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If only the sun could have some mercy.
George opened his eyes and regretted his actions immediately. With his eyes closed, he tried to draw down the blinds. His back was killing him.
Pierre peeked his head in from behind the door frame. “Nice. You’re awake. We are going for breakfast.”
George did not recall himself throwing up after drinking five shots of tequila straight last night but his stomach was empty. While he was not particularly hungry, his rational mind reminded him that he better not delay his meal if he wanted to avoid the nauseous feeling that would surely catch up soon.
“Any suggestions?” He sat up and groaned. “Oh gosh, I am never going to that club from last night anymore.”
Pierre scoffed. “I thought you had fun last night.”
“Do I look like I am having fun to you right now?” George peeled his eyelids open and blinked rapidly to acclimate to the blinding sunlight.
“Absolutely!” Pierre’s voice was filled with amusement as he left the guest room. “Get ready soon. We are leaving in fifteen minutes.”
It was noon. Considering they had partied for six hours and returned to Pierre’s flat in Milan at 4 in the morning, he would argue Pierre was unreasonable. The Frenchman probably had more hangover experience than him and knew the best though. George’s usual practice after a rough night was simply lying in a dark room until Alex showed up with a Chinese takeaway.
It must be the passion of Monza prompting him to lose self-control. He had his first top-three finish in Monza the day before. While it’s not his first podium and the crowds were definitely not cheering for him, the red sea sent chills down his spine. He wanted to visit Alex after the ceremony but the Brit-Thai assured him he was doing well, that Lily was taking good care of him after the successful appendicitis surgery, as if there could be anything that went wrong to start with. Then, Pierre showed up with his Italian mechanics and promised he knew a place that would blow his mind.
He did not lie. George could only blame himself and ignore any side effects that came together with boozing.
Now, dressed properly, he still resembled a vampire whose only life goal was to avoid sunlight as he observed his reflection in the mirror in this nice tiny Milan café.
“Hey handsome, we know you’ve got a nice face but can you stop for a moment,” Pierre petted the younger man’s shoulder. “Charles over here wants to know what your order is.”
Charles, the only staff there standing behind the counter, seemed amused and gave him a little wave.
“Sorry,” he blushed. “Can I have a black coffee?”
Charles pouted as he takes the orders. “Black coffee… again.” He had a strong French accent.
Pierre smirked. “Still not a fan of black coffee?”
“Not a fan of any coffee.” His nose scrunched. “But black especially.”
George raised his eyebrows. “If you hate coffee, why would you work in a café?”
Charles shrugged. “It is within walking distance from my apartment and the owner, Mr. Rici makes the best pastry in the whole of Milan.”
“So he’s not there for the coffee,” Pierre summarized. “But the food.”
Charles nodded. “Basically.”
“I am here for the coffee though,” Pierre stressed on the subject. “Black coffee as well. And a muffin.” He turned to George. “Do you want anything to eat?”
George briefly looked through the menu. All the unfamiliar Italian pastry names overwhelmed him. “A scone please.”
Charles took their order. “Sure thing. It will be ready in a minute.”
After Charles headed to the bar, George and Pierre settled on a table by the window.
George looked around. It was a tiny yet sophisticated café. Even with his slightly pounding head, he could see the effort put into designing the interior. The warm sun rays travelled through the window to caress George’s hungover face. He felt sleepy again.
“It’s a nice café, I will give you that. Are you a regular here?”
“Every week,” Pierre took out his phone to scroll through Instagram, his thumb never stopping liking the posts.
George was long used to this scene. Instead he asked, “So did you befriend Charles to get a discount?” He looked at the busy figure by the coffee bar. Despite his distaste towards coffee, Charles’ coffee-making process was experiment-like as he as he grounded the coffee beans and measure the water with fluid movements.
“Nope. I knew him way before this and he introduced me to here actually.” As he finished the sentence, Charles headed towards them with their coffees. Even with only two cups on the tray, Charles seemed wobbly. When he reached out to put one of the coffees down, his hands were shaking. The coffee tipped over and spilt.
