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Max woke up warm.
This was unusual. He slept alone, always had, and his apartment’s climate control was set to a cool, precise temperature. This warmth was different. It was a living, breathing heat nestled against his side, a solid weight on his chest, and a softness under his hand that his sleep-fogged brain could not immediately identify.
He blinked, his vision swimming into focus in the dim morning light filtering through his blinds.
There was hair under his fingers. Silky, fine, golden-brown hair. Not long, but definitely not the short, dark style he was accustomed to seeing on a certain rival. He froze. His gaze traveled down. A slender back, clad in a simple white cotton t-shirt that was too big. Delicate shoulder blades. The rise and fall of gentle breathing.
Max’s own breath hitched. Very carefully, as if disarming a bomb, he shifted his head on the pillow.
The face buried partially against his shoulder was unmistakable. Yet it was also entirely wrong.
It was Charles Leclerc. But it was a Charles Leclerc he hadn’t seen in over a decade. The cheeks were rounder, softer, still holding the last vestiges of childhood. The jawline was less defined. The eyelashes, a dark sweep against his cheek, seemed longer. The hair was that beautiful, sun-kissed brown-gold he remembered from the junior formulas, falling in soft waves around his temples—a proper little boy’s hair. This Charles couldn’t be older than sixteen.
Max’s brain short-circuited. He was a man of logic, of physics, of cause and effect. This had no logical cause. He had gone to bed after a long sim session. He was in his apartment in Monaco. This was his bed. And in his bed was a teenage Charles Leclerc, sleeping soundly against him.
He must be dreaming. A very vivid, very weird dream. He closed his eyes tightly and opened them again.
The boy was still there. In fact, those long eyelashes were fluttering. A small, sleepy sound escaped him, and he nuzzled closer into Max’s shoulder, his nose brushing the fabric of Max’s t-shirt.
Max felt a jolt go through him. It was… he couldn’t describe it. The trust in that movement. The complete, unguarded vulnerability. This wasn’t the fierce, passionate, sometimes tense Charles he dueled on track. This was something else entirely. Something pure and soft and… heavenly.
Charles’s eyes opened.
They were the same brilliant green, but clearer, if that was possible. Less shadowed. They blinked up at Max, confusion swimming in their depths, but no fear. Not yet.
"Où suis-je?" he mumbled, his voice higher, softer, still thick with sleep.
Max’s French was passable, but his tongue felt like lead. "You're… you're in Monaco," he managed in English, his voice rough.
Charles pushed himself up on one elbow, the movement making the oversized shirt slip off one slender shoulder. He looked around, taking in the modern, minimalist bedroom, the racing memorabilia, the giant simulator visible through the open door to the living area. His gaze finally settled back on Max. The confusion deepened.
"Who are you?" Charles asked, switching to hesitant English. "And why am I here? I was… I was at home. In my bed."
Max sat up slowly, putting some crucial distance between them. The loss of warmth was immediate and unpleasant. "I'm Max. Max Verstappen."
The name meant nothing. Charles’s face remained blank, just politely puzzled. Of course it meant nothing. This Charles hadn’t even entered Formula 2 yet.
"This is going to sound insane," Max said, running a hand through his own hair. "But what year do you think it is?"
"2014," Charles said immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then he frowned, his perfect brows drawing together. "Is this a joke? Did Jules set this up?" A flash of the familiar Leclerc stubbornness. "It is not funny."
Max’s heart clenched at the mention of Jules. He shook his head, feeling utterly out of his depth. "It's not a joke. I wish it was. It's… it's 2024."
Charles stared at him. He stared for so long Max thought he might have broken him. Then, a slow, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of him. It was a light, musical sound Max had never heard before. "2024? I am thirty? No, you are crazy. Or I am dreaming." He pinched his own arm, then winced. "Not dreaming."
"Not dreaming," Max confirmed grimly.
The reality began to dawn on Charles’s young face. The first flicker of real fear appeared in his eyes. He pulled the sheets up a little higher, looking suddenly very small in Max’s big bed. "How? Why?"
"I have no idea," Max said honestly. "I went to sleep alone. I woke up… with you."
Charles digested this. His eyes darted around the room again, landing on a framed photo on the dresser. It was Max, standing with a trophy, but the car in the background and his race suit were unmistakably modern. His eyes widened. "You are a racing driver?"
