Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jupiter was supposed to be a star, but it failed, and now the sun is destined to shine alone.

Max still remembers reading that metaphor in a magazine with Leclerc when they were both young competitors in the karting category. It was rare for the two of them to be in the same environment without some kind of fight, but that was the result of hours confined in one of the garages, waiting for the rain to stop. While Max hid from his father, Charles tried to find ways to stave off boredom.

They were probably in Pierre’s garage, but Max isn't sure anymore. The only thing he clearly remembers is how they began searching for something to do until the weather improved. Amid elbow jabs and lame jokes, the two found some magazines on a table and decided to read.

Most of them were predictably about cars, and Leclerc quickly took possession of those. However, one particular magazine immediately caught Max's attention. After all, who isn't drawn to space-related topics? The Dutchman, in particular, had a secret interest in this subject from a very young age. He loved observing the stars, learning about the planets, and marveling at the infinite galaxies and constellations the universe had to offer. Unfortunately, his father always wanted him to focus solely on racing. Who knows what kind of future he could have had if this secret passion had been nurtured?

Max flipped through the magazine absentmindedly, reading funny stories and metaphors that used planets as characters. He was so engrossed in the reading that he didn’t even notice when Charles approached and started peering over his shoulder at the pages. Max only became aware of his friend's presence when Charles made a joke about Saturn losing its rings.

"It's funny to think that a star like that is deteriorating so much," said Charles, or at least that’s what Max thought he heard.

"It's not funny, look," Max replied, pointing to an image of Jupiter next to the Sun. "It's sad, actually, to think that Jupiter was meant to be a star alongside the Sun, but now the Sun shines alone because Jupiter failed."

Leclerc seemed to ponder this, resting his hand on his chin. "Do you think we’ll end up like that?" He asked suddenly.

"End up like what?" Max didn’t understand what he was getting at.

"What I mean is: what if one of us fails in the future? Will we still keep living to become bright stars like the Sun, or will we just deteriorate like Saturn’s rings?"

Charles turned to Max, and they stared at each other. One was thoughtful; the other, extremely confused. What did he mean by that?

“Max Emilian Verstappen!” The furious voice of Max's father echoed through the garage, comically accompanied by a thunderclap that decided to strike right after his shout.

Jos grabbed Max by the wrist, and despite the boy’s protests, dragged him away from the Monegasque. It was the last time they saw each other that weekend, as the race ended up being canceled due to the rain.

--

Blinking furiously after the end of the safety car, Max Verstappen took the chicane as cautiously as possible, considering he was going over 200 kilometers per hour. The rain falling on the circuit made visibility difficult, and he knew the situation was even worse for those behind him.

"How many laps left?" Max shouted over the radio to Giampiero as the rain intensified, and he almost skidded over a curb off the racing line.

"Seventeen laps. Your pace is dropping compared to Charles's," came the response, mixed with the deafening noise of the rain over the radio.

"Try driving in a storm, mate. I can't keep driving the car in these conditions, the tires are sliding too much." Max grunted as he entered the straight and saw Leclerc's Ferrari rapidly approaching.

"If you can recover in 16 laps, we’ll do a pit stop," GP suggested, analyzing the situation and possible strategies.

"Do it."

"Ok. Box, box."

Max opened the lap, with only sixteen laps remaining. His body was colder than usual, thanks to the rain seeping into the supposedly waterproof suit. He followed the same route from the start of the race, taking the corners and chicanes before guiding the car into the box.

What Max didn’t expect was for Ferrari to replicate his strategy, and for the first time since he entered Formula 1, Ferrari’s pit stop was quick enough for Leclerc to exit ahead of him at the pit lane exit.

As soon as he was released from the pit stop and had to obey the pit lane exit limits, Max felt frustration take over. He knew the circuit was in terrible condition, visibility was almost zero, and overtaking opportunities were practically nonexistent. However, it wasn’t just the rain that worried him. The memory of the conversation he and Charles had that distant afternoon in the kart garage had been returning to his mind since early that day. What did Leclerc mean by that? The idea of failing and ending up like Jupiter, destined for an incomplete and lonely existence, disturbed him more than the storm outside.

"Focus, Max." GP spoke over the radio, as if sensing the mental turmoil of the driver. "You’ve got time to…"

Max didn’t finish hearing what Giampero was saying. His ears were filled with a loud, deep crash, cutting through the flow of his thoughts and piercing his chest like a cold stake.

The Dutchman’s mind went blank as he tried to process what had just happened. The harsh, dry impact reverberated across the track, and everything happened as quickly as a blink of an eye. One moment, Charles was ahead of him, exiting the pit stop, and the next, his heart seemed to stop as he swerved the wheel to avoid the wrecked car in the middle of the circuit.

"Are you okay, Max? Red Flag, Red Flag." Giampero's voice was urgent, but Max couldn’t manage a response. It felt like a frenzy cloud was enveloping the Dutch driver's mind as he tried to grasp the terrible reality.

He could barely believe what he was seeing. Charles’s Ferrari was destroyed against the barrier, smoke rising from the wreckage, a vision partially blurred by the relentless rain. Time slowed down, each second dragging painfully as he stared at the chaos before him. There was no movement inside Leclerc’s cockpit. There was no sign of life.

The safety car was deployed, and the race was once again interrupted. Max slowed down as he passed the wreckage and continued down the track, the sound of the engine fading as he returned to the box.

Max saw the red flags being waved around the track, the silent panic on the faces of the marshals and officials reflected deep within his core. The silence on his radio and the urgency with which the medical team moved made the Dutchman stop breathing.

He knew the chances of Charles being okay were higher than him suffering a serious injury. But the Ferrari driver's delay in getting out of the car only made him aware that what had happened was more serious and could only have resulted in the worst.

The Red Bull finally stopped at the pit exit, and Max didn’t hesitate to jump out of the car. The rain pounded against his helmet as he ran toward the pit exit. His eyes desperately searched for any sign that Charles was okay and alive, but all he could see was the medical team gathering around the wreckage of the car, adding the sound of emergency equipment to the deafening tension that filled the entire circuit.

The broadcast and commentators were silent; no one dared to speak at that moment, and Max began to have the horrible feeling that Charles’s fate was sealed right then. He remained standing, immobile, his gloved hands trembling at his sides. Everything was so cold, and he, who was supposed to be used to that feeling, hated it completely.

When the marshals signaled that the situation was serious, Max’s world collapsed completely. The memories of that day in the kart returned with painful clarity. Charles, with his bright brown eyes, asking questions about their future. Max didn’t know if he could handle the idea that Charles had failed now, that Charles might be the Jupiter that would never shine as brightly as he could have.

The images on the circuit screens were taken out of focus from the accident, all were turned off. The silence was replaced by the anguished cries of the audience when they finally announced the death of Charles Leclerc. What had started as a normal race had turned into a nightmare.

Max took off his helmet and let out a sob he didn’t even know he was holding, tears streaming down his cheeks and mixing with the thick raindrops, his eyes fixed as the paramedics and rescue team worked quickly to remove Charles from the car. He looked around, searching for something, anything that could anchor him to reality. The familiar faces, now pale and tear-streaked, offered no comfort. He wanted to scream, wanted to keep crying, wanted to do something to release the pain that consumed him inside, but all he could do was stand there, helpless, feeling more alone than ever.

He was pulled back to reality by the sound of sirens, seeing the medical helicopter land near the crash site. The wind caused by the rotors whipped his soaked clothes, but he couldn’t move, his feet felt glued to the ground, as if some invisible force was holding him back from getting closer. Maybe it was the fear of facing the truth. The reality was too painful to accept, and Max knew there was no escaping it.

All that was left for him was to watch, powerless, as Charles's body was carefully removed from the wreckage. The helmet was still in place, but Max knew that the driver was no longer there. The fragile barrier between life and death had been broken, and the Monegasque, who had always had a light of his own, had faded away forever.

Max's world shrank until only that moment remained, that unbearable void forming in his chest. He fell to his knees, not caring about the mud and rain that surrounded him or who the insensitive ones were that might want to exploit the fragile moment. Charles Leclerc was not just a rival. He was someone Max liked, someone he never had the courage to admit how much he cared for, someone he could only consider a friend and with whom he shared laughter and tears.

When the earth was thrown over the dark wooden coffin, Max knew he would have to face the future without Charles. But how was that possible? There was no place for Max without Charles; it was like talking about Ayrton Senna without mentioning Alain Prost — it was impossible.

Max wished could go back in time, to the moment when they were just two dreamers talking about planets. The moment when the only certainty he had was that he and Charles would be together.

Charles might have become the Jupiter he had so feared, but he would always shine in Max's memory like the Sun that illuminated all his dark days and embraced him in the warmth of his arms.

-- 

Charles Leclerc never imagined something like this could happen, given all the modern meteorological technology and safety measures in Formula 1. But unless he was the master of the weather, he could never have predicted a downpour as intense as the one that struck that weekend during the start of the Suzuka circuit. The storm seemed to have come out of nowhere, catching everyone off guard, especially the Monegasque driver who, until that moment, had been confident in a good performance.