Charles seemed to be used to that and simply quickly apologized and cleaned the table with the towels he brought along. “Your food is ready too. I’ll go grab it.”
Pierre continued. “Can’t you recognize him? Doesn’t he remind you of someone?”
George ran through a checklist of everyone in his head until he defeatedly shook his head. “I really can’t think of anyone. Just tell me, Pierre.” He wouldn’t say he pleaded but the tone of his voice clearly showed that he was not in the mood for a guessing game right now.
Pierre raised his arms in surrender. “I am just helping you to familiarize yourself with the brother of our newest colleagues next year.”
A rookie next year? “Oh! Arthur.” Now he saw the similarities between the two brunets.
“Are you talking about Arthur?” Charles’ curious voice startled George. He put their food on the table. Pierre chuckled, “I just found probably the only person on Earth that doesn’t think of Arthur the moment he sees you.”
Charles’ brows furrowed. “You’re exaggerating again. Arthur and I have a similar voice, but we don’t look that alike.” He sat down at their table with a glass of water in his hand and started sipping.
George would second Pierre because everyone could see the blood relationship between the Leclerc brothers. Nonetheless, as it took him forever to make the connection, he guessed it was best for him not to comment.
“George is hungover so it doesn’t count. Everyone else can immediately tell.” Pierre retorted. Charles did not even spare a glance at Pierre. “Anyway, that’s how we met, during karting.”
Charles shyly waved his hand. “I raced against this man before, in Monaco.” He was referring to the Monaco Karting Cup. “I won.” His face, which had been slightly bashful since they met, became smug.
“Outraced an F1 driver,” George put on his usual flattering voice. “Probably something you can brag about for the rest of your life.” He knew he sounded condescending again.
“Don’t underestimate Charles. He almost got into single-seaters at one point.” Pierre elaborated.
George fell quiet. He knew full well how many talents never got the chance to show their worth to the world for stupid reasons like money. Though the Leclerc family was able to support Arthur through F2, it did not necessarily mean another kid could get the same chance.
Sensing his guilt, Charles shrugged. “I decided to persuade my passion for chemical engineering instead.”
Just as George felt a wash of relief, Pierre’s phone vibrated. The Frenchman swore under his breath.
“Another event?” George raised his eyebrows.
“Bet they won’t jam my schedule full on this supposedly week off,” he sounded resigned.
George sympathetically pats the other man on the shoulder. “Thankfully Mercedes does give me a real week off. But I don’t know what to do with the time, to be honest.”
The two other men gave him a curious look.
“The plan was to get a good rest yesterday, which I don’t know if I had, considering I am even more tired now.”
Pierre rolled his eyes, murmured, “Maybe you should thank me for stopping you to drink even more.”
George pretended he didn’t hear the Frenchman. “Then tomorrow I will go to play golf with Alex but you know, he’s resting.” The British-Thai driver had returned to Monaco already, not that George had the heart disturb his recovery. “Everyone already has a plan.”
“Sorry mate. I guess the only option left is you go back home and maybe take an actual good rest.”
That was what George thought as well, but what a shame to spend his holiday alone.
Charles, who has been silent for a while, pursed his lips. He tilted his head to read George’s face, before speaking. “Actually, you can spend the day with me. I can show you around. And tomorrow night we have a night out, my schoolmates and I.” He lowered his head slightly and eyelashes fluttered as he waited for the Brit’s response.
George debated the pros and cons in his head quickly, before deciding “Hell yeah! Thanks a lot mate.”
Charles let out a little hooray. He stood up with his empty water glass in hand. “My friends are all a bit out of the loop and they may not necessarily recognize a F1 driver. Don’t be mad at them.” He winked, then headed to the kitchen, leaving George mesmerized.
After a while, he softly asked, “Did I offend him?”
Pierre looked puzzled, then broke out in laughter.
For the remaining hour, they sat in silence and finished their coffees slowly. It would be peaceful, if only there was no constant dishes clinking and crashing sounds coming from the kitchen.
After the fourth time a mug fell to the ground, George could not help but ask, “Charles, are you really earning money here?”
