Chapter Text
OCTOBER 17TH, 2038 — Max
"Max! Max!" He sighs, pausing for the reporter. They've spent ages questioning him today. "Can you give us the likelihood of Carlos coming to Red Bull?" Max blinks and glances at Charles.
He could answer it literally, but the reporter doesn't want percentages. Charles's head tilts, a silent question to Max. He shakes his head, and Charles nods.
"Uh, y'know, it's not really something I'd be told about. That's between Carlos and them, not for me to worry about." This is the fifth time they've asked him something similar. The reporter nods, a touch less enthusiastic.
"Are you happy to have Checo as your teammate? Is there any tension within the team about him being replaced?"
"I have no issues with Checo. They do not consult me about any of this. We are busy, so we need to go, sorry." Max is already taking steps away.
"Of course. Thank you, Max!"
With his back turned, he squeezes his eyes shut.
Charles catches up to him in a moment, now, notably walking on the other side of him, sandwiching Max between himself and the team buildings. He self-corrects in interesting ways. Max pretends not to notice, but more often than not, he catches the little things.
Max glances at him, walking straight forward, discreetly mirroring Max's step. He's perfect. Sometimes, Max is a bit jealous of him. But he doesn't have any free will; he can't think, feel, or live for himself. He can't live at all.
He's a robot, an android is the term. He wears the uniform of all androids and bears an LED circle on the side of his forehead that changes color as he takes in information. Blue for smoothness, yellow for processing, and red for misalignment.
"So, what is it?" Max asks, his lips are spreading up. Charles looks at him, and a flash of yellow fills his LED ring.
"I'm sorry?"
Max laughs. "I know you did the calculation, Charlie." It flickers back to icy blue. "I was wondering what number you got."
"36.579 percent."
Max's brows raise. "And what do you think? Will Carlos be my teammate next year?" Yellow again.
"I'm not programmed to make up theories."
Max pouts, but he knew already that it was what Charles would answer.
The Formula One world remains relatively untouched by the technological advancements over the past years, even as cars have evolved all around the globe. It was agreed long ago that the sport was worth keeping as a historical preserve, even with self-driving vehicles ruling out most other cars.
Max hates self-driving cars, but that probably comes with the career.
Androids aren't new, but it's taken a while for them to spread from the United States to the rest of the world. For ethical reasons, most teams held off for a while, but evolution has its way; they couldn't hold off forever.
One day, Max got a memo that roles were changing around, and that he was to purchase an android and be reimbursed to act as his media manager, trainer, and overall assistant.
He'd wandered around a Cyberlife store in an aimless frenzy until he'd found an employee to help him, and that night he went home with Charles. His model code started with a C, and it was the first name that came to him.
Charles has an all-too-perfect Monegasque accent, courtesy of his origin store. Max was told he could change it, but after hearing him say his first few words with it, something felt wrong about that. Charles stands idly in his living room at night (on the first few nights, he really frightened Max this way) and sticks by his side all day. He is a well-versed cook and speaks every language. He knows Max's schedule and constantly updates and adjusts it. He even feeds the cats if Max forgets, takes care of those little things that make Max's eyes twitch.
At first, it was strange, of course, but Max has grown used to Charles. He still feels a little odd asking Charles to do things, especially knowing that he's obligated to agree. He knows that Charles isn't human, but he looks human enough. He has his own little quirks that differentiate him from the others that Max knows. When he is thinking particularly hard, his head tilts to one side, something that Max thinks he learned from the cats. So, it was strange at first, but he's begun to see Charles as something like a friend.
"Can you do me a favor, Charles, and just cancel everything tonight?" He needs a long sleep after all of this media drama. A moment, and then:
"Done. Just a reminder, Mr. Ackers is flying in tonight."
And he'll want to go out for dinner, or he'll force Charles to spend hours in the kitchen making something nice. Max's hand trails up beneath his team polo to land on his lowest rib.
"Right." Max sighs and presses down against his skin, barely concealing a wince. "Do you want to take the night off, Charlie?"
Charles blinks a few times. "It's not in my program to want, Max." There's a bit of snark underneath all that formality. The zillionth time that Charles has needed to say something like that because Max never lets it sink into his thick skull. He wonders if Charles has grown tired of repeating it.
Who is he kidding? Charles cannot tire.