Leclerc doesn't remember exactly how things unfolded, but everything happened so quickly from the moment the first raindrops began to hit the visor of his decorated helmet. He didn't immediately process that it was raining, as if his mind had disconnected from reality for a few seconds, only reminded by his engineer's call to the box. The sensation of water slowly permeating his fireproof suit as he was forced to return quickly against his will to the pit lane to swap his soft tires for a set of intermediates left him with a phantom weight in his chest and stomach. It wasn't even because of the positions he lost now after his excellent start; it was because of everything Suzuka, in such weather, meant to the poor Ferrari driver.

The Monegasque could spend hours citing how Suzuka was his least favorite place of all the seasons. He had already lost everything he had, and part of that loss happened at one of the protective barriers surrounding these tight corners. It was expected that he wouldn't feel comfortable at any point during this GP. He always felt a crushing weight whenever journalists were intrusive enough to ask about Jules and this track, as they practically filled their mouths comparing him to his godfather, completely devaluing his own legacy. He also felt this same weight twisting in his gut with every corner and straight of this damn circuit.

Charles barely had time to sigh in resignation when the signal for his pit stop was raised, and he had to step on the gas and return to the race. His mind was racing, trying to drive in these track conditions while also concentrating on reclaiming the lost position.

"What position am I in?" he asked as he exited the pit lane and entered the first sector of the circuit.

"P5, mate," his strategist crackled in his earpiece. "Keep up the pace."

And he did as instructed, like the good tifosi lamb, he went out and easily reclaimed his P2 because the others also had to change their tires, and the rain made life difficult for everyone. Now only Verstappen was ahead of him, and there were only a few laps left until the finish line when the radio sounded once more at the end of his second sector.

“Max is going to stop. Box, box.”

“Now? I think I can hold out until the last laps like this; the tires are good.” Leclerc tried to argue as he entered the straight of sector 3, now extremely close to Verstappen.

“Box now, Charles, no discussions,” his strategist called him harshly.

Charles could only let the silent rage consume him and tighten his stomach completely as he returned for a pit stop that, to his surprise, was incredibly quick. He didn’t want to let himself dream. As soon as the pit signal was raised and he was free to return to the circuit, he thought he could try to overtake Max with the new tires. Finally, he thought it might be possible to reach the podium he had spent nights dreaming about in this overwhelming season for him in the tifosi team and dedicate it to everyone who had fought for him.

Except that never happened.

He had barely exited the pit lane, miraculously in front of Verstappen, when he began to lose control of the steering wheel and feel the car aquaplaning under the tires. It was genuinely terrifying, and Charles didn’t know what could have caused it; he barely had time to try to brake when he found himself spinning at full speed towards the track and the protective barriers, crashing and flipping several times until the car finally decided to stop. He felt the halo break with the force of the impact and felt his head slam against the wet gravel before stopping, pressed against the cold metal fence.

With some painful effort — it hurt so much he swore he broke something — Charles could see a bit of his situation from where he was pinned, and the realization left him even more stunned than the force with which he first crashed into the barrier. His tire was swapped, but instead of the right tires for a large-scale rainstorm, there were soft tires meant for a completely dry track.

It was entirely the red team's mistake, not his.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How Ferrari always finds a way to completely screw him over in races, whether by not even giving Charles a chance to start a race, as happened in Brazil the previous season, or by leaving him out of the box, running an extreme risk to his life just to try to score points.

Charles didn’t think he could feel anger at Ferrari, even as his vision gradually darkened, even as he saw blood red beginning to drip onto his helmet and felt his limbs gradually go numb. He didn’t expect to wake up again.

A part of him sincerely didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on all the Ferrari engineers' faces, the possible furious look of Fred, or the raw concern of the tifosi in the stands who didn’t know the truth of anything that happened. He didn’t want to think that he had failed. Meanwhile, the other half desperately wanted to wake up, to have another chance, thinking about not disappointing, trying to succeed for those he had already lost.

With his last breath in that cabin surrounded by rosso corsa red, he wished he could have another chance. He didn't want to end up like Jupiter, without another chance to shine.

Charles wished more than anything to wake up again just to be able to see his father and Jules, wished to open his eyes and see his mother and siblings lovingly having dinner as they always did on weekends. How long had it been since he last saw his family? He couldn’t say. Since his father passed away, he had tried to be closer to his family, but the duties of a driver had long made him let that wish rot in the background. But now, on the tightrope between life and death, he only wished for a better, less stressful life by their side.

And for the first time since he could remember, it seemed like he finally got what he wanted.

Charles didn’t feel the moment the world faded around him, nor the confusion that took over everyone present when his radio went silent, when the car stopped responding, and when the red flag was raised. He didn’t hear the shouts on the pit wall, nor the frenzy of the cameras that focused on the wrecked car before being completely turned off, nor did he see Verstappen’s commotion as he passed by the accident site.

He didn’t see anything else, not until he finally woke up.

Chapter Text

Jupiter raises its shining face in the sky of destiny and each decision seems like an expanding planet, each opportunity a galaxy in gestation.

Charles felt as if the weight of the world was collapsing on his body, as though he had been slammed against a wall, crushed multiple times, and finally thrown against a moving car. A dull pain spread across his head, a persistent drumming that seemed to echo through every fiber of his being. Groaning in pain, with heavy eyelids and fighting the drowsiness that insisted on overtaking him, he turned on the soft surface he was lying on, only to fall onto a soft floor.

The impact on his skull made the pain intensify, shifting from a distant, muffled sensation to a sharp, throbbing ache. He furrowed his brow as he blinked repeatedly, trying to adjust his eyes to the brightness flooding the room he was in. A brightly lit room? For a moment, confusion took over his thoughts. He blinked a few more times, and the image in front of him gradually became clearer.

The warm, almost oppressive sunlight forced Charles to cover his eyes with his trembling hands. His head throbbed even more as he tried to figure out where he was. Initially, he thought he was in a hospital reserved by Ferrari for him, given that the accident he'd suffered had been strong enough to make him black out. But something felt off — the cold, hard wooden floor beneath his body and the strange absence of familiar hospital monitor beeps, the hurried footsteps of nurses, the hiss of machines — all of this left him even more confused. The last thing he remembered was panic, the impact, the searing pain... and then, darkness.

In place of the expected beeps, there was birdsong and the sound of cars passing outside. He blinked several times, his eyes finally beginning to adjust to the light flooding the room. Charles felt the cool air touching his skin, a gentle breeze far too fresh for a hospital or any place he expected to find himself. He forced himself to sit up, his body protesting with a dull ache radiating from his limbs as if he had been squeezed by a steamroller.

His heart began to beat harder and faster, a silent panic growing in his chest. Everything around him was eerily familiar. The walls were a soft shade of blue, decorated with the same posters he, Arthur, and Lorenzo used to spend hours staring at, daydreaming. The shelves were filled with Arthur’s books, miniature race cars they had received from Jules, and trophies from karting championships he had participated in. Even the wardrobe he and his younger brothers used to hide from Jules during games was there, intact. All these memories flooded his mind as he looked around, but he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

The familiar scent of lavender and old wood, mixed with the dust of books that never left the shelves, filled the air. This was, without a doubt, his childhood bedroom. Charles took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of confused thoughts and properly process what was happening.

He remembered everything that had happened during the race: the battle for positions with Max, the pit stop, the crash… the pain of the impact, the desperation, the embrace of darkness enveloping him...

“I died.” He murmured, concluding with a hoarse, fragile, and trembling voice.

He vividly remembered life slipping away from him as his body shut down, like each passing second left him feeling less present inside that car. It was a fact he had died, right?  

Everything he felt, the silence, and the calm that enveloped him could only mean that. But then, when he no longer expected to wake up, here he was — supposedly alive — in a room he had only dreamed of returning to.

Slowly, Charles tried to push himself off the floor to stand, his heart pounding in his chest like a runaway drum. But something was deeply wrong. As he moved, he realized that his body wasn’t like it was before. The defined muscles, the result of years of intense training, were no longer there. Instead, his arms and legs seemed fragile and small. He looked at himself with growing dread, feeling a strange lightness in his movements.

Apprehensively, he approached the wardrobe, where he knew there was a mirror inside. Each step felt like an eternity. The wooden doors creaked slightly as he opened them, the sound reverberating through the empty room. He blinked at the reflection before him, and what he saw left him even more shaken.

In the mirror, he didn’t see the adult Charles, the Formula 1 driver everyone knew. Instead, he saw a boy, perhaps eight or nine years old. His brown hair fell long and unruly over his forehead and neck; his green eyes stared back at him, filled with a lost innocence he had long since left behind. He was even wearing his old pajamas, his favorite ones from childhood. He looked so small, so defenseless.

Charles took a shaky step back, almost stumbling over the large rug that decorated the floor of the room. What was happening? This couldn’t be real, in no way. He looked at his hands, small and delicate, the complete opposite of the calloused hands that piloted at inhuman speeds, trying to process the impossible. Was all of this a dream?

He turned and observed the room with new eyes. Every detail was exactly as he remembered, and that scared him even more. It was as if time had turned back, as if everything he had achieved so far was just a dream, and he had woken up to yet another day in his small life.