The Monégasque made a small questioning sound.
“I mean,” he gestured to the floor, where a mug broken into two halves laid. “The compensation for the dishes you broke must be higher than your salary by now, isn’t it?” He raised one of his eyebrows. Pierre nodded in agreement.
Charles crossed his arms petulantly over his chest. “Of course not. I have never needed to pay compensation for my job.”
“But…” George pointed at the remnants of the mug.
Charles’ face scrunched. “It’s… it’s difficult to explain.” He did not elaborate further to the two drivers’ curiosity.
The next day, Charles showed up late.
They met under Pierre’s apartment building. George could tell that he simply overslept by his fluffy, unkempt hair and wrinkled oversized tee.
“Sorry, I was working on my paper last night. It was supposed to be quick but…”
George tried. “Is there a certain problem you encountered?”
“No, no,” Charles shook his head. “I finished that paper early. But then I figure I can prepare and do my other assignments in advance and somehow I end up finishing what is supposed to be done on Thursday.” He sighed. “I just can’t stop myself.”
“Oh, a workaholic.” Charles did not seem like one if George was being honest. He was a bit clumsy, judging by his performance the day before. He gave off a casual, comfortable feeling that reminded him of a lazy afternoon. Perhaps because of the fact that they met on a lazy afternoon, in a café where time barely moved.
“Also,” Charles started, apologetically. “The night out tonight is cancelled. There is an emergency.” George tried to hide his disappointment. It was merely yet another change of schedule this week. “But,” Charles added. “I can still show you around. I have been studying here for almost two years. I know some good places.”
George laughed and gestured in front of him. “Well, then, my local guide…”
Charles excitedly walked forward, before stopping abruptly.
“There’s another problem.”
George, thanks to his parent’s emphasis on manners from a young age, refrained from swearing, annoyed by all the small obstructions to his nice week off. Charles waved though. “Not a big problem. It was just that I can’t drive.”
The Brit visibly relaxed. “That’s cool. I can drive. Just tell me the address.”
They got into Pierre’s car, one of his many, whose key the Frenchman had left them.
After Charles entered a pastry shop into the GPS, they drove in silence for a few minutes, before George broke it by admitting, “Even I as a professional driver got my license pretty late as well.”
“Huh?” Charles, sat in the passenger seat checking his phone to see if the next destination was open that day, was startled.
“I mean, it is a pain in the ass to get a driver’s license.” George explained. Charles was for sure nice and sweet, but was not good with strangers, as Pierre told him the day before. He had reminded George to try and find a way to carry the conversation by himself. “You know I almost failed the written exam?”
Charles widened his eyes. “Would they take away your super license if you failed the exam?” He was very amused by this idea and was shaking with laughter.
“I hope not,” George deadpanned, the tension in the car having eased. “That would be pretty embarrassing, apart from the part that driving is my childhood dream.”
“Do you know,” Charles sat up straighter. “Arthur did fail his first license test?’
“No way!” George exclaimed. He had simply been joking before to try and diffuse the awkwardness in the car.
“You know how the road in Monaco is. And he was driving in an erratic manner, or so I heard.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Is that why you failed your test?”
“What?” Charles’ confusion was visibly written on his face.
“I mean your driver's license test? Did you fail it because of the road in Monaco?” Or was this a wrong question to ask?
“I did not fail it. I did not take the exam at all.” George immediately felt ashamed for assuming everyone wanted to drive. Was that a less-known side effect of being a driver?
“I just didn’t think I needed to drive. The public transport in Milan is well-developed enough.” Charles shrugged. Who was George to judge, when the last time he used public transport traced back to… he couldn’t recall.
“You should try it then. It is as good as the one in Paris.” Charles paused for a moment. “Oh right, you’ve never tried the metro in Paris as well.” He grimaced. “I hope that doesn’t stop you from trying it ever again.”
“Why? You said it’s well-developed, didn’t you?”
“That’s the network. The metro station and the trains themselves are a different story.”
