Chapter Text
—
The roar of the Vegas crowd thundered through the Red Bull paddock like a storm refusing to be silenced. Neon lights painted the desert night in golds, reds, and blues, reflecting off the sea of cameras and jubilant faces. The race had been a spectacle, the season another masterpiece of dominance. Max Verstappen—relentless, precise, unstoppable—stood on top of the world, securing his fourth World Drivers’ Championship in the process.
Sergio Pérez leaned against the doorway of his hotel room, the party can be heard thru the hallways, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he sipped from a glass of whiskey. He was proud of Max, of course he was. They had built this team together, and endured battles that forged unbreakable camaraderie. But tonight, pride felt hollow in his chest, weighed down by the ache of something he could no longer deny: he was tired.
Bone-weary, soul-deep tired.
The sounds of the celebration outside grew muffled as Sergio stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The solitude was a relief, the kind of silence he hadn’t had time to cherish in years. He set the glass on a small table, his gaze catching on a framed photograph perched beside it.
The picture was simple—him in his Racing Point gear, smiling confidently, a younger man who had just earned his first F1 win in Bahrain. His cheeks were fuller then, his eyes brighter, brimming with hope and untainted belief in the future.
“God, look at you,” Sergio muttered, pulling the photo closer. He sank into the couch, running his thumb over the edge of the frame. “So young. So clueless.” He chuckled, a bitter sound that echoed in the quiet room.
And then, without really thinking, he began to talk.
“You have no idea what’s coming, do you?” His voice was soft, almost wistful. “Bahrain was just the start. It felt like the peak, didn’t it? Like the universe was finally paying you back for all the years you spent clawing your way up, taking scraps where others got feasts. But, Checo… God, if only you knew.”
He leaned back, his head resting against the wall as he let the memories spill out, raw and unfiltered.
“When Helmut calls you that winter, you’ll feel like it’s a lifeline. You’ll take the seat at Red Bull thinking it’s your big break, the chance to prove you belong at the top. And at first, it’ll feel like that. 2021 will be insane—fighting Mercedes, playing second fiddle to Max but still carving out moments for yourself. Baku will be your moment. Holding off Lewis in Abu Dhabi will feel like a triumph no one can take from you.
“But Red Bull…” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not what you think. It’s not a family—it’s a machine. A ruthless, unforgiving machine that demands perfection every second of every day. And when you’re not perfect, they’ll remind you. The media will remind you. Hell, even your own teammates will remind you.”
He paused, staring at the photo. “You’ll win more races—Monaco, Singapore, Jeddah. You’ll stand on podiums you only dreamed about as a kid in Guadalajara. But with every high, the lows will hit harder. The whispers will start—Checo’s too old. Checo’s too slow. They’ll talk about replacing you before you even finish celebrating a win. And you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt, but it does. Every damn time.”
Sergio’s voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “You’ll clash with Max. Not because you want to, but because you have to. You’re a fighter, Checo. You don’t back down, not even when you’re up against someone like him. And Max… He’s brilliant, but he’s ruthless. There will be days when you’ll wonder if all the sacrifices are worth it—your family time, your health, your sanity.
“By 2024, you’ll feel like a ghost of yourself. A driver who can still fight but doesn’t know if he has anything left to give. You’ll crash in Japan, in the rain, because the FIA let the race go on when they shouldn’t have. And when you climb out of that wreckage, you’ll realize how close you came to losing everything.
“And yet… you’ll stay. For what? Loyalty to the team? Pride? Stubbornness? I don’t even know anymore.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Max just won his fourth title tonight. The whole world is celebrating, and here I am, talking to a picture like some crazy old man.”
He leaned forward, gripping the frame tightly. “But I need you to know, Checo. I need you to understand what’s waiting for you. Because maybe—just maybe—you can make different choices. Maybe you don’t have to live through all of this pain. Maybe you don’t have to be the guy holding everyone else up while they chip away at your soul.”
Sergio’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes glistening. “I don’t regret what I’ve done. But if I could go back… I don’t know if I’d do it again.”
—
The same photograph rested on the desk in Sergio Pérez’s room, the dim light from a bedside lamp casting shadows across the familiar walls. 2021 Checo stared at it, brow furrowed, lips set in a thin line.
The words of his older self echoed in his mind, haunting and surreal. “A ghost of myself,” he had said. The weight of those words felt like a punch to the gut.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That can’t be me. That can’t be us!”
