘It’s been a while. How've you been?’.”
“Okay, well. Can't do that.”
“Why not?”
“I already messaged him?”
Jenson's face lights up, and he takes a sip of his tea, looking at him like he's hit a gold mine.
“I just said, ‘Hey, it's Max', so—”
“What did he reply?” Jenson asks, leaning a bit forward from intrigue.
Max shrugs and looks to the side. The dishes still aren't done. “I kinda. Haven't looked at my phone since sending the message.”
Yes, he's embarrassed by it. Especially now that someone else knows about his pathetic behavior. He tries to talk himself out of it, “But, you know, I was cleaning. So I got an excuse.”
“Excuse, you say. You don't have to justify not seeing a text immediately, you know,” Jenson teases, all-knowing.
Another sip from Jenson's tea. His own cup is still filled to the brim, lavender colouring the water a pleasant violet shade—he finally takes a sip himself to stall a little.
If he thinks about it, this feels like an interview. And the teachers always told them to drink something during their job interviews—he didn't expect it to actually work.
Jenson takes the lead again, “How long has it been?”
The analogue clock on the wall reads 15:38, so it must've been around twenty minutes now. “Fifteen–twenty minutes?”
“You wanna take a look now?”
Max chews on his lip, peeling off some layer of dead skin. He's curious, yes, of course, how could he not be—but he's also not sure if Charles is planning on being nice to him. Or maybe he's too nice, which would throw him off as well—there are too many uncertainties. “I don't know.”
“Personally? I’d get it over with. And if you want me to, I can help you come up with a reply,” Jenson offers.
There's a drop running down the outside of Max's cup, and he wipes it away with his thumb, then licks it up.
He gets up. “Okay.”
“Alrighty.” Jenson gives him a thumbs up, and a moment later he's back in the kitchen, pulling his chair to sit next to Jenson instead of opposite to him.
Today
Max (15:19)
hey. its max
Charlie (15:24)
oh my god. max?? I didn't expect this to work
I thought maybe seb lost the note, haha
or forgot
he would
okay maybe not
[Deleted message]
[Deleted message]
ignore this
hey!
Jenson giggles as soon as he’s done with reading through the messages. “Looks like someone’s excited. He’s not even trying to hide it.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“What do I, uh.” He opens the keyboard on his phone and sets it down on the table so he can take it if he wants to. “What do I say?”
“Stick to my earlier suggestion. Ask him how he's been.”
“...But that's awkward. I'd never ask something like that.”
Jenson squints at him like he doesn’t believe him.
“We didn’t really get along,” Max elaborates, “which is why I’m confused as to why he’s reaching out.”
“Maybe he wants to befriend you now,” Jenson muses, and downs the rest of his tea.
When Max goes for a sip of his own, it has already cooled down significantly. He still drinks it, even though it leaves a weird aftertaste on his tongue. “That… doesn’t sound like him.”
Then, out of nowhere, three dots appear at the bottom of his screen—and Charles is online. Both of them simultaneously lean forward to read the screen, shoulders touching. When Jenson doesn’t even react to that, Max lets it happen, not pulling back.
The dots go on for a few more seconds, then disappear again. Max can’t hide his disappointment, leaning back in the chair and looking away.
“Oh.”
“No, give it a sec—” Jenson points at the screen and turns Max’s head back for him. The touch on the back of his head tingles a little. “See!”
Today
Charlie (15:40)
how’ve you been?
“What did I tell you,” Jenson says while grinning, and pushes the phone to him so he can answer. “Basic ass question. Can’t go wrong with that.”
He rolls his eyes, taking the phone into his hand.
Max (15:41)
ive been ok
wbu?
“Wow. Can’t get any dryer than that. And why the hell aren’t you using autocorrect—”
“Shut up. I don’t need it.”
“Okay then, Mr. ‘My spelling is perfect, but I refuse to use proper punctuation’.”
“I don’t have to do this with you, you know—”
“No, okay, I’m sorry. Go on.”
Max sighs. Of course Jenson would be too nosy to just let him go—he’s already starting to regret opening up to him about this, but what’s done is done. And despite the embarrassment, it does kind of help to have someone look over his shoulder.
Charlie (15:42)
me too! all good over here
“Ask him why he wanted you to message.”
Max follows the suggestion without a doubt, carefully typing it in.