George’s curiosity was skyrocketing. Nonetheless, Charles refused to talk about the metro at all but started describing his trip to Paris last year. It has been a while since George had last visited Paris.
Charles’ way of storytelling was undoubtedly funny, and arguably more captivating than the story itself. Though George failed to comprehend why a banana found in the hotel room could make Charles laugh until he was breathless, he enjoyed listening to him. He already thought so the day before, and he was more convinced today, that Charles was a friend he would love to stay close to.
“Hey, we, I mean Alex, Lando and you know, other drivers, are going to kart together next month. Are you interested?” The thing George had learnt about making friends, was increasing the number of mutual friends they shared was the quickest way to ensure their connection.
He did not expect Charles’ face to fall.
“Are you… not interested? We can do some other thing as well.” Or maybe it was the people he had mentioned?
“No, no!” Charles shook his head rapidly. “I just… I… “ He gulped. “I cannot drive anymore.”
What do you mean? George thanked his reflexes for stopping himself to ask this out loud. From Charles' grimy face, it was apparent the answer would not be pleasant. Had there been an accident? George should stop probing.
“Oh, we’ve arrived,” Charles said, breaking the awkward air. He led George to a cute, classy bakery.
Once they sat down, Charles enthusiastically ordered meringue and maritozzi alongside other desserts. Noticing George’s shocked expression, Charles bashfully simpered. A shy sweet tooth.
When it was George’s turn to order, he simply asked for a piece of lemon pie and breakfast tea, turning down the recommendation from the waitress.
Although Charles said nothing, he could tell how confused the other man was with George not trying any of the renowned desserts in this restaurant.
The driver sighed. “I’m sure they all taste fantastic, but the calories are way too high, and I already drank a lot on Sunday.”
Charles’ brow furrowed. George understood how absurd it was from an outsider’s perspective to abandon the fun and casual parts of life for a job. He sighed, reluctant yet prepared to give his usual explanation on the relationship between the performance on track and weight.
“If I can ensure you do not intake the calorie, everything is fine?”
That was the last thing George expected Charles to say. His mouth hung open. Moments later, he nodded, unsure where the conversation was going.
Charles’ mouth pursed into a line. He murmured to himself, then looked into George directly. “That is easy enough to deal with. Just order whatever you want to eat.” Under George’s dubious gaze, Charles straightened his back. “Really, as long as we make sure certain chemical reactions does not take place, the food won’t be absorbed as glucose. The calorie will be no concern.”
“Yeah,” George might have spent most of his teenage years driving, but he had still acquired year 9 biology knowledge. “But how?”
“Eh…” Charles’ tongue sneaked out as he stuttered. “You can… I, ugh. I can give you a medicine.”
“A medicine.”
“Yes, to stop the chemical reaction from happening.”
“Okay, so a diet pill?” George sat back in his seat. He had not been aware that he had been leaning forward in excitement.
“Don’t worry! There will be no side effects.” Charles looked too sincere to be a salesman. Maybe he did believe in the efficacy. Judging by how slender he was, he would not be surprised Charles paid extra attention to keeping in shape.
He tried to beat around the bush. “Are you a mad scientist? Or at the very least you gotta be a medical student to convince me to take anything unknown.”
Charles pouted. “I’m not medical student. I study chemical engineering.” He frowned. “But believe me, this works. Medicine is merely applied chemistry, after all.”
George evaluated before nodding. “Sure, show me your diet pill.” He knew it well enough no drugs could be identified by the naked eye. He was curious though, whether Charles wanted him to consume an unknown substance in the public.
Charles shook his head, as expected. “I have it in the bag I left in the car. You don’t need to take it right now but three hours from now anyways.” He opened the menu again. “Here, you can eat without worrying about your weight, really.”
George reckoned he could always burn the calories with a workout. He was incredibly curious if the seemingly innocent, soft-hearted boy was involved in anything illegal, and be bold enough to try to sell it to someone he just met for the second time.
After he ordered one more sandwich and a cup of Irish coffee, he decided to put the mystery pill behind him for the moment. Instead, he was intrigued by the fact Charles had attended the previous race as well.