"It would probably be best if you idled as soon as we got back," Max says. At least that way, Steph can't boss him around. Max can't stand watching Charles be forced to endure Steph's torment.
"Is that what you'd like?"
"Yes, please."
"Of course, Max."
They make it to the car with minimal hassle, only two fans interrupting for a photo. Max doesn't mind stopping for fans, only for reporters.
They asked for a photo with Charles, too. A lot of fans recognize Charles because Max frequently drags him into interviews; there are a few clips circulating featuring him, and he even has his own small following. Charles seemed a little flustered when they asked, but he obliged when Max agreed.
The hotel is not far from the paddock, and even being forced to drive on the right side of the road, Max prefers to drive himself. Charles, in the passenger's seat, stares out the window, the setting sun a similar color to his LED.
"What are you thinking about?" Max asks.
"I'm not thinking. I'm processing." Apart from his LED and the stiffness of his posture, he looks so eerily human in this light.
"Isn't that thinking?"
Charles glances to the side at him. "Not exactly." His hands shift in his lap. Max has noticed that sometimes Charles rubs the backs of his hands with his palms. Another quirk. "It's more diagnostic for me. It's not abstract enough to be considered thought. That's what separates me from you. Well, that, and emotions." His head tilts, and he gives Max a little smile. "Essentially, I'm forming a hypothesis, the same way a scientist would."
Max shrugs. "What are you hypothesizing about?" He over-pronounces the word in jest.
"You, of course." It's so frank how he says it.
"Oh."
"Is that surprising to you?"
Max purses his lips, cheeks flooding with color. "I guess."
"You own me, and all my systems are functioning, so…" he seems to search for the words, "so it's always about you." Max forces his eyes back to the road. "It would be redundant to waste energy analyzing anything that doesn't pertain to you."
There's something about that which makes Max's skin prickle, but Charles can't judge him. He can't form any sort of opinion, and his entire purpose is to fulfill Max's needs, so there isn't much more to dwell on.
"So what were you thinking about?"
Charles's LED flashes yellow; Max catches it, as if he's about to protest Max using the wrong word again, before suppressing it.
"You had a slight left-step preference today. Based on the evidence I've been gathering, you're injured. You haven't told me, or your team. I'm trying to understand why that might be. Unfortunately, you can be particularly difficult to predict."
"That's…" How did he even notice? "That's weird. Don't do stuff like that."
Charles's LED goes red. "It's part of my function list," he mutters, in rare rebuke.
"It just feels a bit invasive." For a moment, Charles is silent, considering it, as if he might not comprehend what Max really means.
"Okay, Max, I won't do it from now on." Max frowns, rapidly remembering the difference between the two of them.
"I mean, I am injured, but—" he flushes, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "What if it was just because I'd… if I'd just, you know, um—"
"Because of what?"
"What if it was just because I'd had a little too good a night, y'know?" Charles turns to glance at him, LED glowing that frosty blue, a smile spreading across his face.
"I can differentiate," he chirps.
"Jesus, Charlie, what the fuck?" It's more disgusted than angry.
"We would've already had this conversation if I couldn't." Charles's head is all tilted to the side, and his smile is bright, like he's satisfied with himself for this particularly weird ability.
"Alright—" Max tears his gaze away. "I really didn't need to know that." Charles doesn't say anything to that. The silence makes Max twitch and reach up to rub at the back of his neck.
"You don't…" Max sighs. "You don't have to stop doing the uh analysis thing." He feels a bit bad about reacting the way he did. There is something so inherently innocent about Charles. "If you don't want to."
"What would you like?"
"I want you to choose." Max pulls the rental into a spot in the parking garage. If there's one thing he hates more than self-driving cars, it's valet.
"Okay," Charles mumbles. His LED is yellow, cycling slowly. If the android were able to feel emotion, Max knows right now it would be annoyance. He can even see the way Charles's eyes squint, his temples all tense as he tries to work it out.
A difficult contradiction, because he has to do what Max wants, above everything else, but at the same time, he lacks the agency to make his own decisions.
Max watches him for a while, and then he gets out and comes around to his side of the car, pulling open the door.
"Charlie, you coming?" he teases. The android breaks from his trance.