Max nodded. "Formula One."
A spark of interest cut through the fear. "Formula One? Really? Who do you drive for?"
"Red Bull."
Charles’s nose wrinkled adorably. "Red Bull? But they are not so good." He said it with the innocent certainty of a karting prodigy in 2014.
A surprised laugh burst out of Max. "They are now. I am the World Champion."
That got his full attention. Green eyes went huge with awe. "World Champion? You? But you are so young!"
"I'm twenty-six."
"In 2024," Charles said, the concept still visibly bending his mind. He looked down at his own hands, turning them over. "So I am… here. In the future. With a World Champion." He looked back at Max, a sudden, devastatingly sincere smile spreading across his face. It was unguarded, bright, and held none of the carefully curated media politeness or the weight of later years. It was pure, unfiltered joy at the idea. "That is amazing!"
Max’s breath caught. God. He was so beautiful. It wasn't just the pretty features; it was the light inside him. The purity. It was like looking at a sunrise.
Then the smile faded as another thought occurred. "My family. Do they know me here? Am I… am I a driver too?"
Max hesitated. How much to tell? "Yes. You're a driver. A very good one. For Ferrari."
Charles’s face lit up like a supernova. "Ferrari! Vraiment?" He bounced on his knees, the sheets falling away completely. "I drive for Ferrari! And we are rivals?" He said it like it was the coolest thing imaginable.
Max couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah. We are rivals."
"This is the best dream ever," Charles declared, though he’d already confirmed it wasn't a dream. He was buzzing with excitement, all previous fear forgotten in the face of this incredible story. Then he glanced down, finally noticing the shirt he was wearing. It was one of Max’s old team shirts, swallowing his slight frame. "Are these your clothes?"
Max flushed. "Yeah. I, uh, found you like that. Didn't have anything else that would fit."
Charles plucked at the fabric, seemingly delighted. "It smells nice."
Max had to look away. This was dangerous. He was talking to a teenager. A brilliant, beautiful, radiant teenager who was currently inhabiting the body of his rival and wearing his clothes. He needed a plan. He needed to fix this.
Over a breakfast of eggs and toast—Charles ate with a voracious appetite, chatting excitedly about karts and his hopes for F3—Max tried to formulate that plan.
"We can't tell anyone," Max said finally. "No one would believe us. They'd think you were an imposter, or that we'd both lost our minds."
Charles, his mouth full of toast, nodded sagely. "It is our secret. A big adventure!" His eyes sparkled. He was treating it like a game, a fantastic interlude. The trust he placed in Max, a complete stranger, was staggering. It was that childhood faith that adults knew what they were doing.
"So you stay here. With me. Until we figure out how to get you back."
Charles’s head tilted. "Here? In your house?"
"It's an apartment. And yes. Is that okay?"
Another radiant smile. "Okay! It is very nice. Much bigger than my room at home."
And so, the bizarre cohabitation began. Max cleared his schedule, citing "personal reasons," which sent his team principal into a brief panic. He ordered clothes online that would fit Charles’s slimmer, smaller build—simple things, jeans, t-shirts, a soft hoodie.
The first time Charles tried on the new clothes, he emerged from the bathroom, the hoodie dwarfing him, the sleeves covering his hands. He looked up at Max, his green eyes huge. "It is soft. Thank you, Max."
He said Max’s name with a gentle, careful pronunciation. It sounded different in that young voice.
Max just nodded, his throat tight.
Days blurred. Max found himself in a strange, suspended reality. This Charles was endlessly curious. He explored the apartment with the reverence of a museum visitor, asking questions about everything. He was obsessed with the simulator, begging Max to let him try.
"You're already better than me in 2024," Max grumbled, but he set it up.
Watching Charles curl up in the seat, his small frame almost disappearing, his face a mask of intense, joyful concentration as he navigated a virtual Spa, was a revelation. The raw talent was there, blazingly obvious, but it was untempered by pressure or tragedy. He laughed when he spun, whooped when he got a corner right.
He was also tactile in a way adult Charles was not. He’d lean against Max’s side on the sofa while watching old races, pointing at the screen. "Look! That move was stupid, non?" His hair would brush Max’s arm. He’d accept pats on the head or a hand on his shoulder with a happy, cat-like lean into the touch.
