Hate to race lestappen

Welcome To Ibiza

The jet hummed beneath him, steady and smooth, cutting through the sky like it didn't have a single worry in the world. Charles wished he could say the same.

He leaned back in his seat, staring out the window at the endless stretch of blue. Ibiza was a little under two hours away, the official start of summer break. Four weeks with no racing, no media duties, no pressure to perform. Just sun, sea, and a much-needed escape from everything.

That was the idea, at least. And honestly? Charles was looking forward to it. He really was.

A part of him longed for normalcy—the kind that came with waking up without a schedule, lounging on a beach with a drink in hand, surrounded by his friends. The kind that made it easy to pretend life wasn't a constant whirlwind of chaos.

He glanced around the cabin.

Carlos was across from him, already half-asleep with his headphones in, one arm slung over the headrest like he was at home. Pierre and Lando were further back, talking in hushed voices and laughing every so often. Arthur was there too, along with a handful of other friends. The atmosphere was light, the excitement of summer break thick in the air.

And then there was Max.

A few months ago, the idea of willingly spending summer break with Max Verstappen would have been insane. Unthinkable. But now? Now, Charles wasn't so sure.

Ever since Silverstone, Max had stopped ignoring him. He still had moments where Charles could tell he wanted to run, to push him away, but he hadn't.

They had talked. Properly talked.
About things they usually danced around, things that mattered. And while Charles still wasn't sure where they stood, he knew they weren't enemies anymore.

He also knew he was nervous.

Because he wasn't sure which version of Max he was going to get.

Max had this habit—one Charles had become painfully aware of—where he would feel something too strongly, act on it, and then pretend like it never happened.

Out of anger. Out of sadness. Out of something anything.

And then the next day, it was like he had reset. Like nothing had happened. Like he had never kissed Charles in the middle of a fucking parking lot. Like he hadn't broken down and let Charles see the worst of him. Like he hadn't promised Charles that he wouldn't ignore him again.

Charles didn't have that luxury.

He couldn't just turn emotions on and off. He felt things, deeply, and he carried them with him. So when Max acted normal—too normal—Charles couldn't help but overthink it.

Was this real?
Was Max actually okay with everything?
Or was this just Max pretending?

And more importantly... was it the right Max?

Because Charles had started to notice things.
Max had always been good at hiding how he really felt, but lately, Charles had been paying closer attention.

Max had his moods. Some days, he was sharp-edged, running on adrenaline, wound tight like he was ready to explode. And then the next day, it was like a switch had flipped. He was calm. He would smile at Charles like nothing was wrong, like he hadn't been fighting demons the night before.

Charles had seen this before.
It was familiar in a way that made his stomach turn.

The disease caused by trauma. The one where emotions played the main part.

Where you felt everything all at once, so intensely that it became unbearable. And then, suddenly, you felt nothing.

He didn't know for sure. But he knew Max. And he knew when someone was hiding something.