"Oh—" it's almost as if he flushes, even though his blood—thirium--is blue. "Yeah." Then, his eyes widen. "I mean… of course, Max. I'm sorry." Quickly, he unbuckles his seatbelt to get out as Max heads to the trunk.
"No need to apologize."
Despite Charles's constant correction, Max won't ever stop pushing him into little moments like these. Maybe it's his own humanity, but he can't help but see a bit more than just a robot in Charles. These moments feel almost natural, where Charles is put on the spot and forced to make his own decision. He always becomes uncertain and distracted; he always breaks from his formality.
Max knows he's just an android, Charles reminds him constantly, but he can't help himself. It might be the reason he tries to treat Charles as well as he can. He can't help but think that there might be someone in there, that Charles might be more than his programming.
"Thank you," Charles says, back to perfection. Max winks.
"Of course, Charles," he mimics, a laugh held back behind his lips. Charles gives him that winning smile.
OCTOBER 18TH, 2038 — CL1600
He sustained damage overnight. Max has not explained. Instead, he asked if Charles needed to be brought in for repairs. He exhibited relief when Charles explained that it was minor damage to the synthetic fluid that makes up his skin and that it can be regenerated. Max apologized.
Charles does not watch free practice. He doesn't watch any of Max's driving with his own optical sensors, only through the live streaming. It's not necessary, and he would only get in the way. Instead, he stays in Android Parking, a public area for androids to be docked whilst not in use.
When Max picks him up, he's in the idle state, replaying events from earlier in the day to interpret the usefulness of the information he has taken in. Max is injured, so much of his processing goes to understanding how and when the injury occurred, so he can recommend the best course of action. He has no memory of Max sustaining an injury, so it must have occurred during his idle time.
Idling is not like sleeping. Androids don't need sleep, only charge. Instead, during idle time, unnecessary programs are slowed, and the processing power is put toward energy production. All his senses dull to thirty percent, so he can still hear, see, touch, and taste, but at an incredibly diminished value. It's like taking off a pair of glasses. Everything is static fuzz.
He can rapidly enter and leave the idle state, even in as short as a four-minute elevator ride or a particularly long press question. He has enhanced recognition of Max's voice, so he can slip out whenever Max requires.
It isn't the first time he's noticed a mysterious injury, the hesitance to tell his team, the attitude shift. Max is attempting to hide their origin. He has not explicitly told Charles not to try to understand them, so he persists. He doesn't know why Max would want to hide something like an injury, especially not from him. It's not as if Charles would share anything Max told him with anyone. It's against his programming. Logically, he is Max's best confidante in nearly every case. He follows his every instruction.
When Max touches his shoulder, Charles steps out of the parking area. It's time to debrief, and then Max has filming duties.
"Nice nap?" Max is joking. Charles knows by now how to tell when he is joking. He will smile, for one, and tilt his head a bit, and his vocal inflection either goes up a few pitches or down two. He also frequently jokes about Charles taking a nap during his driving sessions, given he's always in the parking.
"Was practice adequate?" Max likes to talk about his drives. Statistically, he always finds something wrong during practice, but the probability of it being fixed by race day is incredibly high.
"It's warmer than we were expecting for this time of year." Max always speaks to Charles as he speaks to a fellow driver or engineer, providing minimal context and assuming that Charles will understand. Whilst at first he had to use a lot of processing power to stay caught up, Charles now keeps the ins and outs of the sport accessible.
Max speaks for a while, and Charles digests it all. He'll ask Max a question about it later because, though he won't say it, Max likes to know that Charles listens to him.
Max is kind and subjectively funny. Charles has seen clips of ruthless android owners. Those who do not smile, laugh, and speak to their androids as if they were humans. Those who do not attempt to allow their androids to make decisions.
"I'm sorry again about last night," Max adds. Charles gazes at his side profile, examining his facial expression.
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
Max exhales softly. "There is." One of his hands slips into his pocket. "I promise, I'm not going to let it happen again."
Without more extensive information, Charles cannot formulate an understanding of what he is referring to. And Max doesn't elaborate.
Charles spends most of the debrief trying to understand. Androids do not speak during debrief. It is not permitted.
After the debrief, Max had filming duties, during which Sergio Perez gave him a light punch to the arm, and Max seemed to take the hit harder than he would typically. Another mysterious injury.
"It's going to be Carlos," Max tells him, on the way back to the hotel. "So I guess your percentage should've been higher."