He stood abruptly, pacing the room. This didn’t make sense. He had fought so hard to get to Formula 1, to prove he belonged among the best. Wasn’t Red Bull supposed to be the dream? The pinnacle? How could it turn into… that ?
He thought about the moments his future self had described—Baku, Abu Dhabi, Monaco. Winning races on circuits he’d barely dared to dream of. For a split second, he felt the pull of it, the lure of glory. But then came the rest of it: the media scrutiny, the doubts, the loneliness.
“Why?” he whispered to the photo as if it could answer him. “Why would I put myself through that?”
The answer came, unbidden, in the image of his family. Carola, the kids. He imagined their faces when he walked through the door, tired but victorious. He imagined missing birthdays, missing first steps, missing life.
His jaw tightened. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t let that happen. Not to you. Not to us.”
Checo sat down, the photograph clutched in his hands. He studied his own younger face, the hopeful smile that now seemed naive. “You were right,” he murmured. “I don’t know what’s coming. But maybe I don’t need to.”
The decision began to form, solid and unshakable. He wouldn’t answer Helmut’s call. He wouldn’t join Red Bull. Instead, he would walk away from Formula 1 before it could break him.
He imagined the life he could build outside of racing. Giving back to Mexico, supporting young drivers who didn’t have to claw their way up like he did. Spending time with his family without constantly looking at the clock, waiting for the next flight, the next debrief, the next battle.
His future self had called Red Bull a machine. Checo wasn’t going to be a cog in it.
He set the photograph back on the desk, his eyes burning with determination. “I’ll make sure you’re happy,” he said softly, as if speaking directly to his older self. “I promise. You won’t have to go through any of it.”
Checo stood, a sense of peace settling over him. He didn’t know what the future would hold now, but he was certain of one thing: he wouldn’t let Formula 1 define him.
As he turned off the lamp and climbed into bed, he thought briefly of Max Verstappen. A small pang of guilt hit him—he’d seen flashes of the friendship they might have shared, the battles they might have fought side by side. But that was a future for another Checo, not him.
Tomorrow, he’d start making calls. He didn’t know where the road ahead would lead, but it wouldn’t be to Red Bull.
And for the first time in a long time, Sergio Pérez felt truly free.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Max Verstappen strolled down the long hallway of the hotel, the weight of his championship finally settling on him. The noise of the celebration downstairs still echoed faintly, but Max had grown tired of the flashing lights, the endless congratulations, and the overwhelming energy of it all.
He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he needed to see him . He’d spent so many moments throughout his career sharing victories—or even frustrations—with his teammate. Though his journey to this championship had been lonely at times, Max had always known he could count on the man who shared his garage.
But things had changed. Max couldn’t remember when it started to feel like something was missing. The memories of the past few years felt fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.
He reached the room, a familiar number etched into the wood. Without thinking, he knocked.
No answer.
Max frowned, knocking again, louder this time. Maybe he was asleep?
Not wanting to disturb him further, Max turned the handle, surprised to find the door unlocked. He pushed it open, expecting to see the familiar figure sprawled on the bed or pacing with a glass of wine in hand.
Instead, he found someone else.
The young man standing in the middle of the room turned abruptly at the sound of the door opening. His sharp, angular features were twisted in irritation, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Max.
“What the hell are you doing here?!” the man demanded. “Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying your second world championship?!”
“Second? … this is my fourth.” Max blinked, thrown off balance. “I—uh—sorry, wrong room. Do you know who’s staying here?”
The man snorted, his lips curling into a sneer. “You’ve got to be kidding me… Fourth? Your nickname becoming to real, Mad Max?”
“What the …” Max frowned, stepping back slightly. “Look, I’m just looking for—”
“For what?” the man interrupted, his voice rising. “Another career to destroy? Another driver to trample on your way to another title?”
Max’s confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t even know, do you?” the man snapped, stepping closer, his anger palpable. “Of course, you don’t. You’ve got everything handed to you, haven’t you? Every opportunity, every advantage. And the rest of us—” He gestured around the room, his hands trembling. “We’re just here to make you look good, aren’t we?”
Max felt his temper flare. “I don’t know who you are or what your problem is, but you don’t know what I’ve been through to get here.”
The man laughed bitterly. “Oh, I know exactly what you’ve been through. And who you’ve stepped on to get there. Gasly. Albon. Ricciardo. Hell, the list keeps growing, doesn’t it? And now me. I didn’t even get a chance to race you because you wouldn’t let me past in Suzuka. Is this how you play your games, Verstappen?”