One evening, after a particularly quiet day, they were sitting on the balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. Charles was quiet, watching the lights of the city.
"Max?" he asked, his voice small.
"Yeah?"
"Are we friends? In the future?"
The question hit Max square in the chest. They were… complicated. Respectful rivals. Occasional collaborators against the FIA. Men who shared a unique, intense burden. But friends? "We understand each other," Max said carefully. "Probably better than anyone else."
Charles seemed to accept this. He turned those luminous green eyes on Max. "I think we must be friends here. Because you are very kind to me. Even though I am a… a nuisance."
"You're not a nuisance," Max said, the words coming out more forcefully than intended.
Charles smiled, that soft, private smile. He reached out and, with a trust that shattered Max’s defenses, placed his hand over Max’s where it rested on the arm of the chair. His hand was slim, his fingers elegant and cool. "Thank you for taking care of me."
Max turned his hand over, instinctively, and curled his fingers around Charles’s. The boy’s hand fit perfectly. He gave a gentle squeeze. "Any time, kleintje," he murmured, the Dutch endearment slipping out.
Charles didn't ask what it meant. He just let his hand rest in Max’s, looking back at the sea, a faint, contented smile on his lips.
Max was utterly, completely doomed. He knew it. This was wrong on so many levels. This was a boy, displaced from time, his rival. But the feeling that had started as shock and confusion had melted into something deep, protective, and terrifyingly tender. He was captivated by the innocence, the sheer goodness that radiated from him. He wanted to preserve it, to shield this bright, gentle spirit from the world that would inevitably harden it.
The crisis point came a week later. Charles, trying to help, attempted to make pancakes. It ended with batter on the ceiling and a tragic, burnt offering. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, covered in flour, looking at the charred mess in the pan, his lip trembling. It wasn’t about the pancakes. It was the cumulative strangeness, the homesickness, the pressure of a future he couldn't comprehend.
"Je suis désolé," he whispered, tears welling in those huge green eyes. "I ruin everything."
"No, you don't," Max said softly, stepping into the kitchen. He took the pan from Charles’s limp hand and set it aside. "It's just pancakes."
A single tear traced a path through the flour on Charles’s cheek. He looked so lost, so young. The vulnerability was a physical ache in Max’s chest.
Without thinking, Max cupped his face, his thumbs brushing away the tear and the white powder. Charles’s skin was impossibly soft under his palms. The boy stilled, his wet eyes searching Max’s.
"It's okay," Max murmured, his voice low. "You're okay, Charles."
Charles’s eyes fluttered closed. He leaned into the touch, nuzzling his cheek against Max’s rough palm with a quiet, needy sigh. It was the gesture from Max’s initial, half-remembered dream—the cat-like, trusting press into a comforting hand. It was an offering of complete submission, of faith.
Max’s control snapped.
He didn't know who moved first. Maybe they both did. One moment he was holding Charles’s face, the next, he had gathered the slender, flour-dusted body into his arms. Charles came willingly, his arms winding around Max’s neck, his face burying in his shoulder. He was shaking, but not with sobs. It was a fine, constant tremor.
Max held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft, gold-brown hair. He breathed in the scent of soap, flour, and the unique, clean scent of Charles. He felt the delicate ridge of his spine, the slightness of his shoulders. He was holding a miracle and a catastrophe in his arms.
"I do not want to go," Charles whispered, his voice muffled against Max’s shirt. "I am scared to go back. I like it here. With you."
The words were a lance of pleasure and pain. "You have to go back," Max said into his hair, his own voice thick. "Your life is there. Your future. My Charles is there." The admission hung in the air.
Charles pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, breathtakingly beautiful. "Am I different? In your time?"
Max brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. "You're still you. You're still brilliant, and kind, and too hard on yourself. But you've seen… more. It’s made you stronger. But it’s also…" He couldn't finish. It’s also dimmed this light a little.
Charles seemed to understand. He reached up and touched Max’s cheek, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw with an artist's curiosity. "You look at me," he said softly, "like I am something precious."
"You are," Max said, the truth laid bare.
Charles’s gaze dropped to Max’s mouth, then back to his eyes. The air changed, grew charged. It was innocent curiosity, a desire for comfort, and something else, something older, humming just beneath the surface of this young skin. Max saw the conflict, the dawning understanding of a different kind of feeling.