Charles felt a solitary tear roll down his face, but it wasn’t from physical pain. It was the weight of confusion, of the uncertainty that consumed him. He ran his hands over his arms, trying to feel any trace of reality in himself, something that would indicate he was still awake and alive. But everything around him felt so real. The smell, the texture of the clothes, the gentle breeze coming through the window... all of it only reinforced the feeling that he had truly returned to his childhood.

Desperate, Charles pinched himself, as if that could wake him from this nightmare. However, nothing changed. He was still there, trapped in his own younger version. The boy looked around one last time, his eyes shining with fear and disbelief. He couldn’t be alone here, right?

Charles felt a chill of anxiety run down his spine as he dragged his feet out of the room. His breathing quickened as he slowly walked down the hallway, feeling the wooden floor creak beneath his small, bare feet. Each step was like a deeper plunge into an abyss of surreality. He knew that path and could walk it with his eyes closed. This was indeed his childhood home, where he had grown up, laughed, dreamed, and where he had his happiest memories.

With his heart racing, Charles stopped in front of the kitchen door, hesitating for a moment as the sound of laughter and soft voices surrounded him. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the door open, just enough to see what was happening.

The scene before his wide eyes seemed surreal, and Charles felt the emotional impact hit his soul like a sledgehammer as he saw the figures of his family around the table. There, in the kitchen, his family was gathered, and everything seemed so normal, so ordinary, that for a moment he almost forgot the strange phenomenon he was experiencing. Jules, with his carefree smile, was sitting next to Arthur, who, with a childish laugh, was chatting with Lorenzo. His father, Hervé, was absentmindedly fiddling with a cup of coffee while reading a newspaper, and his mother, Pascale, was busy preparing something on the stove, the familiar aroma filling the air with a tranquility he had almost forgotten.

The atmosphere was incredibly familiar and cozy, like any ordinary morning from his childhood.

But it wasn’t ordinary. It couldn’t be. Jules was dead. Hervé... his father... he was gone too. Charles swallowed hard, tasting the bitter reality of the past years. He shook his head, in disbelief, forcing himself to accept that this had to be a dream. But why did it feel so real?

Suddenly, Hervé stood up from the table and approached Charles, the concerned look of a watchful father on his face. He gently placed his hand on Charles’ forehead, frowning just as he always did when one of his children was sick.

"Are you still running a fever, son?" Hervé's voice was low and soft, filled with care and concern. 

Charles took a step back, feeling panic rise in his chest. That touch was so real. The voice... the familiar smell of coffee and the cologne his father always wore... everything reminded him of a time when everything was alright. But nothing was alright now. They weren’t supposed to be here. They couldn’t be.  

“Dad…” Charles’s voice came out shaky and broken, almost a whisper. He looked around, as if searching for a rational explanation for what was happening. His eyes filled with tears as he stared at Hervé's face, the same face he hadn’t seen in so many years. “You… you’re not supposed to be here.”

The silence in the kitchen stretched, heavy and dense, as all eyes turned to Charles. His mother, with a worried expression, took a step forward, while Jules and Arthur stopped laughing and began watching him closely.  

“What do you mean, son?” Hervé asked, his expression full of genuine concern. “What do you mean we’re not supposed to be here?”  

“No…” Charles shook his head, despair gripping every fiber of his being. “I died… you... you died, Jules died. All of you… how can this be real?” The words came out in sobs, and he couldn’t stop the tears now streaming down his face as he pointed at Hervé and Jules.

Jules’s brown eyes glimmered with a flicker of understanding. He got up from the table and walked toward Hervé, placing a hand on the older man's shoulder to get his attention.  

"Mind if I take him?" he said in a light tone, reassuring Hervé. "It looks like he had a nightmare; I'll take him out for some air and then we'll head to the kart track."  

Hervé looked at his son with a warm smile, then turned to Jules. "Thanks, Jules. I have some things I need to deal with anyway."  

Still dazed by everything happening, Charles felt a light tug on his arm. Jules’s touch made him tremble involuntarily, and he almost pulled away from his godfather, but the familiarity of the gesture brought a strange sense of comfort to his chest. Jules gently guided him out of the kitchen while the chaos in his mind grew louder, echoes of thoughts screaming for answers.

Charles found himself looking back before they passed through the door, at his family. It was an incredibly normal scene, a part of his life he believed he had lost forever. Hervé returned to his seat, resuming his reading as if nothing had happened, while Pascale smiled lovingly at her children, oblivious to the storm raging inside Charles. 

As they stepped outside, sunlight enveloped them, and the fresh air filled Charles’s lungs, bringing a slight sense of relief. The breeze caressed his face, carrying the scent of flowers from the garden, mixed with the faint aroma rising from the damp earth below. It was all so tangible, so real, that he couldn’t believe it. If this was a dream, it was the most realistic one he had ever had.  

Jules made his way to a bench near the flowers Pascale tended with such care and looked at Charles, as if encouraging him to start asking questions.  

Charles hesitated, still trying to process everything. He sat beside Jules, his small, bare feet touching the wet grass. The distant sound of children’s laughter and birds chirping created a peaceful scene, completely at odds with the chaos in his mind. He looked at his godfather, his eyes full of fear, doubt, and a sense of loss that he didn’t know how to express. If Jules had immediately understood the situation and taken him out to talk, maybe he had gone through something similar.  

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Charles finally asked, his voice low, almost inaudible, as if he was struggling to get the words out. It had always been painful to mention the accident at Suzuka, even years later.  

Jules remained silent for a moment, watching the flowers wet with morning dew, as if he was weighing his words before answering. His face, usually relaxed, was more serious now, and his eyes reflected the same understanding from earlier, something beyond what Charles could grasp. Then, he nodded slowly, without taking his eyes off the garden in front of him. 

“Yes,” he replied softly, his voice tinged with a melancholy Charles had never heard before. “I remember everything.”

His godfather averted his gaze for a moment, as if reliving it all again. Charles could almost see the Suzuka accident in Jules’s eyes — the horror, the helplessness, the brutal fate that took his life in a single breath.  

“I didn’t understand it at the time, and I still don’t, to be honest. The last thing I remember was the impact, the excruciating pain… after that, I woke up here. I came back in time, like nothing had happened. I spent days thinking it was a dream, an illusion. But…” He shrugged, the sad smile still playing on his lips. “Over time, I realized this is real, somehow. Or at least as real as it can be. And if you’re here, I guess you are…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, the concern in his eyes enough for Charles to figure out where he was going.  

Charles swallowed hard. He remembered the impact too, the terrible sound of the crash, the pain that paralyzed him... He could only nod in confirmation before being surprised by Jules’s warm, firm arms wrapping around him.  

Jules’s embrace held a familiarity and comfort Charles didn’t know he needed. For a brief moment, everything disappeared — there was only the warmth of a godfather he had lost too soon, someone who had always been a safe refuge. Jules smelled the same as years ago, the faint scent of cologne mixed with the ever-present hint of burnt rubber. Charles squeezed his eyes shut, the tears now flowing freely.  

"I missed you so much," Charles whispered, his voice muffled against Jules’s shoulder. “All this time.”  

Jules didn’t respond, just ran his hand soothingly down Charles’s back. They stayed like that, in silence, until Charles forced himself to keep speaking.  

“Does anyone else remember?”  

“No one I know. I’ve tested everyone in situations I knew would happen and never got any response.” Jules pulled away from the embrace and rambled, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees while a deep, reflective expression crossed his face. “But the fact is we’re here, and we know how everything we choose affects us in the past... or rather, in the future.”  

Charles took a moment to process Jules’s words. It really was an incredible opportunity to be back, but the idea of altering the course of events terrified him. He had already felt the pain of losing Hervé and Jules, the weight of failure in a team that didn’t care about his mental state. The thought of facing it all again was almost unbearable; he felt a knot tighten even more in his stomach.  

“I don’t know if I can do it, Jules.” he whispered, fear gnawing at his insides, his voice breaking as he looked at the ground, his eyes wet with tears he was still trying to hold back. “I don’t want to lose you all again, I don’t want to deal with the Formula 1 world again... Ferrari wasn’t the wonder we thought it was; the FIA never intervened for us, for you...”  

“Oh, mon petit chéri... I’m so sorry you had to suffer through all of that.” Jules pulled Charles back into the comfort of his arms, tighter this time. “Since I came back, I haven’t felt comfortable in a tight cockpit again.”  

“What do you mean, you stopped racing?” Charles tried to look up, meeting Jules’s sad eyes.  

“Every time I tried getting back into a car, it felt like I was a ghost, always waiting for the worst, like I was about to relive that day at any moment…” He admitted with a bitter smile. “I guess I don’t want to lose the chance I got to be here again, you know?”  

“I want to do that too, I don’t want to race anymore; I don’t want to wake up feeling frustrated by a team that just kills me…”  

Jules gently cupped Charles’s face, his thumb wiping away the last lonely tear that escaped. Their eyes met, and the shared pain between them was almost palpable. There was a mutual understanding, a bond that even death couldn’t break.