“Of course I did! It was Monza!” Charles widened his eyes in disbelief that George had expected anything less from a Milan resident.
“I met several Italians on the way who didn’t even know there would be a race, so…” George shrugged.
“Well, I am not like them,” Charles made the same face he had made when Pierre mentioned his would-be single-seaters career. “I never miss a Ferrari home race, be it Monza or Imola.”
“A tifosi, huh?” It was hardly surprising to George, considering Arthur was in the Ferrari Driver Academy.
“Un tifoso,” His Italian was fluent, as George already knew from when he had ordered for him. “I am a tifoso ever since I watched the red car race by my best friend’s apartment.”
It took George a moment to process. “That is such a Monégasque privilege. I couldn’t even watch F1 on track until I was like, what, nine or so?”
Charles smirked. “Alas,” he sighed. “It has been a while since Ferrari won.”
Nearly all tifosi had frowned upon the recent race results of Ferrari. It was nothing but pure disappointment composed by incompetence and misfortune, though George could argue for Monza, the FIA was more involved.
“At least the tire degradation has improved. It is a shame how the development shifted from an oversteering car to an understeering one.” The last comment might be redundant but George himself did find an oversteering car to have much more potential.
Charles’ face clouded with perplexity. “What is understeering?”
“Ugh, don’t quote me on that because this has a lot to do with personal preference,” He began to explain the difference between the two development directions despite a voice inside him questioning how abnormal it was for Charles, who watched racing since a young age, to have no idea about these two basic concepts. “They should really spend money on deciding the right direction instead of bringing multiple diffusers to the testing.” He concluded.
“Ok…” Charles slowly nodded. George could see there is no understanding in his eyes at all. “And the diffuser…” he stopped himself. “Anyway, the Grand Prix is such fun. I have lived in Italy for quite some time already but their passion always shocks me.”
“That’s because you support red.” George snorted. “If you go to Silverstone, you’ll enjoy it a lot as well.”
“Well, I did!” Charles gave him a big smile. “Carlos won there.”
And how could George argue with that?
After the meal, they went to the metro station as they had planned in the car. On the way though, Charles stopped abruptly.
“What?” George had almost bumped into the smaller man.
“I have an idea.” Charles turned around with a grin on his face. “We don’t do metro. Let’s go biking.” He gestured to a collection of bikes on the roadside. BikeMi was written on each of them. “It’s the shared bike in Milan. Not of the best quality but usable. It would be fun.”
George’s anticipation for today’s trip included photos in front of Dormo, a visit to some museum or a walk in the castle. He certainly did not dress to ride a bicycle. He looked down at his shirt and derby shoes. His gaze then shifted to the bumpy road of Milan. He made his decision. He looked up then, seeing the enthusiastic and excited smile of Charles, who has already standing by the bikes and fussing around.
“Okay, only if you promise it will be fun.”
It was indeed fun.
George’s mum had a great misconception between fun and safety. When he was younger, she would scold George for eating chalk or climbing shelves. George would argue it was fun and get yelled back. “It is dangerous!” But the two things did not contradict each other. It could be fun and dangerous at the same time.
George had no idea why this came up to him out of nowhere.
Perhaps, it was because he was having fun, and he had just realized that cycling on a road that seemingly has not been maintained for over a decade was dangerous. What a shame the cost was falling off the bike at a high speed and followed by a sharp pain shot through his left tibia. The mini cooper driver who appeared without warning at the corner and forced George to take a sudden, sharp turn to avoid them was long gone.
“Oh my god!” Charles rushed towards him. He helped George to sit on the curb. “It doesn’t look good.”
“I don’t feel good as well.” George gulped. He was slightly nauseous with the pain.
Carefully, Charles rolled his trousers up to reveal the swelling and bruised shin. George hissed.
“Sorry. Does it hurt?” Charles empathetically rubbed the other man’s arm. He scrutinized before concluding. “It looks like a fracture to me.”
George’s face lost colour upon hearing that. “It can’t be.”