Max knew he had to be the adult. He had to stop this, now, before a line was irrevocably crossed. He took Charles’s wrist, gently lowering his hand, and placed a chaste, lingering kiss on his forehead. "You are precious," he repeated against his skin. "And you need to go home."
That night, Charles slept in Max’s bed again, by unspoken agreement. He curled on his side, facing Max. Max lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of every breath, every shift of the sheets.
"Max?" a small voice whispered in the dark.
"Yeah?"
"Will you remember me? This me?"
"Always."
A soft sigh. A small hand crept across the mattress, its fingers seeking. Max took it, lacing their fingers together. Charles’s hand tightened in his, and within minutes, his breathing evened out into sleep.
Max didn't sleep. He held that small, trusting hand and made a silent, desperate plea to whatever cosmic force had done this. Please. Let him go back. Let him live his life. Let him become the man I know, with all his fire and pain and glory. It’s not fair to keep him here.
As dawn broke, painting the room in pale gray light, Max felt the hand in his grow faintly translucent. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned his head.
Charles was fading, like a photograph left in the sun. But he was awake, looking at Max, his green eyes clear and calm. He gave Max’s hand one last, firm squeeze and a smile—that pure, angelic, devastating smile.
"Thank you for the adventure, World Champion," he whispered.
Then he was gone. The space in the bed was empty, only the slight indentation on the pillow remaining. The scent of him lingered for a moment before dissipating.
Max lay there, clutching empty air, feeling a loss so profound it hollowed him out.
The next few days were a blur of gray emptiness. The apartment felt cavernous, silent, dead. Max went through the motions. He returned to training, to sim work. He gave one-word answers to his team. The world champion was back, but he felt like a ghost.
The Italian Grand Prix arrived. The press conference. He sat on the dais, monosyllabic, until he was asked a question about his rivalry with Charles.
He looked up, his eyes finding Charles in the seat beside him. The real Charles. The man. The sharp, beautiful lines of his face, the defined jaw, the darker, styled hair, the eyes that held a universe of experience—triumph, loss, pressure, resilience. The elegant strength of him. He was wearing Ferrari red, a prince in his element.
Their eyes met. Charles’s gaze was questioning, perhaps a little concerned by Max’s uncharacteristic quietness.
And Max saw it. Just for a fleeting second, a ghost of an expression crossed Charles’s face. A slight, bewildered widening of the eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of the head, as if hearing a distant echo. A blush of pink touched the very tips of his ears.
He didn't remember. Max was sure of it. But somewhere, deep in his soul, in the marrow of who he was, a memory slept. A memory of warmth, of safety, of a kind voice and a strong hand, of a secret adventure in a future that was now his present.
Charles gave him a small, tentative, genuine smile. Not the media smile. A real one. It was older, wiser, tinged with melancholy at times, but the core of it—the sincerity, the kindness, the light—was the same. It had just been tempered, like steel. It was even more beautiful for having survived.
Max felt the ice in his chest crack. The hollow space filled, not with the past, but with a fierce, burning certainty for the future. He smiled back, a real, slow, deep smile that made Charles blink in surprise.
When the conference ended, Max didn't rush away. He waited, catching Charles’s arm as he moved to leave.
"Charles."
Charles turned, his green eyes curious. "Yes, Max?"
Max looked at him—this magnificent, complicated, strong man who once, in another timeline, had been a soft, trusting boy in his arms. He saw both versions superimposed, and his heart swelled with a love that was no longer forbidden, no longer tragic, but simply… inevitable.
"Good luck this weekend," Max said, his voice warm, his grip on Charles’s arm firm and lingering. "But not too much luck."
A spark ignited in Charles’s eyes—the old, familiar competitive fire, but it was mingled with something warmer, something confused but welcoming. He laughed, a rich, adult sound that still held the ghost of that musical lightness. "I could say the same to you, World Champion."
He didn't pull his arm away. He stood there for a moment longer, letting Max hold him, a faint, puzzled smile on his lips as he searched Max’s unusually open blue gaze.
Max finally released him, his fingers trailing briefly down Charles’s forearm. "See you on track."
As he walked away, he didn't look back. He didn't need to. He carried the memory of a golden-haired boy like a treasure in his heart. And he walked toward the man, his rival, his equal, his future, with a new and unshakeable purpose. The adventure, it seemed, was just beginning.