Hate to race lestappen

Coming Back Changed

Groggy and half-asleep, Max  blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, his brain barely catching up to the absolute mess unfolding around him.

The sound of drawers slamming, the rustling of clothes, and Charles cursing under his breath filled the room. Max blinked his eyes open, immediately regretting it as sunlight streamed in through the curtains. The villa room was a disaster. Clothes were everywhere, their luggage half-unpacked even though they were leaving in just about a few hours. And Charles—barefoot, shirt riding up slightly, hair a complete mess—was pacing the room, muttering something in French as he threw random objects onto the bed.

Max groaned, flopping back against the pillows. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Looking for my phone." Charles sounded frustrated, too distracted to even spare him a glance.

Max yawned, shutting his eyes again. "Buy a new one."

A second later, something soft landed on his face. Max peeled it off—one of Charles' T-shirts—before glancing up to see Charles glaring at him. "You're so lazy," Charles muttered, voice laced with exasperation. "It's already ten. You haven't even started packing."

Max peeled the offending object off his head—a T-shirt, wrinkled and smelling faintly like Charles' cologne. He barely had time to react before his gaze landed on Charles, standing across the room, hands on his hips, looking far too good for someone so sleep-deprived and messy.

Max smirked, stretching slightly. "I have one suitcase. You have ten. Pretty sure I'm not the problem here."

Charles huffed, raking a hand through his already messy hair. "Still, you could at least pretend to be useful."

Max just hummed noncommittally, not making any effort to move. But as he looked at Charles, something flickered in his expression. Just for a second. The briefest moment of hesitation—a slight shift, the smallest trace of something unsure.

Max narrowed his eyes, suddenly more awake.

"You good?" he asked, voice still groggy.

Charles startled slightly, then recovered just as quickly. "I just said I lost my phone," he said, rolling his eyes like Max was the dumbest person alive.

That wasn't what Max meant.

But before he could press further, Charles moved again, flipping through the same pile of clothes he had already checked five times.

"You know you already looked there, right?" Max pointed out, watching from the comfort of the bed.

Charles ignored him, muttering something under his breath before glancing toward the door. "Maybe it's in Pierre's room," he murmured, mostly to himself. And before Max could say anything else, he was gone, leaving the mess behind him.

Max sighed, rolling onto his back again.

He should pack. But instead, he let his eyes drift shut. Charles could handle his own mess.
*
When Max woke up again, he felt it.

The feeling he had spent the entire holiday avoiding, pushing down beneath the surface like it wasn't waiting for its chance to resurface. Sometimes, it came without warning, unwanted and uninvited. This time, though, he knew it was coming.

There was never euphoria without the inevitable crash—not for Max Verstappen.

Not that he'd ever call it depression. Of course not. He was just tired. Exhausted. Like any normal person would be after a week of socializing, after being surrounded by people for so long, after letting himself feel something close to happiness.