Max (15:43)
any reason as to why you wanted me to msg you?
Once more, the dots appear and disappear before another message pops up.
Charles (15:46)
not really tbh, haha
Max furrows his eyebrows. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Teens tend to not make any sense.”
“You don’t make any sense either.”
“Ouch.”
Charlie (15:47)
I just haven’t seen you in a while
I was wondering where you’d been
and I heard some kid talking about you kinda
on the bus
Max (15:48)
what kid?
Charlie (15:48)
idk him, but maybe 2 years younger than us? brown hair, curly, not too tall
I get off the bus before he does, so I have no clue which school he goes to
“Kimi, maybe,” Max muses, trying to figure out who would talk about him. He doesn’t know a lot of people—doesn’t really know anyone besides Kimi and Ollie in that age bracket—so it’s got to be him.
Max (15:50)
howd you know it was me
like, who he was talking about
lotta people called max
“That’s a good one,” Jenson comments next to him. He merely hums in response. Meanwhile he’s genuinely wondering how Charles found him, despite the odds. He puts his chin on his knee, foot resting on the edge of the chair—Sebastian does it all the time, so he doesn’t think Jenson will mind.
Charlie (15:52)
he was gushing about a max, at this specific café shop thingy, whatever he called it
and I was curious?
Max (15:53)
?
Charlie (15:53)
don’t call me weird
but I had this gut feeling
so I googled the name for the address
and when I walked past the entrance I sorta saw you
Max is already typing about that being stalker behaviour, but Jenson grabs his hand and deletes the text. “Hey—”
“He told you to not call him weird.”
“I’m not calling him weird, I’m just saying it’s—odd. To be tracking me down.”
“Max,” Jenson scolds with that typical parental tone, but for some reason, he doesn’t feel threatened by it. “Be nice. He’s probably just trying his best too.”
“Fine.”
“And odd is just a synonym, you’re not slick.”
“Ugh.”
Max (15:55)
ok
Charlie (15:55)
ok?
Max (15:56)
thats fair
Charles (15:56)
so it’s cool?
we’re cool?
Max (15:56)
sure
Charlie (15:57)
cool!
Max (15:57)
cool
Jenson gets up with a groan and makes his way to the fridge, grabbing some vegetables and ground beef. “That’s the most awkward fucking conversation I’ve ever read, holy shit.”
“It’s not that bad, I don’t think.”
“It is. I’m gonna start dinner—if you’re stuck just ask me. You fine with stir fry?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Charlie (15:58)
lol
Max (15:58)
all this effort just to get my number?
Charlie (15:59)
it worked, didn’t it
and I thought it’d be nice to keep in contact
Max (15:59)
if you say so
Charles goes offline. When it doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer again, Max turns do-not-disturb off—for the first time in months—and starts helping Jenson with chopping vegetables. It’s starting to smell good—the meat sizzles in the pan nicely, stirred with various spices—and Max finally realizes how hungry he actually is.
Jenson turns the cooker hood on. It grates at his ears, way too loud to be necessary, and his skin is starting to tingle. He tries his best to ignore it, but he can’t turn his hearing off. So he finishes up the vegetables, hands sticky from the juice, excuses himself, quickly downs the cold residue of his tea, and flees to the living room.
The television remote makes it into his hands as soon as the door is closed, and he puts on the next best thing he can find. It’s enough to pass the time a little, and he’s cozy under the heavy blanket when the roaring noise finally disappears again. The show he found is pretty decent; they’re just renovating houses, and while he doesn’t care too much about the handiwork aspect, it’s interesting to watch the inside go from plaster to homey.
Jenson knocks on the door, and his head swivels to it. “You good?”
He nods silently. Jenson makes his way over to him and plops down on the couch, looking at what he’s watching—he doesn’t comment on it though. Max moves to turn the volume down, but Jenson waves dismissively.
“You got a new reply by the way. Wanna take a look?”
When he looks over to Jenson, the other is holding out his phone. He doesn’t even register the preview of the message, instead immediately unlocking the phone and opening the chat.
Today
Charlie (16:09)
I was actually wondering
are you free sometime? to catch up
Max’s eyes widen, and he quickly turns around with a sour expression on his face. Jenson laughs, a lighthearted sound that doesn't make him feel like the butt of a joke.
“Well, do you want to meet up with him?”
