Hate to race lestappen

Sunsets In Ibiza

Charles leaned forward slightly, his fingers firm around the handlebars as he guided the scooter down the winding coastal road.

The wind whipped against his skin, warm but refreshing, carrying the scent of salt and sun-heated asphalt. He had always loved this feeling—speeding along without a destination, just the hum of the engine beneath him and the endless horizon stretching ahead.

There was something freeing about it, something grounding, even when his thoughts were anything but.

The holiday had been perfect. Or, well—perfect in the way Charles liked things. Busy. There was never a dull moment.

They woke late, spent hours in the sun, and did everything with the reckless enthusiasm of people pretending reality didn't exist outside of these few stolen weeks. Every day was the same, yet somehow different.

They raced jet skis until their arms ached and their legs shook, Charles refusing to lose and Max refusing to let him win. They swam for hours, the saltwater clinging to their skin, their laughter echoing over the waves.

They worked out—because they had to, because no matter how much they tried to forget about it, they were still athletes with races to win.

Charles knew he'd pay for it when the break ended. The drinking, the late nights filled with music and bad decisions—it would all hit him hard when he had to step back into the world of race suits and press conferences. For the first time ever he actually wasn't looking forward to it.

Then there were the boats, the nights spent on the deck with a drink in hand, the scooters Charles never wanted to get off. He spent hours on them, pushing the speed limits, switching companions—sometimes Pierre, sometimes Lando, sometimes Max, but always needing that feeling of movement, of control, of going somewhere.

But none of that compared to waking up next to Max. That was the part Charles didn't know what to do with.

It had become normal so quickly, so easily, and yet every time he opened his eyes to see Max still tangled in the covers beside him, he felt something heavy press against his chest. It was a problem. One he refused to name, but a problem nonetheless.

Because he wanted it. Not just the waking up, not just the lazy mornings where neither of them spoke until one of them had coffee. He wanted all of it.

And that terrified him. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

They were fine now—friends, even. Acting like it, at least. They had fallen into a rhythm that made sense, that felt effortless despite everything they had put each other through.

But Charles couldn't stop himself from wanting more. From craving Max in a way that felt dangerous, in a way that clawed at the edges of his sanity.

It wasn't just attraction. That, he could handle. That, he could ignore, push aside, pretend wasn't there.

This was worse. Because it wasn't just wanting Max—it was wanting to know him.

Every part of him. The things he didn't say, the thoughts he didn't share, the weight he carried that Charles only ever saw glimpses of. He wanted to understand him, to fix him, to hold onto him in a way that should have been impossible.

And fuck, he hated it.

He hated the way he sought Max out in every room, the way he clung to his words like they meant something more. He hated how easily Max could make or break his entire mood with just a look, a touch, a single fucking word. He hated how much control Max had over him without even trying.

Charles would do anything for Max's attention.

And that was the worst part. Because it didn't even matter how Max looked at him—just that he did.