“You don’t have to go back,” Jules said, his voice firm but full of care. “I know how much you love racing, Charles, but I can only imagine how much it’s torn you apart. Sometimes, moving forward doesn’t mean fighting for what hurts us. Sometimes, it means choosing ourselves, choosing what makes us whole.”  

Charles swallowed hard, absorbing every word. He had spent so much time fighting for a career, for a dream that always seemed to slip through his fingers, that forgetting himself had become a routine. But now, standing there with Jules, everything seemed different. The idea of giving up racing had once felt impossible, but here, in the warmth of the sun and the shared painful memories with his godfather, the prospect of living without that constant pressure felt... liberating.  

“But what if I quit?” Charles murmured, his voice laden with uncertainty. “What am I without racing? It’s all I’ve ever known. Without it, who am I?”

Jules let out a soft laugh, but there was a sadness hidden within it. "You’re so much more than just a driver, Charles. You’ve always been more. Racing doesn’t define who you are — it’s just something you do. And if you don’t want to do it anymore, you don’t have to. You’re still you. The people who love you, who truly know you... they’ll always be there for you.”  

Charles remained silent, with Jules' words echoing in his mind. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to look beyond racing and find something that truly made him happy, something that didn’t involve losing the people he loved or sacrificing his own mental health in the name of a glory that might not even be his to achieve.

"I... I don’t know how to do that," Charles admitted, his voice slightly faltering. "I’ve always been good at racing, it’s always been what motivated me. But I don’t know how to live without it."

Jules shrugged, a soft smile touching his lips. "You’ll figure it out. Life has a funny way of showing us new paths, even when we think there’s no way out. And you have time, Charles. Time to reconnect with the things that really matter. With the people who love you. With yourself."

The two fell silent again, the garden breeze gently swaying Pascale's flowers. Charles watched the soft movement of the petals and felt that maybe there really was a life for him beyond Formula 1, beyond the pain and the losses. Maybe he could, finally, find peace.

"Do you think they’ll understand?" Charles asked quietly, referring to his family, the ones who had given up many luxuries in the past so he could keep karting.

Jules smiled, placing a hand on Charles' shoulder. "They love you, of course they’ll understand. And if they don’t… well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is you, mon petit."

Charles nodded, feeling a lightness begin to fill his chest. It was frightening to think about leaving everything behind, but maybe that was the only way to truly move forward.

Jules gave his shoulder a small pat, standing up from the bench. "You’ll find your way, Charles. And no matter what decision you make, I’ll be here, supporting you. Always."

Charles remained seated, watching his godfather brush the dust off his clothes and extend his hands to help him up as well. He felt a small spark of hope ignite in his heart. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to imagine a future where happiness wasn’t tied to a racetrack.

Chapter Text

Uranus dances against the rotation of the other planets, like a rebel who dares to defy destiny and create his own path.

In the days following that conversation with Jules, Charles felt the weight of his decision growing inside him. His godfather’s words echoed in his mind, bringing a painful but liberating clarity. He felt adrift, like a man torn between two lives: the life of a destined driver, who fought tooth and nail for a glory that never seemed to come, and the life of a broken man who now had the chance to leave it all behind. But how do you rebuild your life when your entire identity is intertwined with a dream that, in reality, had become your worst nightmare?

Ferrari had always been his dream home, the team that, since childhood, represented the ultimate realization of everything he ever wanted. Being part of the most traditional team in Formula 1 wasn’t just about racing — it was about carrying a legacy, a huge responsibility that he had always wanted to uphold in his name. But over the years, what once seemed like a blessing became a prison. The team's constant mistakes, the failed strategies... it all corroded him to the point where he became irreparably broken. Ferrari had stopped being a symbol of pride and had instead become a symbol of frustration and pain, a constant reminder of his failures and his inability to live up to expectations. More than that, Ferrari had drained him, sapping every last drop of his love for the sport.

Charles thought about the countless times he had exited the cockpit, his body exhausted, only to face disappointed stares — not just from the team but from the fans, the media, and, most importantly, himself. Each strategic mistake, each mechanical failure, felt like a direct stab to his already wounded heart, as if Ferrari were betraying him over and over again. And he, in his blind loyalty, kept returning, hoping things would change. But nothing changed. The team's failures were evident, but the most devastating realization was how much he had lost himself in the process. With each race, he felt more and more distant from who he truly was.

A shiver ran down his spine whenever he remembered the times he had been treated as a disposable piece by the team, tossed around without his value being recognized. He felt betrayed, as if the passion he had always nurtured for Ferrari had been ignored, as if his desire to make the team a winner again had only been fed by empty promises of support. The dream of becoming a world champion with the prancing horse on his chest now seemed like a cruel joke. How long had he fought, believing he was doing something great? How long had he endured the humiliation of being the team's hope, only to be cast aside after his mistakes?

Now, sitting on the windowsill of his room, his head resting against the cold glass, Charles realized that going back in time was more than just an opportunity to correct mistakes. It was a chance to free himself from the chains that had tied him to Ferrari for so long. He no longer wanted to be the driver who lived for a team that treated him like a pawn, whose only function was to be discarded if necessary. Ferrari was no longer his home.

The very idea of wearing the red suit again filled him with a repulsion he never imagined he would feel. He no longer wanted to sacrifice himself for a team that had let him down so many times, that had turned him into someone vulnerable and broken. The mental strain, the constant stress, and the feeling of never being enough were part of a past he didn’t want to revisit.

The knot in his stomach tightened when he thought about the unfulfilled promises, the sweet words that only served to appease without ever truly healing him. They always promised that the next season would be different, that improvements were on the way, that he should trust. And Charles trusted so much that he ended up losing himself.

Charles clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, knowing they would leave marks. Anger mixed with sadness filled his chest. How had he been so naïve? How could he have believed that they ever truly cared about him during all those long years? Ferrari had used him, just as they had used Fernando, Vettel… and so many others before.

He didn’t want this anymore. He didn’t want the lies, the empty promises. He no longer wanted to race for a team that treated him as expendable. Now, he had the chance to free himself. He could finally define who he was, choose a path that stayed far away from the pain and disappointment Ferrari had brought him. Perhaps, for the first time, he could live for himself, and not for a team that used and then discarded him.

Charles sighed heavily, as if exhaling all the sorrows he had carried for so long. The idea of leaving racing was still terrifying, but at the same time, it offered a sense of freedom. If he had truly gone back in time and was here to stay, it meant he could avoid repeating this cycle of pain. He no longer had to subject himself to the weight of that team. He no longer had to be the boy Ferrari destroyed. Charles could finally just be himself.

Ferrari was no longer a dream. It was a scar. And he was ready to heal it.

Once he decided he would not race again, Charles knew the hardest part would be breaking the news to his father. The thought of talking to Hervé, the man who loved racing and, above all, had dedicated and sacrificed so much for him to become the driver he was, tormented him.

Charles was certain it would be a painful conversation, and it made his chest tighten. The look of pride in his father's eyes had always been what motivated him to keep going, even in the hardest moments. Hervé had been the first to believe in Charles’ potential. He had accompanied him at every stage, from karting tracks to the glamorous circuits of Formula 2 — Charles would not mention how much he wished his father had been there with him in the paddock, watching him race for Ferrari.

The decision to abandon everything felt like a betrayal to his father's memory. Charles felt torn between the responsibility of honoring the family legacy and the need to preserve his own sanity. The weight of this choice crushed him with every second, as if he were betraying not only himself but also all the sacrifice and love his father had dedicated to his career. How could he tell his father he was giving up? Everything Hervé had sacrificed for Charles, all the sleepless nights, all the times he saw his father trying to arrange the best for them with the little that remained after the costs of his future career... would now all be meaningless?

The weight of responsibility suddenly fell on him. For Hervé, the dream of seeing his son in Formula 1 wasn't just the dream of a proud father, but an extension of everything he hadn't been able to live out himself. He saw in Charles the realization of something greater, that was a fact. And Charles always wanted to honor that. He felt obligated not just to be the best driver, but to be the son who would fulfill that silent promise.

And then there was Arthur. His younger brother, who, despite his youth, already showed great talent and love for motorsport. Throughout his time in the spotlight of the racing world, Charles often found himself thinking about him. His younger brother, full of potential, was already carving his own path in motorsport, but Charles couldn't avoid the weight of guilt he carried silently. He remembered the time when things were much harder, when the Leclerc family lived with financial limitations. His father was faced with a terrible choice: with few resources to invest in the future of both sons, he had to decide whom to bet on.

Charles, being older than Arthur, was the one chosen. He was always the son with the most evident passion, the one who seemed destined to pursue racing. Arthur, on the other hand, was still too young to compete at that level. But deep down, Charles knew that his brother also had the talent, the love for the sport, and the potential to stand out. That memory was a ghost that haunted him in moments of quiet, when he wondered if the success he sought for himself had not been a barrier to Arthur's own shine.