Thinking about it, he wouldn't actually mind. Thinking more about it, he doesn't know how to feel about meeting up with Charles separately, carrying an entire conversation; if Jenson already described their text messages as awkward, it can only be worse in person.
He never truly hung out with people his age. So he doesn't really know how to behave around them either—it took enough time to warm up to Sebastian, then Jenson, and he doesn't know if he's up to the task—especially considering it's someone he already knows.
Jenson seems to notice his hesitation. “You don't have to answer him right now. Just shoot him a text that says like, ‘I’m fairly busy right now, but I'll let you know when I am free,' or something. It's not a promise, but it's not outright a hard no either.”
Max lets his head fall into his nape, leaning against the backrest of the couch.
“Or just tell him to come to the café tomorrow. It's a Wednesday, nothing's gonna happen, so you can chat while working—and if I notice anything being off I can bail you out.” Jenson winks at him. “I'm great at acting, if I do say so myself—I’ve done this with my friends for ages. You know, if you're ever on a date, you can invite them to the café too and Seb and I'll make sure they're not a red flag.”
“Not a date!” Max finally rushes out, cheeks flushed red.
“I didn't say it was. But it's the same principle, sorta, so.” Jenson punches his shoulder a few times and Max rubs the spot weakly after just to have some sort of reaction. “Just shoot me a signal.”
At Max's confused expression, he elaborates, “That look of panic you always give us when Daniel comes in should work well enough.”
“I don't panic.”
“You sure look like you do. Anyway—dinner?”
The show he was watching still isn't finished. They're close to the ending too, so maybe he could stall a little. “Ten more minutes?”
“Sure.” Jenson grins at him, and before settling into the couch himself, he asks, “We can also just eat dinner here. Wanna do that?”
Max nods enthusiastically, and just like that Jenson gets up, tells him to stay put, and gets a plate for each of them.
The food hits the spot just right—it’s selfmade after all.
Homey.
Home.
It tastes like something that Max would describe as home.
Yesterday
Charlie (16:09)
I was actually wondering
are you free sometime? to catch up
Today
Max (00:04)
im at the cafe tmrw
today
after school, maybe 15
Charlie (00:06)
I’ll be there!
:)
sleep tight
Max (00:41)
[Read]
School drags the entire day. Despite loving math and physics, he can’t concentrate a single bit; his mind keeps on jumping back to Oh my god, I told Charles we could meet up and I’m so stupid and What do I even tell him. The formula to calculate a wave’s distribution stares back at him while he tries to figure out which variables to substitute, at a loss when none of them make sense.
Usually, he’d be able to solve this in a few minutes, always the first one to turn to the teacher for approval, but just not today.
Even the kid to his right has left him be today—normally he'd be trying to get a glance at his notes, or just straight up copy his solution. Today that guy is trying to solve the task himself, and Max somehow feels like he’s failed him, even though he hates other people stealing his work.
To say that he already regrets his decision would be an understatement. His knee bounces up and down nonstop, pure anxiety rushing through his veins. The Redbull he’s been sipping on is probably not helping, even less so when he hasn’t been able to eat anything yet, nauseous at the thought of it—he’s hoping to down the sandwich on his way back to the apartment, if only to not waste any food. Not when Sebastian and Jenson have been so nice to him—he can’t do anything else but be grateful.
The bell rings, and he’s bolting out the door as soon as it does, shoving a few classmates out of the way without apologizing. The bus won’t come in for another ten minutes, but it gives him the chance to breathe the fresh air and be out of the confinement called classroom. A few more minutes and he might’ve started getting truly claustrophobic—not because of the lack of space, but the lack of breathable air and eyes watching him.
He shoves his headphones on and picks the first playlist his eyes see; it’s some stupid upbeat mix Sebastian made him just a few days ago, but it’s shown itself to be nice whenever he needs a distraction. The bass thrums through his ear drums, helping him ignore the passerbys, and honestly that’s all he needs when on the bus.
Like almost every day, the bus is filled to the brim with students, all keen on getting home as soon as possible. Max would take the later bus, but he doesn’t have the time to wait another half hour—even though it’d be worth it—and prays that it'll be over soon. People press against him uncomfortably, and they almost make him let go of the rod he's got a life-saving grip on.