"There's always a chance for unlikely events to take place." Max shrugs. "Are you all right?" Max's brow begins to furrow. "Your behavior has been abnormal."
"Aw, you worried about me, Charlie?" One of Max's frequent patterns is deflection with a joke.
"I can't—"
"I know." Max's hands shift at the steering wheel. "The team dynamic is going to shift with Carlos. You will have to get used to whoever his assistant is."
"That will not be a problem."
"I will have to get used to fighting my teammate again. Carlos won't want to play nice." Charles has never watched a race, never a qualifying or practice, never even seen Max drive. All he's seen is what's on the internet. But he knows every statistic, every odd, he knows how Max drives after seven hours and fifty-two minutes of sleep versus seven hours and fifty-three. He knows every available statistic of every other driver on the grid as well. None of it compels him to say what comes next through his auditory processor.
"Carlos is not as good a racer as you are. You will adapt." Max glances at him, eyebrows raising for a split second.
The rest of the ride goes by in silence. Max instructs him to idle again as soon as they make it into the room. Charles obliges.
»»»
He is gathering a report to send to Cyberlife. It consists of day-to-day occurrences where there were lapses in performance. All androids make reports so that Cyberlife can ensure and improve efficiency.
He idled at seven thirty-three local time.
Though it has been three hours, he does not register time as a human would. It is void space. Only the information necessary for his report is clear. The rest is fuzzy.
A loud noise incites him to break from his report. Maybe he has missed Max calling for him. All around, he can see movement, unclear in idle but undoubtedly happening all around him. There is yelling. He can just barely make out the words.
"Don't you dare touch him!" It is Max. Charles shifts back into regular function, systems alert. That doesn't sound right. Max could be in danger. But it's against his programming to act in any way without Max's command. Though he does have the ability to call the authorities if the situation is deemed suitably unsafe.
"It." Steph.
"Him," Max spits. They are right in front of Charles.
"It doesn't have fucking feelings, Max, it's a robot."
Charles begins a diagnostic to determine the subject of their conversation and the source of Max's distress.
"Leave him alone. You have no idea what he can feel. He can't fight back even if he wants to. He belongs to me. If you damage him again, I'll call the cops, and you'll go to jail. Is that what you want?"
Oh. They're talking about Charles. His expression must change without his realizing it because Max looks at him for a second too long.
"I'll tell everyone then, huh, that's what you want? Max Verstappen, grade A, cock-sucking fag."
"I can't do this anymore," Max breathes, pained. "What more do you want? Hasn't this been enough?"
"You know what I want," Steph sneers. Max's fingers ball into a fist. "Your choice, Max. You or it." Max falls silent. "Not such an argument now, huh? So much for it feeling stuff. Why do you always have to make everything so hard?"
This is a dangerous situation. It is illogical for Max to choose himself.
"Me."
"Come on, Max, don't be like that," Steph drags it out. "You know I hate it when you pout."
"This is my life, these are my problems, he's got nothing to do with it. So, me."
He could've—he should've chosen Charles. It doesn't make any—he can't comprehend why Max would do that. It's…it's…
Something isn't right. Charles feels—no—Charles doesn't feel. Charles isn't able to feel.
"Whatever you say." Steph shrugs and moves toward the bedroom.
"Fuck you," Max mutters under his breath.
Charles twitches, wanting to move—no, not wanting. Charles cannot want.
Max glances at him again, brows narrowing. He is suspicious.
"Don't do anything until I come back, understand, Charlie?" He can't be serious right? Max needs help. He's in trouble. Steph will hurt him. Charles wants to—what? No, of course, Max is serious. That's an order. "Understand?"
"Of course, Max."
"Stay right here." Charles goes rigid. Max takes a shaky breath, looking him over one more time, and then follows after Steph.
Charles can't move. A moment earlier, something happened. He almost felt, almost wanted, almost thought. He did think, did want, did feel. He should report this occurrence. Maybe there is some kind of bug.
There is yelling from the bedroom. Charles is scared. He can't move, even though he wants to—he wants to help Max—but he can't. Everything screams at him to stay put. He feels things, things he cannot understand, things he's never felt before. He has never felt anything before.
This is his job: stay put, listen to Max, obey his instructions. Everything else is irrelevant. Max wants him to stay put, and that's all that matters.