The sacrifice their father made, focusing all his resources and efforts on Charles, meant that Arthur was sidelined for a long time, waiting for his chance. Charles wondered if, at any point, his brother had felt any bitterness, any sort of resentment. Though they never spoke about it, the idea that he might have been the reason Arthur didn’t get the same opportunities from the beginning gnawed at his soul. He had taken Arthur's place, and sometimes, that weighed more than any defeat on the track.

Now, with the prospect of stepping away from Formula 1, the idea of talking to his father and brother about this decision seemed to take on a new dimension. It wouldn’t just be about leaving behind the dream they had built together, but also about giving Arthur the chance he had always deserved. Charles knew how much Arthur loved racing, how much he longed to stand out, and perhaps this was the moment when he could finally shine.

If he had the courage to open up to his father, to expose all his frustrations and pains, it would also be the opportunity to talk about Arthur’s future. He saw in his brother a talent that, with the right support, might even surpass his own, a young man who still carried the purity of love for the sport, free from the scars Ferrari had left on Charles. Arthur deserved this. He deserved the support that Charles had, without the unbearable pressures that had suffocated him for so long.

More than that, Charles wanted to see his brother happy, to see Arthur achieve his own dreams without the burden of being "the other Leclerc" limiting him. If he was ready to rebuild himself, he could start by fixing what he considered a mistake. Charles no longer needed to be the only one carrying the family name on the track. Now, with a lighter heart, he could support Arthur to follow his own path, without the shadow of the older brother.

As he thought about this, Charles realized this could be a chance for redemption, not just for him but for his entire family. If he finally left racing, Arthur would have the opportunity to be the driver he always deserved to be, to shine on his own. And, for the first time since his conversation with Jules, the idea of leaving, of not returning to the tracks, didn’t seem so painful. Perhaps this was the way to ensure that his father's sacrifice, years ago, wasn’t in vain—because now, Arthur would have his moment. And Charles, instead of feeling like an obstacle, would be the reason his brother finally achieved the success he himself couldn’t.

The evening sky painted the horizon with shades of orange and pink, and the cold Monaco wind blew through the open window, sending chills through his skin. Charles knew that this conversation, as difficult as it would be, would be the start of something new. And for the first time in a long time, Charles felt he was about to do something for himself. He was ready to create a new chapter for his family, where Arthur would finally take the place he always deserved, and where he, Charles, could, at last, find the peace he had long sought.

Chapter Text

The Moon knows that each cycle brings with it the chance to correct mistakes, even if that means it needs to be new again.

The decision to quit racing still weighed heavily on Charles’ chest, as if invisible hands were coming together to crush his heart with every beat. In the days that followed, the pressure felt less suffocating, turning into a constant discomfort — something he knew would persist like a shadow until he gathered the courage to confide in Hervé. Of course, he would exclude any mention of his supposed time travel. It made no sense to try to convince his father that he had died and woken up with memories of a future no one, except Jules, knew.

This burden, however, became almost unbearable whenever he stepped onto the karting track. The magic that once flowed through his veins when he put on his helmet seemed to have disappeared. He no longer felt like the boy who once lived for those moments. The passion, which had once been the fuel for his soul, now seemed extinguished, like a bonfire someone had doused with water to put out. Charles began to wonder if he was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, perhaps a result of the surreal fact that he had literally died. He made a mental note to discuss this with Jules as soon as possible, but until then, he avoided the karting track as if each visit were an affront to the pain he felt.

He started making excuses, ones he didn't even believe, to justify his absence. He avoided the place where, one day, he had found life in every detail — in the roar of the engines, in the smell of burnt rubber, in the memories of dreams he had taken as his goals. Now, all of this only seemed to feed an emptiness he didn't know how to fill.

Even though he tried to avoid the past, his mind seemed to find new ways to torture him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was taken back to the moment of the crash — the deafening silence after the impact, his vision gradually darkening and staining with red. He knew the crash had happened right in front of Max Verstappen, just a few laps before the end of the race. The image of Max in the cockpit, being forced to witness that scene, also haunted him. How had Max reacted? Had he been paralyzed? Screaming over the radio? Would he miss him?  

Above all, Charles wondered if Max would somehow come to know what he had never had the courage to confess. For years, Charles had suppressed what he felt, believing there would always be time for a better moment, for the right words, to make Max feel the same for him. Perhaps Pierre, the only one who knew, would tell him. But now, the realization that he would never have that moment hit him like an avalanche. He had never told Max how much he loved him.

The weight of that omission was almost as crushing as death itself. Charles knew that Max had probably not gone back in time — after all, he hadn’t died. Young Max was still out there, living his life, unaware that, in some distant future, Charles would have given anything to spend just one second by his side. And now, he would never see him again because Charles would not debut in the world of karting at the same time as his childhood rival, and Max would never get to know him.

Max, who didn’t hate him and treated him kindly, would continue in the future, while Charles, who loved him, was back to a point where they didn’t even know each other.

Charles was certain that his parents were worried about his behavior since he woke up a few days ago: less enthusiasm, more isolation. Still, they said nothing, as if waiting for him to break the silence himself. But the distance wasn't because he didn't want to be near them — on the contrary. Each interaction made his chest fill with a nostalgia so suffocating that, at times, he could barely breathe. The longing for what had been and the pain of what would never be left him paralyzed.

As a temporary solution, Charles would spend hours locked in his room, sitting on the windowsill, his forehead resting against the cold, lifeless glass. He tried to absorb the idea of a future without racing, but with each attempt, confusion and hesitation grew even more. What would he do to live, after all? If it weren’t for racing, what would be left of him? These were the same questions that had been running through his mind since the day he spoke with Jules in Pascale's garden.

That afternoon in particular, the house was quieter than usual, but Charles' heart remained restless, as if something was pulsing out of rhythm inside him. With his parents and siblings gone, he imagined that perhaps some movement could alleviate that feeling of discomfort. He got up from his room and descended the stairs, each step creaking under his feet and echoing in the emptiness of the house. Upon reaching the living room, he wondered if there might be an interesting program on regular TV, something that could help distract his restless mind, always too busy with everything. However, before he could decide, his eyes were almost magnetically drawn to the corner of the room, where his mother's piano sat in silence.

That was an instrument he never came close to when he was young, and he couldn’t even play. It was only as an adult, during the isolation of the pandemic, that he decided to learn as a way to fill the empty hours. Now, the piano carried precious memories, reminders that always took him back to the serenity of childhood afternoons. He could see himself, as small as he was now, sitting on the living room carpet next to his siblings, with a red toy car in hand, while listening to the soft melodies his mother would play. Each note seemed made to be engraved in his memory, composing a portrait of affection and peace.

For some reason, observing the piano now stirred in him an irresistible — but not entirely unexpected — impulse that led him to approach slowly, his fingers almost tingling with need. It was as if he needed to play it, as if something inside him was urging him to connect with a part of himself that could bring the clarity he was desperately seeking.

Charles stopped in front of the piano and gently ran his hand over the keys, feeling the cold texture under his skin before sitting down. He was still too small for the piano's height; his legs dangled in the air, and he had to lean forward to reach the pedals. Charles closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and exhaling for a few moments before finally starting to play.

At first, he was hesitant, his fingers hopping from one key to another as if afraid of the weight of the first notes, but gradually, a melody began to take shape, digging and emerging from within him like a cry of lament. The music flowed raw, almost wild, as he poured out all the hidden bitterness he had been concealing for so long because of that team. There, Charles was finally able to mourn his death, while simultaneously saying a proper goodbye to a future he never wanted to return to if it was going to end that way.

As he played, a question crossed his mind: Was he, at that moment, a "beautiful sufferer"? It was a strange image, thinking of himself that way, but it made sense. With his soul bleeding through every note, Charles realized that he was going through the painful process of expelling his pain to perhaps one day reach healing.

As his fingers glided over the keys, an unexpected memory surfaced. He saw Hervé's face, his father, sitting beside the piano while Pascale played. Hervé had never learned to play, but he used to say that music possessed a unique power, capable of bringing peace to troubled hearts, something that nothing else could offer.

That was it. Charles concluded. It was that peace he was searching for now, almost desperately, amidst the chaos of his mind and heart.

The notes echoed through the empty room, filling the silence with a bittersweet melody that seemed to embrace him. He felt an unexpected comfort, as if the music was rocking him, guiding him toward an acceptance that hurt, but at the same time, set him free. There were no more races, perhaps no more spotlights, nor shadows of overwhelming expectations. There was only him, in that moment, alone in front of that piano, allowing his feelings to flow like a river, at peace with the idea of letting go of Formula 1.

The melody began to soften, until it finally silenced. He stopped, his hands finally resting in his lap, and he took a deep breath. In that moment, he felt that a new understanding had emerged within him. Leaving racing didn’t mean completely leaving the world of motorsport; it didn’t mean having to make an abrupt cut at the root of a beautiful plant and watching it wither. It was, instead, accepting that his path didn’t have to follow the route he once made until it became the so-called predestined one. It could be different from what he thought, and he could do other things, bloom in a different way. And somehow, that felt liberating.

Charles stayed there, immersed in his thoughts, until he was awakened by the jingling of keys and the sound of the front door opening. He didn’t turn around but immediately recognized the firm, heavy footsteps. It was his father.