The doors open like a true blessing, like his prayers were heard, like maybe there is mercy in this world. The dirty plastered street has never felt this good below his feet.
Max opens his backpack while walking to the café, grabbing the sandwich and painfully downing it in as few bites as he possibly can, washing the whole thing down with the leftover water in his bottle. The rest of the way acts as some sort of after-dinner stroll, and he already feels less sick once he steps through the door.
He’s basically clocked in as soon as he makes it past the customers blocking the way. He simply dumps his backpack in the back, washes his hands and gets his designated apron that’s been thrown over some chair. Sebastian had made sure that it was clean, and when they first ordered it, he too was quick to personalize it—so now the plain navy fabric has little embroidered details, ranging from just his name to some tiny bees. Max is pretty sure Sebastian only did that because he doesn’t know how to do anything else, but he doesn’t mind—they’re pretty cute, with their bubbly shape and misshapen wings.
Jenson shoves a hot cup into his hands. It smells like cocoa, and he’s almost disappointed at the fact that it’s not the good arabico coffee when he remembers that any more caffeine will probably cause him to tip over like a felled tree. He takes a sip, and the chocolate in it coats his throat, but also makes him realize how much he needed sugar.
“You okay?” Jenson asks, multitasking, making a Latte as he does so.
He nods, maybe a little too grimly. “Just nervous?”
“Nervous?”
“I told him he can come over—” A glance at the clock. “—in twenty-six minutes.”
The lid clicks close on the cup. “Oh! You did? Actually? Lovely.”
“Sure, lovely.”
“You’ll be fine. Probably. Hopefully.” He shrugs, calling out the name to the order. “And if not, remember, signal.”
Max groans, but nods anyway to let Jenson know he remembers.
The two work in tandem for the remaining hour, quickly working through the lunch rush before Charles can appear. Max's nerves settled for that time, but as soon as he notices how close the clock is to striking the next full hour.
Not even a second later a brunette boy steps in, innocently looking through the room until his eyes meet Max's. He looks away just as quickly though, eyes scanning the blackboard foiled wall to the side.
Max isn't stupid. Of course he recognizes Charles as soon as he's got sight of him.
He is also genuinely fighting the urge not to duck behind the counter again.
Unlike him, he's got that pristine hairstyle, always groomed to perfection, and his clothes are always fresh as well. Max feels slightly self conscious now, still living off of Jenson and Sebastian's hand-me-downs, while he's literally staying at theirs like a parasite.
Jenson too noticed the shift in him, so when he glances over he merely asks, “That him?” and gets a faint nod in response.
“Loosen up, kid,” he reminds, patting him on the back as if he's trying to physically shake up his tense muscles. “Give him something on the house—doesn’t matter what it is. A drink and a cookie, maybe, and then just let him start the conversation—after all, he asked for this. The rest will come to you naturally.”
“If you say so,” he chokes out, taking a deep breath. Jenson steps to the register, waving the last customer in line to the front, while Max just hangs around the side of the counter. It's perfect timing too, because only then does Charles walk up to them, at exactly 15:01.
“Hello there,” Charles greets, and it sounds so nice that Max doesn't even recognize his voice at first.
“Charles, hello,” he replies, stiff as a board. “Do you, uh, wanna grab something and look for a table?”
“Oh! Sure? Aren't you on the clock right now? I don't want to get you into any trouble, honestly.”
“No, it's fine,” he assures, grabbing himself a tea. Coffee will probably do more harm than good right now. Jenson is rubbing off on him. “My boss—Jenson—he even offered to pay, so.”
Charles hums. “I'll just take whatever you're having, then.”
Despite not being hungry at all, Max grabs them two chocolate chip cookies and another tea. He keeps his apron on while they get seated close to the counter, fiddling with the fabric.
The conversation is fine. It's not good, it's not bad, but it's decent enough—Charles mostly just leads on with some small talk about school that Max matches, and both of them end up lightly laughing about their mutual hatred for English class and essays. They talk about work too—at least about what Max does for work and how he got there.
Then the topic switches. Charles skillfully shifts the tone and starts talking about hobbies, his own especially, and dread is settling in Max's chest like a bad premonition. He doesn't like where this is going.
“Why weren't you at the last two competitions? I asked around, and—and you know, everyone just said that they didn't know anything. That they hadn't seen you in a while.” It's said so innocently that Max has to run the question through his head a few times for it properly to register.