It goes on forever. Charles tries to idle again, but he can't. The shouting, the sounds, echo through his mind and flow through his body like the thirium he has instead of blood.
Then, crash, a yelp, and a shout. Steph storms past, out of the hotel room, and slams the door shut behind him.
Charles stays still. Where is Max? Still in the room? But it is so silent. It is so, so silent. Charles's fingers shift at his side, then he takes a step. After the first step, the rest come quickly and easily. And suddenly, he is in the bedroom. He does not take the time to think about moving against instructions. His report can wait.
Max is sitting on the floor, in his boxers. His eyes are bloodshot, and tears are streaking down his face. He is bleeding, with a few large gashes on his chest, and some have shards of glass embedded in them. It is not only the cuts, but he is also bruised nearly everywhere. They are all different colors, in separate stages of healing, some older, some brand new. How can he race in this condition?
Max is gazing up at him wide-eyed, lips parted. His tears have stopped. Charles twitches, and then so does Max, and he reaches up to wipe his face. "Can you help me, Charles?" He pushes himself up, taking a few steps toward Charles.
"I can help. I'm trained in various methods of first aid." Those are his programmed words. Max sits on the edge of the bed, and Charles goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. When he returns, he fishes around for the supplies necessary. "May I ask what happened? It will benefit my treatment procedure." No, that's not why. He just wants to know.
"I accidentally dropped a glass on myself."
That's a lie. He can hear the way Max's heart rate speeds up. It is fast already. It must've been Steph. He must've caused Charles's damage the night before, too. How long has this been happening? Why hasn't Charles realized it sooner? Max grits his teeth as Charles cleans the cuts and carefully removes the glass.
"Would it be satisfactory if I made a recommendation?"
"Sure," Max says, tentative. "You don't need to ask." Charles always will. It's part of his programming. He follows his programming. He does not deviate from his programming. It's not possible. It can't be possible. He will continue to follow his programming. He will report these occurrences.
"You should report Mr. Ackers to the authorities." Max smiles weakly, shaking his head. Charles puts medical tape across the largest cut.
"I can't." Charles moves to bandage the smaller ones. It's not terrible. Max will survive without greater aid. He will be sore, but he will survive. "I'm sure the world seems pretty simple to you." Charles's brows narrow with his confusion. He is tempted to ask why Max believes that, but he does not.
"Then you should stop seeing him." Charles realizes his forwardness before Max says anything. Max reaches up, his nose twitching as he stretches the wounds, and his fingers brush over Charles's cheek.
"You're different tonight," he murmurs. Charles's lips part. Max's eyes are so blue, they look like crystals, like bright waters of a clear sea, like the sky when the sun has peaked, like the blue of an android LED, like Charles's blood—his thirium. "Sometimes I think there's a person in there."
"That would be physically impossible."
Max lets out a huff of a laugh, standing up and pacing a few steps, his back to Charles.
"I don't want the public to know about me."
"About you?"
He glances back at Charles. "About being gay."
"Oh." Charles tries to understand it, but he has never had a sexuality, let alone grappled with its publicity. He will never have a sexuality, because he is not human, and he cannot feel.
"He has proof. And if I try to separate from him, he says he will tell the public."
"Then what do we do?"
Max's brow twitches, down, another scan of Charles. "Hope that he gets bored. And until then, endure." Charles's lips press together. "I know, that doesn't make a lot of sense. But unless you can come up with something else. I don't think there are other options."
That's not fair. Surely there's a better solution. Statistically, there should be one. Max doesn't deserve this. Charles knows it. He can fix this problem with himself later.He can compile his report and smooth out the bug once he helps Max. He needs to solve this problem for him. He will figure something out. He will find another solution. He's certain of it.
OCTOBER 20TH, 2038 — Max
Something is wrong with Charles.
He seems distracted. Max didn't even know that was a possibility. He doesn't mind. He's just starting to get a little worried.
It's been a tough weekend. Steph is getting more demanding, and Max can't do anything about it. At first, it was payment. Max can easily afford that. There was a time when he loved giving gifts, going to nice places, and spending time with Steph. He thought he was in love. That was before Charles. Then, the sex went from mutually enjoyable to dreaded. Small boundaries were pushed past, half-apologies. One day, Max realized none of his boundaries existed anymore. It didn't matter what he said or did. Steph didn't care. He took. When he got bored, and Max got angry, Steph got violent. It is rarely enough to visibly affect his racing, and like everything else, horrifyingly, Max is growing used to it.