Hervé entered the room, stopped for a moment, and observed his son attentively.

"I didn’t know you played, son," he said, his voice low.

Charles lifted his eyes to his father but didn’t respond. He straightened up on the small piano bench, his feet swinging lightly in the air, as if he were once again the boy who had dared to dream too big.

"May I?" Hervé gestured to the space beside him, and Charles gave a slight nod, signaling yes.

His father sat beside him with a subtle sigh, the weight of age evident in the slowness of the gesture.

"You haven’t been going to the karting track anymore," Hervé began, always direct but not sounding like a reproach. His voice was careful, almost hesitant, as if he were measuring each word, genuinely willing to have a conversation with his son, hoping Charles would open up.

Charles looked away, staring at one of the pages of the sheet music on the piano. The silence stretched between them, and the words Charles had practiced in his mind now slipped away. He didn’t know how to begin, or perhaps he simply wasn’t ready, even though he thought he was.

"You know you don’t have to pretend everything is fine," Hervé said, gently interrupting the flow of thoughts that dominated the boy like a tide. His own choice of words was meticulous, laden with patience. "If the reason you’re not going to the karting track has something to do with racing, I want you to know you don’t have to race if you don’t want to. You don’t have to be the best if you don’t want to. That was never what I wanted for you when I put you in the kart last year."

"You never told me that, Dad," Charles replied, turning to him, his eyes filled with surprise and a hint of disbelief.

"I never thought I needed to say it," Hervé responded, shrugging. "I thought you knew. But maybe I was wrong. All I ever wanted was your happiness. Now, though, I’m beginning to realize that maybe it’s not on four wheels anymore."

The words hit Charles like a wave, and he felt a knot tighten in his throat. His eyes burned, but he managed to whisper in his childlike tone, "What if I don’t know what makes me happy anymore?"

Charles’ voice was so low it barely seemed to exist, but the weight of the confession was immense, filling the silence between them. Hervé stared at him, his expression marked by a mixture of pain and tenderness. He was a father trying to reach his son’s heart, without being sure if he knew how.

He placed a firm but gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. "You have time to figure it out. And you don’t have to do it alone. No matter what you choose, Charles, I, your mother, and your brothers are here. As always."

"I-don’t-want-to-race-anymore," he finally admitted, speaking so quickly as if the confession had been torn from the depths of his soul.

Hervé nodded, unsurprised. A small, understanding smile played on his lips as he laughed at his son’s urgency. "Then you don’t have to race. Not for me, nor for anyone." He paused, his eyes resting on a family photo frame at the top of the piano, next to a small jar of daisies. "You’ve always been so much more than a driver, Charles. You’re my son, Pascale’s son, Arthur and Lorenzo’s brother. What kind of family would we be if we didn’t support you in your decisions?"

Hervé’s words hit Charles’ heart like a direct shot, as if reaching his future self, the 26-year-old young adult who struggled for everyone’s approval. This had always been something he thought a lot about when he started racing in Formula 1; that even though his father wasn’t there with him when he finally signed with Ferrari, he would forever remain Hervé and Pascale’s son. He also wondered if his decisions during his years racing for the team would be looked upon favorably by his father.

Charles embraced Hervé, who welcomed him with open arms. He inhaled deeply, letting himself be carried away by the familiar scent of the cologne mixed with the soft fragrance of fabric softener in his clothes. It was the scent of home, of safety. A scent that made him remember lazy Sunday mornings in Monaco, when life seemed simple and complete. The acceptance that emanated from Hervé felt almost magical, and now he finally felt like he could breathe without that weight threatening to crush his chest.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to face his father. A small but genuine smile appeared on his lips, reflecting the mix of emotions swirling inside him. Hervé watched him back with that look of pure pride, the kind of expression only a truly proud father could have. But Charles still felt there was something left unsaid.

“Papa…” he began, his voice hesitant but firm enough to be heard. “If I’m not going to race anymore… I think it’s time to look at Arthur’s future. You know he loves driving just as much as I do. You should see how his eyes light up with desire every time he watches me driving my kart.”

Hervé tilted his head slightly, analyzing his son’s words. “Arthur has passion, yes, a lot of it. But he’s only six, Charles. I don’t want him to feel pressured, especially now that you’re giving up; or even think he has to do it to impress. I want him to choose for himself, in his own time. If he wants to now, that’s fine, we’ll find a way to make it happen. If he doesn’t, that’s okay too.”

Charles nodded slowly, absorbing what his father was saying. “I know… I don’t want him to feel forced into anything, not at all. But if he does want it, we can do things differently, just support him, you know? Because he loves it.” He wouldn’t mention that if Arthur asked, he would gladly share all his strategy and driving knowledge, acquired over the years, from the future, that could help his brother.

He paused for a moment, lost in thought. A sudden doubt flooded his mind. If he was still alive, even though he had died, how should he refer to what he had lived? Was it the past, the future… or something in between? What should he do with everything he knew, with everything he had accomplished? After all, theoretically, he had already experienced all those events, but now, somehow, he was back in a time when everything could still be molded.

God, why is time travel so confusing?

His expression had certainly changed, as Hervé chuckled softly before giving his shoulder a light, affectionate push, still smiling.

“You’re right. I’m so proud of you, and honestly surprised by how much you care for your brother, but you don’t need to worry so much about him, okay? You’ve been talking like an adult this whole time, which isn’t bad, but let’s just take it one day at a time. Just knowing that you believe in him is going to make Arthur really happy.” Hervé jokes, unaware that Charles actually was an adult, trapped in a child’s body. Charles made another mental note to try to act his age from now on and avoid situations like this.

He looked up and stared at the funny frame of his father’s glasses, the one he always thought was incredibly tacky, but no matter how much he complained, his father never changed. “I just want him to know I’ll be there for him. If he wants to race, I’ll be at the kart track cheering. And if he doesn’t… well, I’ll be cheering for whatever he decides to do.”

Hervé smiled tenderly and, in a playful gesture, ruffled his son’s hair. Charles could hardly describe how much he missed that touch. “So, how about you show me what you were playing earlier, huh? I want to see what my talented son has been up to with those keys.”

With a shy nod, he turned to the piano and this time began to play again, with Hervé sitting beside him, silently surprised but present.

—

As the days passed, the routine in the Leclerc household began to reorganize, gaining a new rhythm. Little Arthur — who seemed even smaller than Charles remembered, with his round face full of baby fat, to the point of making Charles feel an almost irresistible urge to squeeze him whenever he saw him — was ecstatic to learn he could start karting. Every morning, he would wake up full of excitement, ready to go with his parents to the kart track. Some days, Charles would get excited to go with him; other times, he preferred to stay home, focused on his own tasks. After all, going back to childhood, to his frustration, also meant going back to school, something he always hated.

On the days he decided to go to the kart track, Charles observed every detail of Arthur’s training with almost clinical attention. He watched the corners, the maneuvers, and the little adjustments that could make all the difference in his brother’s performance. Back at home, they had a ritual: they would sit on the living room couch, and Charles would begin reviewing the areas where Arthur was losing time, offering precise tips and strategies for improvement. These moments became special, not only because they strengthened the bond between the brothers, but also because they allowed Charles to relive, in a way, his passion for racing through little Arthur’s contagious enthusiasm.

Additionally, Charles slowly began spending more time at his mother’s piano. He would often play when he was sure he was alone at home, letting himself get lost in the melodies he created. The piano became his refuge, a space where he could escape the confusion of emotions and find some peace.

It was on a serene morning, while Charles was improvising a soft melody in the living room, that Pascale, just returned from the market, stopped at the door. She was carrying a bag, but it was the sight of her son at the piano that made her freeze in place. With a loving smile lighting up her face, she stood there for several minutes, silently, as if wanting to absorb that rare and unexpected moment. The melody flowed delicately, filling the room with a peace almost tangible. When Charles finally finished the piece, Pascale approached with light steps, clapping slowly, as if she were the privileged audience of an intimate concert.

“You’re playing very well, mon petit,” she said, her voice sweet and filled with pride. “It’s actually impressive. Hervé mentioned he saw you at the piano, but I didn’t imagine you’d be this good. When did you start composing?”

Charles shrugged, trying to downplay the compliment. “It’s nothing special, maman. I just saw you play so many times that I wanted to learn to play like that.” His tone was modest, but a slight blush on his cheeks betrayed the satisfaction of hearing the praise.

Inside, Charles silently congratulated himself. Deciding to learn the piano at some point in the future had been one of the best ideas of his life. The feeling of impressing Pascale was delightful, and he didn’t feel guilty at all for this little lie, told just to gain a bit more of her admiration.

Pascale smiled even wider, her eyes sparkling with tenderness, and leaned forward to place a soft, affectionate hand on her son’s shoulder. “You learned just by watching me? That’s amazing, Charles. You’re so talented. I think you should take this more seriously.”

He returned the smile, shy but visibly pleased. “More seriously how, maman?”

“The old piano teacher who taught me when I was young, remember him? Monsieur Julien? He still lives in Monaco, and he owes me a favor. I’m sure he’d love to teach you. What do you think?”