His stomach churns. He wants to escape, desperately—because this is the one question he had dreaded most.
Because he can't look Charles in the eyes and tell him that the thought of karting makes him sick. That just being near the smell of hot rubber and gas makes skin crawl, that every time he drives to the track he actively has to fight his fight or flight instincts, because in the back of his mind he associates karting with his father and expectations that are impossible to reach—so punishment is imminent and unavoidable.
Karting—competitions especially—always just felt like a place to fail, a place that'll always hurt you in the end.
His thumbs are tingling, he quickly notices—then the rest of his fingers and his chest.
Max wants to escape.
So he tries.
Stares at Jenson with an intensity he only gathers while on the track. The comparison already has him breathless, and it's only getting worse because Jenson isn't looking back.
Charles is still looking at him, with those considerate but curious eyes, and Max realizes that he's still waiting for an answer.
“I—uhm—” he stutters, looking for filler words, anything to fulfill Charles’s thirst for knowledge. He's fidgeting with his hands now, successfully suppressing the shaking in his fingers as he does so.
“I was just wondering,” Charles fills the pause, “like, are you taking a break? Or are you sick or injured? Cause I could see almost anyone quit before you would.” He laughs a little disbelievingly at his own statement.
“What?” His brain blanks. Max is still kneading through his fingers, leaving red streaks on his skin. “What do you mean?”
“Wait—you’re not actually quitting, are you?” Charles asks, genuinely taken aback by his reaction. “Max you can’t—”
“I didn't fucking say anything,” Max interrupts Charles before he can finish the sentence.
“Then answer. I—we deserve that much. Some clarity. You can't just—disappear—”
“Leave.”
“What? No, not before—”
“No, Charlie—Charles, you don't get it. Fucking leave,” he spits, pointing at the door with such vigor that a few eyes fall on them.
Jenson seems to finally notice too, since he's finally coming over. The hand he puts on Max's shoulder is shrugged off aggressively, and when he asks, “What's going on?” Max just turns heel and storms up to the apartment.
Charles is left stunned and apologetic, and Jenson has to finish up the rest of the shift on his own—but Max doesn't care. All he cares about right now is fixing his composure, taking a scolding hot shower, and doing anything but working out whatever just happened.
He's fine with leaving that barrel of thoughts and feelings closed, sealed for later—glued shut and put away forever so he doesn't have to worry about it.
The shower barely brings any feelings back into his tingling arms, but at least he's clean when he passes out on the couch, covered by the heavy blanket and two pillows like they're shielding him from the world.
Sebastian is the one to check up on him an hour later. He doesn't wake Max up directly—the door opening is enough for Max to startle awake. He's still tired, exhaustion seeping in his bones, and he groans, keeping himself covered with the blanket. The pillows have fallen down, giving Sebastian a nice spot to sit in for now.
“Sorry,” he says softly. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”
“It's wh’tever,” he replies, grogginess imminent in his tone. “Did you need something?”
Sebastian mulls over his choice of words. Max patience hangs by a thread still, so he pushes on, “Just spit it out.”
“Jenson asked me to test the waters. He wants to apologize for fucking up.”
“Fucking what up?” he asks, just to figure out how much Sebastian knows.
“Not helping you out of your situation.” Max had said situation once and it just stuck with them—not that he minds. It's a good description for most scenarios. “And a few minutes later Charles messaged me, asking me to check on you for whatever reason.”
It's not a question outright, but he knows the other is actively holding himself back from asking What the hell happened?
But Max doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to think about it. So he turns away, hiding his face in the backrest of the couch, and mumbles into the fabric, “Not now.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Sebastian reads him like an open book. “You gonna be okay?”
He shrugs.
“I'll let Jense know that tomorrow is better, then.” When Max hums appreciatively, Sebastian pulls the blanket up to cover his nape and throws the pillows on top of his legs.
Max still doesn't expect the ruffle through his hair. “Let me know if you need something, man. Even if it's just talking.” Sebastian says just like he doesn't believe it to be as insignificant as Max thinks it is.
“Okay.”
“Sleep tight, Max.”
“G’night.”
Rest doesn't meet him that night as easily as he thought it would; despite usually having dreamless sleep, this night greets him with imagery of his father, the smell of burning tires, and a void in his chest that's looking for warmth.