Charles pouted. “I’m pretty sure every bone can be broken.”
“No, you don’t understand,” George blinked back tears of pain and panic. “If it’s broken, there is no way I will be cleared for the next race, and possibly the one after as well.”
“Maybe it’s not broken.” Charles fruitlessly tried. “Bones are pretty strong.”
George nodded, unconvinced. Now he observed closely, the shin looked deformed. He felt sick.
“I am going to dial the ambulance,” Charles said quietly.
He sat down next to George after making the call. “They’re gonna arrive in five minutes.”
“Thanks, mate,” The younger man answered softly. He took out his phone and searched the healing time of bone fracture, then quickly searched if a broken tibia affected driving much.
“Mate…” Charles concernedly watched him.
“What?” He realized he sounded too harsh. The last thing he wanted was for Charles to feel bad for what happened. He hoped for the other man did not feel responsible. “I’m just doing some mental preparation.”
“If I say… I know a way to heal you quickly?” Charles quietly, quickly uttered, then looked around to check if anyone was passing by. Lucky for them, there was no one.
George found it all too similar. Charles sounded exactly like when he told him about the magic diet pill.
“If you trust me,” Charles said. “I can heal you and you can be ready for the race.”
George stayed mute. Charles continued, “We need to take some risk, but it is the only way you can race.”
George looked right into Charles’ eyes. They were strangely clear, as if one could peek into his soul via this portal. He found out Charles’ eyes were a mix of dark teal and yellow.
“Okay.” He swallowed. “Let’s do it.”
It was not because he trusted Charles with his life. The thought of missing a race or two simply caused him to lose all rationality, prompting him to make reckless decisions. Was this the start of him being a Was this the start of his addiction to a medicine, if Charles was giving him one? He didn’t even know what was Charles going to give him.
Charles beamed. He then put his hands gently on George’s injured leg. The air seemed to freeze around them. George gasped at what unfolded in front of his eyes.
His calf was restored to its original shape while the swelling and bruise disappeared at a magical speed. Within a minute, his leg was as good as new.
“It should be all fine now.” Charles softly said. George looked around to discover the Monégasque was pale and sweaty. “You should try standing up and walking, but be careful.” He sounded breathless.
George did as he was told. It was indeed healed completely.
“How… how did you…” He stopped as Charles pressed a hand to his own chest and panted weakly. “Are you okay?” He kneeled by the other man and worriedly examined him.
“Yeah, I’m just exhausted. It’s quite some work.” Charles gave him a small smile. “I did heal you, right?” His grin grew wider when George confirmed. “I know you have a lot of questions. But I really need to take a rest right now.”
“Of course, of course!” George took off his jacket and put it on Charles when the slim man shivered in the wind. “Let me drive you back to your apartment. Can you walk?”
Charles nodded but he swayed when he stood up, so George wrapped his arm around his shoulder when they walked back towards Pierre’s car.
As soon as Charles gave his address to George, he curled up in a little ball and fell asleep, using George’s jacket as a blanket. George was left alone with his train of thought.
When they arrived at the apartment building Charles lived in, the Monégasque was still sound asleep. George felt bad waking him up.
“Hey, which floor do you live on?” He shook Charles’ shoulder gently.
“Terzo… Terzo piano.” Charles murmured. He gripped George’s collar and held him close. Before George could react, he was already turned into Charles’ human-sized teddy bear.
He had no choice but to carry the smaller man back to his apartment despite the struggle he had balancing Charles while searching for the key.
When Charles finally woke up from his nap, the day was still bright.
George had already familiarized himself with the apartment. It was fairly simplistic overall with some interesting drawings. The style was the same as the art in the café Charles worked in.
Just as he stood under two giant orbs hanging from the ceiling, wondering if they had any functional purpose, they light up suddenly.
George almost gasped. He turned around to see Charles standing by the door frame. One of his hands was rubbing his eyes while the other one was on the switch on the wall. “Morning,” he yawned.
“It’s the afternoon,” George replied awkwardly.