Charles hesitated for a moment, his fingers absentmindedly sliding over the piano keys. The idea seemed tempting, but at the same time, intimidating. He already knew how to play much more than a typical child his age should — minus the fact that he was completely inexperienced until he woke up back in the past — and the thought of having to hide that fact in front of an experienced teacher made him nervous. Pascale, however, knew her son too well to let a brief uncertainty stop him from trying.

“Think about it, Charles,” she added gently but firmly. “No pressure. Just go to one lesson, see how you feel. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to continue. But I really believe you have something special.”

Charles spent the rest of that day reflecting on his mother’s suggestion. The excitement in Pascale’s eyes made him feel like he should at least try. After all, he didn’t want to disappoint her.

The following week, Pascale took care of all the details. Charles found himself in a small studio in the center of Monaco, a cozy place full of character. The walls were decorated with old sheet music and portraits of famous composers, giving the space an air of reverence for music. The room was imbued with the faint smell of polished wood and old books, creating a sense of comfort and nostalgia.

Monsieur Julien, an elderly man with thinning hair and slightly crooked glasses, but with an infectious energy, greeted him with a warm smile. His eyes sparkled with genuine curiosity as he looked at the young man in front of him.

“Ah, so you’re the young Leclerc your mother has spoken so much about!” the teacher exclaimed, shaking Charles’s hand firmly after greeting Pascale. “She mentioned you have a talent for music, but I need to see it for myself. Shall we begin?”

Charles nodded, and under Julien’s guidance, approached the piano.

“Let’s start with something simple,” the teacher said, placing a sheet of music in front of Charles. It was a children’s piece, a simplified version of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, filled with repetitive, easy notes. The young man recognized the simplicity of the melody immediately, feeling a pinch of frustration. However, taking a deep breath, he chose to maintain his composure and pretended to concentrate. His fingers glided over the keys with controlled precision, recreating the melody flawlessly.

When he finished, Julien remained silent for a few moments, his eyes fixed on Charles with an expression of deep analysis. “You learn quickly,” he commented, adjusting his glasses carefully. “Very quickly. Are you sure you’ve never had lessons before?”

Charles shrugged, trying to seem disinterested. “I just… like to listen to my mom play. And I practice when I have time.”

Julien raised an eyebrow, seemingly satisfied with the answer, but didn’t settle for basic exercises. With deliberate movements, he pulled a new sheet of music from his folder. This time, it was Allegro Ma Non Troppo by Franz Schubert, a piece that required more technique and emotion.

“Let’s see what you can do with this, young man,” the teacher challenged, handing him the sheet.

Charles’s eyes sparkled with a new light. He positioned his hands on the piano, allowing the first chords to flow with confidence. The notes poured from his fingers as if they were part of his very essence, each one filled with emotion and intensity. When he finished, the silence in the room was so thick it seemed to fill it completely.

Julien broke the silence, this time with a more serious tone. “Your mother was right, you have a huge talent, Charles. This isn’t something you just learn by watching. You feel the music. Few people have that privilege.”

The first lessons focused on technique and musical theory, but Monsieur Julien quickly realized that Charles had extraordinary potential. When Charles showed him his personal compositions, Julien was so impressed that he decided to share the young man’s talent with someone who could help him reach new heights. He contacted Monsieur Olivier, an influential music producer in France and a close friend, who was captivated by the young composer’s work.

Under Olivier’s guidance, Charles released his first instrumental piece, Souvenirs d’Enfance, inspired by his memories with Jules. It was made available online in a musicians’ forum under the pseudonym Il Piccolo Principe — a nickname he always liked, even if he got it from his days driving for Ferrari — and quickly gained recognition. The response was overwhelming: critics praised the emotional depth of his music, while experienced musicians highlighted his originality and artistic maturity.

From that milestone, the doors began to open. In just five years, Charles went from performing at local events and smaller recitals to playing on more prestigious stages. His racing days were behind him, but Charles didn’t miss them. He had found a new way to accelerate, this time in the intensity of emotions he transformed into music.

Chapter Text

In a universe so vast and infinite, it’s almost cruel to think about how life can be so finite. How, in an instant, someone can simply take their last breath and be reduced to stardust. Max understood this deeply — his entire universe turned to dust the very moment Charles stopped breathing.

His premature death hit him like a supernova: an explosion of pain that consumed everything in its path. It took away the driver Max loved in every possible way, leaving behind nothing but a crushing, oppressive emptiness in his chest.

The world around him kept spinning after the accident. The races continued at full speed, the engines still roared on the weekends, but Max found himself stuck. Static. Trapped in that moment. He watched everyone move on — even Charles' own family was moving on and dealing with it in their own way — but he himself didn’t know how to process it. There was no straightforward way to deal with losing someone like that.

At first, he tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. He tried to act as if the accident was just a blur in his mind, like a quick lap in the simulator that he could simply abort and pretend never took place. But the image of Charles’ red helmet, motionless in the cockpit, chased him like a massive shadow.

He could no longer sleep. He was almost forgetting the last time he had a decent night of rest. He simply couldn’t even close his eyes properly for most of the nights of that year. The only thing left in his mind the moment his eyelids touched long enough was the phantom boom of Charles’ collision with the pitlane exit in his ears, and the forever-destroyed car etched into his retinas.

After everything came the anger. At everything. At God, at fate, at the track, at the mechanics, at Ferrari, at himself. Anger for not having said everything he wanted when he had the chance. For having hidden his feelings when he always claimed to be someone straight to the point. For wasting precious moments he could’ve had in exchange for acting out of pride and silence. For being foolish enough to believe that, in a finite world, time would always be on their side.

Not knowing how to deal with this untamable storm roaring inside him — He never had a mirror to know how to act and process his emotions, blame his terrible father for that — Max threw himself headfirst into the next rounds of the racing calendar. All to feel a spark closer to how things used to be. All to feel less of Charles’ pain. So why did he still feel so awful?

The lack of sleep and emotional meltdown were affecting him so deeply and drastically that he was becoming more irritable than usual. The Dutchman screamed at his engineers on the radio; he made extremely risky maneuvers on track; he threw helmets at the wall when he was frustrated and broke everything he could in his motorhome when something went even remotely wrong — as if that way he could shatter his overwhelming pain along with the furniture; as if he could crush the frustration of a bad race along with the immense emptiness he constantly felt ever since his blazing star went out.

The void was as deep in his chest as an endless abyss, and when Max turned to face it head on, the void simply laughed. Silent. Relentless. Threatening to swallow him whole at any moment.

Racing was definitely not helping his mental state, and it only got worse the closer Max got to the 12 penalty points limit that would earn him a ban — Not that he cared about the ban, but people talking about his situation irritated him like never before. Things got so bad and worrying inside the garage that Helmut Marko called him in for a frank talk.

“What is it, Marko? I’m busy with the car setup.” Max entered the meeting room wearing his usual indifferent expression. That’s how he generally dealt with Marko, pretending to be indifferent and letting him get straight to the point.

Marko, who never wasted time with niceties, pointed sharply at the chair in front of his desk like he was calling a trained dog instead of a human being. He didn’t even look at Max at first — he was reviewing Red Bull academy performance reports on his tablet.

Cold as always. Max thought as he sat down, jaw clenched, dark-ringed eyes staring at Helmut’s movements. But before he could even open his mouth, Marko dropped the tablet on the desk with a harsh thud, his old, decaying voice reverberating through the room as he said:

“I hope you’re aware of how much shame you’re bringing to this team.”

Max couldn’t help the way his tired eyes widened in surprise at the other’s words. “Excuse me?”

Marko held his steel-hard gaze. A bitter look that always made Max’s mouth sour.

“You’ve lost control and are now driving like a senile man. Your precision is turning into nothing more than a bunch of suicidal, desperate moves. Do you really think you can act like a hysterical brat without showing results? We tolerate your screaming as long as you win, but do you think it’s right to tolerate your petulance when you’re not even performing anymore?”

Max felt Marko’s words like a fist wrapped in a gauntlet striking him square in the face without a shred of remorse. He felt his blood boil with anger and clenched his fists so tightly the veins in his wrists threatened to burst through his skin. It was unfair, completely unfair.

“On top of everything, you’re starting to cost us points and money. In just a few rounds this season, we’ve already had to pull your car into the garage to repair it in more than half of them. I’m advising you because I sense you’re losing sight of your goals. If you keep this up, we might as well bring someone new up to the first seat.”

Max stared at Marko’s smirk with blazing eyes. He’d had enough. He was tired of, in that old cadaverous man’s eyes, being a replaceable piece after all those years, and not a human being with feelings and frustrations.

“You don’t know me. Not even a little, Marko.” He murmured with a dry, tight throat, almost burning — not from pain, but from sheer rage.

“I don’t need to know you.” Marko hardened his tone. “The only thing I really need while you’re with us on this team is for you to drive like a champion. I don’t need you acting like a fool letting emotions go to your head.” He paused, his face twisting into an ugly, mocking smile, completely different from the friendly grin he had offered the first time they met, years ago. “...Or are you going to tell me you’re still mourning that poor Ferrari martyr?”