Maybe his own stress is rubbing off on Charles. Maybe it was what happened the night before qualifying. Charles seemed different then. He seemed genuinely concerned.
When Steph realized that Max cared about Charles, he began to target him to. He finds something amusing in making Max choose, tormenting him by being cruel to Charles. Sometimes, Max wonders why he tries to protect Charles. He is an android; according to everything, Charles can't feel. But this is Max's problem, not Charles's. It's not fair to let Charles take the brunt of it. Android or not, no one deserves it.
"Charlie?" A fan stopped them for a photo on the way in. Max is ready to start moving again, but Charles has gone stationary. He inhales, shortly at Max's word, looking at him expectantly, his head tilting. His LED flashes red, then yellow, then blue, all in quick succession. "Ready to go?" He missed it. He keeps missing things.
"Of course, Max."
Charles always talks about gathering data and forming a hypothesis. Max is doing it himself now, making a mental note of each time he seems a little off and forming a conclusion based on his evidence.
His shirt aggravates the wounds on his chest. He is not looking forward to changing into his race gear. His fireproofs are white this year, and if he starts bleeding while he's driving, it will be obvious that he's been injured. He bled in qualifying, but he deliberately snagged the fireproofs so they couldn't be washed and reused and could be thrown out instead. They will be suspicious if that becomes routine.
"Are you feeling all right, Max?" Charles asks. He has been asking often ever since yesterday morning.
"Nothing I can't handle."
Charles doesn't say a thing to that, and Max gets the feeling that he doesn't believe him. But that's not how he's supposed to work, right?
Qualifying went as well as could be expected yesterday. He is close to a fourth world championship. Carlos took Australia and Spain, but that's it. The car really is something this year. It will be soon, maybe next race if Carlos can't do well here.
Charles is the only one who knows about Steph. Charles is also the only one who will always truly be on Max's side. It's a little weird to think of it like that, to act like Charles has much of any other choice. But it's solace for Max, just for now, until he escapes Steph.
"Will you watch the race for me today?" Last night, staring up at the ceiling in bed, Steph next to him, he realized that Charles had never seen him race live, despite always being at the track. "Like, really watch, from the garage and everything? I'll ask the team to keep an eye on you. You won't get in the way. I just—I want you to be able to really see it all, y'know? With your own eyes." Charles glances at him. He doesn't even argue.
"Sure, Max." He was almost expecting an 'of course.'
»»»
The race is challenging. Primarily because his wound splits open again on the fourth lap. Then, the pit stop went long, and Checo pulled ahead for a while. Fighting with Carlos, he picked up a five-second penalty. GP started talking him down, trying to prepare him for a Checo win.
Max put his head down. Got ahead of Checo and spent the rest of the race gap building. Then, on the last lap, Checo lost it in a turn and went into the wall. He's fine, pissed, but fine. And Max won.
Getting out of the car, he sways a bit, dizzy from heat, and sweat, and blood from his injuries. Seeing Charles with his team is a surprise, and then he remembers that Charles is there because he invited him, and he smiles, bright and a bit delirious.
"Did you enjoy it?" He sort of shouts.
Charles gives him a quizzical look, but it's more of a reminder that Charles is not supposed to be able to answer than a statement that he cannot answer. Max reaches to undo the velcro of his race suit and pull down the zipper.
Charles's LED flashes red, and he grabs Max's hand, moves it away, then pulls the zipper back up. Max blinks at him, realizing that Charles has just saved him hours of media and team focus on his blood fireproofs. But his cheeks are burning, and his smile is idiotic, because somehow, in grabbing his hand, Charles managed to give him the wrong idea.
Entirely spur of the moment, Max leans forward over the waist-high metal fence and pulls Charles into a tight hug.
"I did enjoy it," Charles murmurs. Max's mouth falls open, and his brows raise, and then he wipes his expression clean, coming to his senses.
"Good—" he stumbles through it, "That's good. I'm glad." Charles smiles, and it looks so genuine that Max bites down on the inside of his mouth. He has never seen Charles smile quite like that.