“Oh,” the chemical engineering student, as far as he knew, sat down on the kitchen table, and stretched. “Is it still Tuesday?”
George nodded, unsure what to say.
Charles finally seemed more awake. He looked at George, who was staring at him intensely. “You want an explanation of what happened?”
George nodded. In spite of the millions of thoughts in his mind, none of them could verbalize how shocked he was after that sequence of events.
“Well,” Charles averted his gaze for a moment. “I am an alchemist.”
What?
“Do you know what an alchemist is? We deconstruct and reconstruct matter to create.” He further explained. “For your case, I simply regrouped the position of your bone particles and recreate the bonding between them.”
George’s face was unreadable.
“The energy to hold them together is the major problem. I usually supply it with my own energy but to hold bones together requires much more than what I can offer. I take it from the air movement. Thankfully it’s windy today.”
“So… but…” George suddenly found his voice. “Isn’t this magic?”
“It’s not magic!” Charles pouted. “It’s one hundred percent science, the same way I can avoid calorie absorption. Ah,” he softly exclaimed and alerted George.
“What happened?”
“I missed when I should have perform alchemy so that you wouldn’t absorb the calories. Sorry, you’ll need to burn them by yourself.”
George was relieved. “It was nothing,” he waved off. “So that was your plan, huh?”
Charles nodded. “It is very effective. I did that for Arthur a lot when he was younger.”
“Why did he stop?”
“He said diet control is not only about weight but also the strength of mind.” Charles shrugged.
“That sounded very convenient though.” George sipped water. This was a lot to take in. “And still sounds magical to me.”
“I told you it’s not magic.” Charles’ face scrunched again. He did that every time he tried to vocalize a thought, George now observed. “Though there is that feeling of guidance when I perform alchemy. Also, did you know that I don’t need to necessarily perform a physical transformation? As long as it satisfies the rule of equivalent exchange, I can transform it.”
“Wow, that does not help. It sounds even more supernatural to me,” George finished his water and put it back on the kitchen counter. “But what do you mean about other transformations?”
“Erm, for example, let’s say if I really want to, eh, run fast,” Charles vaguely gestured. “Then I can give up the ability to talk fast in exchange for that. Because they’re equivalent.”
“But what if you want to talk fast again? Can you exchange it back? Sounds convenient to me.” George enquired, his mind portraying all the scenarios this ability would serve useful.
“Eh, technically yes but there are a lot of problems during execution. The definition of equivalence outside of mass has always been vague and changing. It could be equivalent when you first performed the transformation but not afterwards.”
“Ah,” George felt reassured, weirdly. The fact even alchemy was not all-powerful brought comfort to him, a mere human. Wait. “You’re human, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am!” Charles sounded offended, rightfully. “Alchemy is a skill to be learnt, just like driving or anything else. It’s simply difficult and the books are rare, so most people don’t know about it. I’m actually the only one that carries on learning from my grandma. Both Lorenzo and Arthur gave up midway.”
“Sorry, mate,” George spread his hand. “How should I know? My understanding of how the world works has been completely shattered today.” He was actually glad Charles took his long nap, so he could work out a bit and calm down.
Charles softened. “I get it. Alex acted the same way, no, even more dramatic when he first learnt about it.”
“Alex knows?!”
“Yeah,” Charles nodded casually. “I was in the hospital with him yesterday because in case of any emergency during the operation, I can help a bit.” His face darkened but George did not notice.
“So, you can do similar work to when you healed my bone?” He asked.
“Well, it depends. For physical injury, I can just perform a physical transformation. But for illnesses, like organ failure, the mechanism is much more complex. Things almost certainly go wrong. So I usually simply perform non-corporeal transformations, exchange something not as important to health.”
He sounded too experienced. George could not help but ask, “Have you tried that?”
“Yeah.” The alchemist looked like he wanted to add the word duh. “Why not?”
“Makes sense,” George murmured to himself, processing. “Wait, why don’t you become a doctor then? You could save so many lives.”