The Dutchman shot up abruptly. The room around him seemed to shrink and spin — such was the fury he felt at that moment — his stance wavered and he wanted so badly to punch Helmut’s old face to the point of unrecognizable that his hand began to tingle along with his throat. He wanted to speak, wanted to scream all his rage out, rip the excruciating pain from his chest, but his voice had no strength and his arms did nothing but fall, useless, by his trembling sides.

Marko watched him with those dead fish eyes that always unnerved Max. As if he had nothing more to deal with the stray dog he had just kicked.

“Either you swallow all those useless feelings — which won’t keep you going as a champion — and get back to the form you were in before all this happened, or you can go cry your personal tragedy far from our garage. We’re not here every weekend to babysit unstable sentimentalists.”

Max couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet as he left the room that afternoon. Everything around him seemed to sway and tremble — worse still was what churned inside. Max felt the small fragment of will he still had for that team completely disappear.

He felt powerless, and that powerlessness plagued him even in the days following that dreadful reprimand from Marko. He felt dead inside. His heart, once blazing with rage, now seemed more like a smothered fire pit; in place of the raw anger that had consumed him in the months after Charles’ death, there was only the harsh, relentless void of loss and anguish.

More months went by, and keeping up with this exhausting routine definitely wasn’t helping him feel like he used to. It no longer sent even the tiniest spark of warmth into his throbbing, anxious heart. It didn’t fill even the smallest fraction of the growing void in his core. And that realization made him start to merely exist in the paddock, drifting in slow motion through this hazy season with no attachment whatsoever to a world that now held no splendor or joy.

Max basically ended up becoming a ghost of himself. Always with his eyes downcast, footsteps dragging, noise-cancelling headphones always on, playing some of the songs Charles had posted while still alive and other songs he knew the Monegasque adored — songs that now served as little daggers stabbing his heart every single day.

He didn’t listen to them to feel good, he listened to feel something .

The Dutchman was so distant from everything, so oblique in his own sadness, that not even the comments that once enraged him, the questioning of his mental state, the various assumptions that it was due to championship pressure along with the rumors, the poisonous whispers in the Red Bull garage about his possible replacement, and the murmurs in the paddock — none of that bothered him anymore. He would certainly have been exploding, breathing fire over all of that before, but now? He only heard it the way someone hears rain falling on the other side of a closed window.

The first person who noticed that Max wasn’t alright — or at least cared enough to shoot him a worried glance — was Lewis, during the Hungarian Grand Prix, practically in the final half of that season. Max’s drop in performance that weekend was so evident that Christian Horner — as terrible as Helmut Marko — had gone public saying he would have a “tuning” meeting with Max.

Hamilton watched all of it from afar at first. He wasn’t exactly close to Max, so he hesitated to try to talk to the Dutchman. To begin with, they had never been friends. In fact, for a long time, they were fierce rivals. Still, it wasn’t hard to notice the eye bags far too deep for someone just missing a few decent nights of sleep, the more withdrawn posture, and the way his eyes screamed that he just wanted everything to be over.

Lewis had seen that same expression, that posture, that way of moving — in his own reflection in the mirror, on lonely nights after losing loved ones, close people, even his faith in himself during those past few years at Mercedes. That was the look of someone who no longer saw a purpose in being where they were. Someone drowning in themselves.

So, after qualifying — which was good for no one except the two McLaren rocket ships — Lewis decided to try pulling Max into a conversation. He approached the Dutchman in the middle of the paddock, on the path between the garages and the team offices. It was late afternoon; the sky was covered with dark clouds that barely left room for the last glimmer of daylight, and the shadow of the storm echoed through everyone and everything around the Briton, as they walked hurriedly to finish their day, not even giving him a second glance.

“Max.” He called as soon as he saw him walking, voice calm and steady.

Max didn’t stop walking, squeezed the folded umbrella in his hands, and kept moving without even bothering to look at him.

Lewis had to follow him, the two in an odd silence, until Max finally stopped, in a distant alley off the paddock, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh, looking ready to cut off whatever subject Hamilton might try to start.

“If you came to say something, and it’s the same as what everyone else has said, then keep it to yourself.” Max didn’t look at him, continuing to stare forward at people minding their own business.

“I didn’t come to judge you, if that helps at all.” Hamilton replied softly, leaning against the wall of some backmarker team’s facility.

“So, what did you come for?” Max finally met his neutral gaze.

Lewis hesitated for a moment. Not because he lacked words — he’d always found it easy to speak, even in sensitive moments — but because he knew any misplaced word could make Max retreat even deeper into the thick shell he’d built over the past months. He took a deep breath, arms crossed, gaze firm, before answering.

“So… I just wanted you to know that I understand you.”

Max laughed, but the sound that left his throat was dry and lifeless, more like an involuntary twitch. He looked away from Lewis and back to watching the paddock move at a distance, as if that were infinitely more interesting than this clumsy gesture of empathy. Truth was, he didn’t know how to deal with that kind of compassion. He never had.

“No, you don’t understand,” he replied in a low, rough voice. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

Lewis didn’t back down, even with the contained hostility of the words. He kept his posture calm, eyes patient. He knew he was treading on a minefield.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone. I’ve lost people who were my whole world. I’ve hated the entire world for it too. And… I’ve been angry at myself for a long time, too.”

Max clenched his teeth. A vein in his temple pulsed, betraying the silent anger growing inside him. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with Lewis. Not with anyone. The last thread tethering him to humanity was fragile, about to snap, and he clung to silence as his only armor. But Lewis was insistent.

“You definitely don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die right in front of you… and still be here, trying to move on and act like nothing happened.” Max’s voice cracked, rough timbre splintering at the end of the sentence. “You don’t know what it’s like to want to disappear, but be trapped in this ridiculous circus… like it still makes any sense to keep racing when the only thing that made it worthwhile was destroyed.”

Lewis looked down, respecting what had just been said, while Max closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.

The raindrops, growing heavier by the minute, were icy little stabs on their exposed skin as they stood there in another long silence that, to Max, felt completely pointless.

Neither of them moved. Not even when the cold water started soaking their clothes, clinging them to skin, and the sound of water splashing beneath the boots of people in the paddock echoed in their ears. They remained still — one respectfully quiet, the other silently frustrated, searching for air in the cold, damp atmosphere.

“I don’t want you to pretend you understand. I don’t want anyone telling me that what I feel will pass. It won’t pass.” Max said, slowly turning, thick tears mixing with the rain. “Everybody says that. And I’m tired of hearing it. That it’ll get better. It’s not getting better, Lewis… Just go away, leave me alone…”

Lewis stood there a few minutes longer, looking at Max with a mix of concern and helplessness. But the Dutchman didn’t want that. He didn’t want kind eyes, didn’t want advice, didn’t want yet another reminder that the world kept spinning while his remained stuck, frozen on the night Charles stopped breathing.

“If someday you want to talk… really talk… I’ll be around.” His voice was soft. Lewis finally stepped back twice, leaving Max alone once more in that forgotten corner of the paddock.

Max stayed there, leaning against the cold alley wall. Alone. Always alone.

He couldn’t tell if what he felt was sadness, anger, or just… nothing.

Going back to the hotel was like walking through an entire world of shadows. The paddock lights blurred by, familiar faces became distant blurs, and voices turned into muffled echoes that didn’t reach him. It was as if he was walking inside an aquarium — isolated, watching everything from the outside, yet not really part of it.

In the room, Max didn’t turn on the lights.

He dropped his phone on the table without even checking the messages that probably didn’t come anymore. He threw himself onto the bed still soaked from the rain, not caring about the cold beginning to bite his skin.

The ceiling seemed farther away each second. Or maybe he was the one sinking.

That old feeling returned — the same one that had haunted him since the accident. The same venomous thought whispered in the corner of his mind, growing stronger every day: You don’t need to keep going. You don’t need to endure anymore.

He closed his eyes and let the memories come, as if he were back there on that day, that place. The deafening roar of the engines, the corner, the abrupt silence, the metallic scent in the air… and Charles motionless. Always motionless.

Max’s heart clenched so hard it almost hurt physically. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. He took a deep breath — once, twice, three times — trying to push away the idea taking root in his mind like a weed.

But he couldn’t. The void seemed to be calling, beckoning him, promising rest.

Outside, the rain beat harder and harder against the window. Inside, the silence was broken only by the uneven sound of Max’s breathing.

He got up slowly and went to the window. The city lights shone below, too tiny to feel real — a sea of distant specks that meant nothing to him.

Max rested his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. For long minutes, he stayed there, breathing slowly, listening to the rain. And when he opened his eyes, he noticed his body was trembling. Not from cold… but from fear. Fear of himself. Fear of how far he was willing to go to finally silence everything.

He went back to the bed, curled up, and let the tears fall again until there was nothing left to cry. It wasn't a relief. It wasn’t cleansing. It was only more pain. Pain and exhaustion.

By the end of that night, Max didn’t reach out to Lewis. Not the next day, nor the ones that followed. He no longer had any reason to look for anyone. The void consumed him, wrapped him in a comfortable, necessary, welcoming embrace.

Now, he was ready to wake up.