Max’s stomach twisted. Suzuka? He tried to recall the race, but his memories were hazy. It had been a tough one, but nothing stood out—at least, nothing like what this man was describing.
“Look,” Max said, forcing himself to stay calm, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you think I did. But I don’t make those decisions. I just drive.”
The man’s eyes burned with fury. “Yeah, you just drive . And the rest of us pay the price.”
Max opened his mouth to respond, but the man turned his back on him, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Go enjoy your party, champ. But don’t expect anyone to cheer for you when there’s no one left to race.”
The door clicked shut behind Max as he stumbled into the hallway, his heart pounding. He leaned against the wall, his breath coming in shallow gasps. What the hell was that?
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Something was wrong—something beyond the stranger’s accusations.
Max made his way back to his room, his hands shaking as he locked the door. He sat down heavily on the bed, staring at the floor as a strange sense of unease crept over him.
And then, like a switch being flipped, the memories hit him.
At first, they were just flashes—images of podiums without familiar faces, races that felt colder and lonelier. A world where the garage was quieter, where there was no one to laugh with, no one to vent to.
The realization came slowly, like a fog lifting: Checo had never been there.
No Abu Dhabi miracle in 2021. No Baku victory to share. No steady hand to balance the chaos of Red Bull’s pressure.
The memories of the career Max thought he’d lived were being rewritten, replaced by a reality that felt stark and empty.
He gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. How was this possible? How could he remember two lives, two timelines, one where Checo was his teammate, and one where he wasn’t?
Max’s chest tightened as the weight of it all sank in. He had to find him.
Checo. He needs him.
—
The small town in Jalisco was a far cry from the glamorous world of Formula 1. Max’s rental car kicked up a trail of dust as he drove down the narrow streets, scanning the modest houses for the address he’d been given.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. In his memories— his other memories —Checo lived in luxury, his Red Bull contract affording him a life of comfort and wealth. But here, in this quieter life, Checo had chosen something different.
The compound was simple but inviting, with a bright blue door and a small garden blooming with vibrant flowers. Max parked the car and approached hesitantly, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was warm, the sounds of children laughing echoing in the distance. The sign above the entrance read Escuela de Pilotos Jóvenes Pérez.
He hesitated. What if Checo didn’t remember? What if this was just a cruel trick of fate, and the man he had come to find was a stranger in every way that mattered?
But the pull was too strong. He pushed open the gate, walking slowly down the path toward the building.
Inside, he found him.
Sergio Pérez stood near a group of young drivers, a clipboard in hand, his face relaxed and glowing with the warmth of someone at peace with his life. He looked younger, lighter, free from the burdens Max hadn’t realized he had carried until now.
“Checo,” Max called, his voice breaking.
Checo turned, his eyes widening slightly before his face broke into a welcoming smile. “Max? What are you doing here?”
Max didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The sight of Checo—alive, well, happy —broke something inside him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he closed the distance between them.
Checo’s smile faltered, concern creasing his brow. “Max? What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Max choked out, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Checo. For everything.”
Before Checo could respond, Max pulled him into a crushing hug. Checo let out a surprised laugh, his feet leaving the ground as Max hoisted him up. “Whoa, easy there, big guy!”
But Max didn’t let go. He buried his face in Checo’s shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. “You were right. You were right to leave. But God, Checo, I—” He pulled back just enough to look at him, his voice raw. “I needed you. I didn’t know how much until you were gone.”
Checo’s expression softened, his hands resting on Max’s shoulders. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m here.”
Max stared at him, searching his face. “You remember, don’t you? The other future - our future. The races. The team.”
Checo hesitated, then nodded. “I have a gist. Not everything, but enough.”
Max’s grip tightened, his voice fierce. “Then you know I can’t do this without you. I won’t do this without you.”
Checo smiled gently, his voice calm. “Max, you’re stronger than you think. You’ll be okay. And I… I needed to choose this life, for me.”
“But it’s not the same. I’m not the same.” Max shook his head, his tears spilling over. “I want you by my side.”
Checo pulled him close again, his arms wrapping around Max like they had always belonged there. “It’s okay, Max,” he whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Notes:
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If you prefer a happy ending, you can stop at this chapter. My usual dark, possessive, obsessive, manipulative Max will resume from Chapter 2 onwards.
Thank you for reading!~