Charles’ face turned unreadable. “It is not as easy. It’s difficult enough to find something equivalent to health. Life? There is nothing equivalent to life.” He lowered his head in frustration. George wondered if he tried. He thought of all the abnormality he observed in Charles, the fact with his enthusiasm for racing, which he knew personally was very much real and strong, enthusiasm was all this former karting driver had.
“What did you pay for?” He asked softly, mindful that he was crossing a boundary.
Charles’ smile did not reach his eyes. “Arthur’s career at first.”
It was not something George expected, as a career seemed to be something too tangible and intangible simultaneously for alchemy to intervene, but it was sensible. If Arthur had had enough financial support to continue his racing career. Charles, his older brother, who would have been further along in terms of a driving career, theoretically should also had been able to do so.
“My family could only support one kid to continue racing. They decided it was me but I could not carry on racing knowing my baby brother was forced to give up his dream. So,” Charles inhaled deeply. “I gave up my career for his.”
“And he simply accepted it?”
“Oh, of course not. He was really, really mad,” Charles shook his head in memory. “My parents were really conflicted as well. Eventually, they decided to let Arthur develop his career because I lied and claimed that I couldn’t exchange it back. Hey, you can’t tell him about that.”
“For sure,” George nodded sincerely. Half of his mind was occupied by how Arthur would feel all these years, knowing your career was built on your brother’s.
“I know it’s stupid. I was told to be an embodiment of personal heroism and hypocrisy. But I am not trying to sacrifice myself, really. I have no intention of making myself suffer, but I do hope my brother gets what he wants, and if it requires it, I need to make a sacrifice.”
George reckoned it was true, but he also wondered if Arthur would find it more acceptable. He was in no place to ponder though. It was between the Leclerc brothers, and only them. He thought of the inability to drive, wondering if his driving skills had vanished with his racing career.
As if sensing his thought, Charles continued. “Then, it was my dad.”
George frowned. He vaguely recalled news about the Leclerc family.
“He passed away 5 years ago. It was a chronic disease.”
There is nothing equivalent to life. Charles had said. He knew it firsthand, George thought numbly, after how many fruitless attempts?
“I gave up my ability to drive straight away once I realised there is nothing much the doctor could do. At that time, it was the most important thing to me. Without a career, I can still race. But if I cannot drive? Back then I thought it was all I have, and it should be enough to save his life.”
Except it didn’t.
“I then gave up anything valuable to me, my reaction time I have always been proud of, my physique, my technical knowledge, my sensitivity of driving, everything. But it was all exchanged to a dead-end without anything in return. My dad’s condition showed no improvement. I was getting devastated.” He gulped. “I gave up my love of motorsport, telling myself, if it still didn’t work, nothing will work.”
And they both knew the ending.
“So here I am, paid a price to learn the secrets of alchemy.” Charles finished with a shrug. He looked through the window, the sun had started to set. “Hey, do you still want to go out? I know a nice pizzeria.”
“Only if you promise you’ll really help me to stop the excess calorie absorption.” George joked.
“Well, only if you don’t break any bones again.” Charles giggled, delighted by his own jokes.
The pizzeria Charles had mentioned was located near Parco Sempione. Before they headed into the restaurant, they took a stroll through the park.
It was a quiet evening. A few teens skated by. Charles and George walked in relative silence, the smaller man attempting to tell a funny story of his classmate's proposal there, as the younger one stared at the other intensely. Something was not clicking.
“I have a question,” he started. Charles confusedly hummed. “If you already gave away your love for racing, then why…”
Why are you still so passionate? Why do you still attend every race in Italy? Why do your eyes still light up when you talk about it? George’s mind was screaming.
“Ah,” Charles played with his fingers. “After dad’s passing, I did a lot of research. There are theories on why my attempts were a failure, apart from simply saying there is no such equivalence. I understand a lot more now about how alchemy works. But there is one phenomenon observed that no one understands the mechanism as it violates everything we understand about equivalent exchange. Usually speaking, when we perform transformation, it is impossible for us to take back what we give away. It is the price already paid, no matter what the outcome is. But one thing does not fit in this rule.” He chuckled.
“Love always comes back.”