Another race, another win. Ilya should be happy for his boyfriend, cheering him on at the club while everyone celebrates. He really should. But he hates parties. And even if he went, his boyfriend would just ignore him anyway as if he wasn't there.

Ever since he got famous and garnered a fanbase, Ilya feared the worst could happen—which it did. He started to be more distant, more in love with F1 and winning races. At first, Ilya understood why. This was his career, his passion. Why wouldn't he be more involved? But as time went on, Ilya felt more and more irrelevant, as if he wasn't his boyfriend anymore.

Now he's seen more as a friend with benefits. He still asks for sex sometimes, for that quick rush of euphoria. Another benefit is apparently chaperoning him whenever he gets piss drunk at the club after celebrating a win with the team. Ilya never went to those even before their relationship started to fall apart. He'd rather be at home with his boyfriend playing a stupid racing game together, but those days seem to be gone.

Ilya is relaxing on the couch at home watching a video about some new Toyota review when his phone rings. It comes up with the name of his boyfriend's manager. Something must've happened. As much as Ilya doesn't want this relationship anymore, he still loves him. He wants to be with him so badly, but it can't keep going on like this.

"Hello? What's going on?" he answers. The manager explains that he's drinking a little too much and won't listen to him, so he thought he would listen to Ilya if he came to pick him up. With a sigh, Ilya turns off the TV and stands up to grab his things. "Fine, I'll come get him. Send the club's address."

Ilya speeds a little on the way there, feeling impatient and entirely done with his recent antics. This is the last time I do this shit for him. He makes his way into the club plastered in blinding neon lights, scanning around the place for his boyfriend and his colleagues. His eyes finally land on him, drunk and all squished up next to some guy Ilya doesn't recognize at all. It makes his blood simmer, but he'll save the arguing for later.

He walks up and drags him up by the arm, not caring about any protests from the stranger. "Grab your shit. We're leaving." The man is a little wobbly as he whines, but quickly grabs his phone and wallet before letting Ilya pull him away from the stuffy atmosphere.

The drive back home is mostly silent because Ilya fears he might honestly crash the car if he tries to argue while driving. Dealing with insurance claims is something he definitely doesn't need right now. He keeps a hand on his wrist as they make their way up to their penthouse, almost tempted to just start yelling in the elevator.

Ilya puts him down on the couch, hoping that he's at least sobered up enough to hear what he's about to say.

"How many times have I had to do this for you in the past month? Seriously. I'm sick of it.. sick of this. I can't do this anymore with you." His voice cracks slightly despite his resolve, rubbing his temples in frustration. "We need to break up. Clearly, you love your wins and racing more than you ever loved me."