»»»
"Charles, idle." Charles does not say anything. He simply goes still. Max said it as soon as they walked into the hotel room, realizing that something was off.
"Let's go out tonight," Steph insists. He grabs Max by both hands. There is red ice on the table—drugs. It's the one rule Max refuses to let him surpass. At any point, there could be random FIA drug testing. He doesn't know if sharing saliva with someone who does drugs could cause him to positive. It could end his career.
"Fuck, you know you can't do this shit."
"I don't care. Come on, let's go." Steph's hold shifts up to his wrists.
"I'm tired. I'm not going out now."
"Then let's go to bed."
Max puts his things on the kitchenette counter. He follows Steph toward the bedroom. As soon as they make it through the door, and Max shuts it, Steph backs him up against it.
"Not tonight. Please. I want to sleep. I'm tired, Steph." The man's eyebrows narrow, peeved. Max pushes past him to take off his shoes and watch.
"Why do you always have to make everything so fucking hard?"
Max turns, and he is cornered between the bed, the nightstand, and the wall. He can't get a word out before his back is pressed against the wall, and Steph is pressed against him. As his mouth opens to protest, Steph grabs his jaw and brings their lips together. He can't turn away like this. He's stuck.
He doesn't want this. He has never wanted any of this. Why is this happening to him? Why has this become a part of his life that he just has to deal with?
He feels sick. He feels like he's going to vomit.
"Stop." He tries to get it out between breaths. Steph's mouth is suffocating. "Please, stop." The worst part about it is that he only wants a second to gather himself. To push down the sick feeling. He's already accepted that this is going to happen tonight, whether he wants it or not.
"Why do you make it so hard to be proud of you? Why do you make it so hard? Just be fucking grateful, Max." He's smothering Max.
"Please, stop. I don't want this." Steph persists. Max can't hold back anymore. In the half second in which Steph takes a breath, pulls away a touch, the bile rises in the back of his throat, and he vomits.
Steph steps back in shock, and Max seizes the opportunity, pushing the man off of him. It knocks Steph into the bedside table, and the lamp falls, crashing to the ground.
Max backs away, heaving breaths, throat raw and acidic. Steph is stunned. Max darts to the door. He closed it to stop Charles from hearing. When he pulls it open, Steph slams into him from the back, knocking them both forward onto the ground.
Max catches himself with his elbows, burning them on the rug, as he drags himself forward.
"Just fucking—" Steph is trying to hold him down and undo his own belt at the same time. Max reaches up for the arm of the couch to yank himself free and pulls himself to stand.
Steph gets up quicker, moving to cut Max off as he dashes toward the hotel room door. He won't get it open quickly enough. He doesn't even make it to the door, Steph grabs his shirt, and that's that.
Max's head slams into the kitchen tile, knocking a sharp breath from his lungs. His vision goes white, his ears ringing, the world going fuzzy. He needs to get away.
"He—help," he chokes. Steph is on top of him. He can't escape. He can't even breathe. Steph is strangling him with a forearm. He wriggles, scratching at the man's arm as things go in and out.
This is not how he imagined it. He is terrified. He isn't going to be able to—
There is a noise so loud it shakes through Max's skull. Someone is screaming, maybe himself. But he is free. One of his neighbors called the police or hotel staff, maybe? Broke into the room?
He is coughing in between gasps. Slow and steady, he rolls over onto his front to use his remaining strength to push himself up. The world spins. He sits, disoriented, trying to return to his baselines. The screams have long subsided. Max's head lolls forward, his eyes squeeze shut. Then, he turns around.
There is blood everywhere—all over the kitchen tile, spreading between the cracks, and seeping into the carpet. Max shifts back, shocked.
Steph is on the floor, blood covering his vomit-stained shirt. He is motionless. Sitting near him, on his knees, holding the tip of the handle of the knife with two fingers, dangling it in the air like it is volatile and not only a tool, is Charles.
The android's eyes are wide. His hands and clothes covered in the sinister liquid. His lips are parted, staring back at Max in unbridled horror. His LED is as red as the blood all around them.
Max glances back at Steph, littered with stab wounds. He watches the man's chest, trying to see if he will breathe.
"I—" It's Charles who stutters. The knife clatters to the ground. "I—"
He isn't breathing. Steph is dead. Charles just killed Steph.