Chapter Text
The day that would turn out to be a year started normal enough.
Charles woke up on May 25th nervous for the upcoming race. He always did, every racing Sunday like clockwork, he awakened with a quiet storm brewing low in his stomach. It had been a thing since all the way back in karting, where he’d felt the pressure to prove himself, to move up the ranks until he reached F1, to score a good team, to make his name known. He was in F1 now, driving for Ferrari of all, and a household name, adored by millions. The pressure never really went away, remained but in a different form: prove Ferrari was right in choosing him, prove the Tifosi he could do the team justice, prove to the world that he was in his rightful place at the top of the sport.
The races in Italy and Monaco were always toughest, always associated with most pressure, and May 25th meant home race. Charles woke up almost dreading it. The curse he’d been under for years was now broken, but that didn’t mean he forgot the frustration and desperation he’d felt when disappointing his fans and Ferrari for years. It lived with him now, just like the constant disappointment in himself over still not even getting close to winning the championship.
In any case, the nerves – normal.
Charles took Leo for a walk and chatted with his mom on the phone, showered quickly, did a few home workout exercises to get his body really going, and left for the garage. There everyone and everything was buzzing as usual. Charles’ nerves always settled the moment he met up with his team, and he could talk over the strategy and get strapped in. From then on, he laser focused on driving well and finishing first.
For the Tifosi and Ferrari, for his life-long dream that he got to live in, for his father and Jules. He could do it. Charles could do it!
As usual, he stopped by Pierre for a few quick words and to tease him for lingering around the Red Bull garage – and then himself took the opportunity to also linger around and give Max a nod and a smile. The Dutchman seemed too busy with the rookies to come over and say hi as he usually did, so Charles moved on to greet Carlos and then Fernando. He overheard the McLarens heatedly discussing something and shook his head; they did have an overpowered engine that season but they as a team were a mess. In the end, once done with his rounds, Charles found himself in the Ferrari garage mentally preparing to go out and kick ass.
Lewis passed by him as Charles worked on his breathing exercises. “Good luck, mate.” Charles smiled with a nod.
“You too!”
“Let’s hope they don’t fuck us over. Again,” Lewis drawled with an eye roll as he stepped away and towards his car. Charles looked around quickly and cleared his throat, not answering to that with more than a tight smile. Only Lewis, a many-times world champion, would dare openly rage against the management and decisions made at Ferrari. Charles would never. At least not beyond the occasional curse and ‘we’re so unlucky’ comment. He trusted his team, knew they shared the same goals and did all they could to reach the top. They just… Well, they routinely got unlucky. Half of it was on Charles, too; he could do better, he knew it, so he wasn’t about to throw hands at the others.
The race began with Charles at P2 and he had a realistic chance to finish first. Just a few laps in, however, a dynamic got established and Charles had to grit his teeth to avoid swearing at the way Oscar and Lando stuck around him, bracketing his car and caging him in between the two. Max was P4 then suddenly and Charles had to worry about that too – if anyone could overtake Oscar and then gain on Charles to knock him a place back, it would be Max.
Charles pushed his car, chasing Lando closely and almost getting into the DRS zone a number of times, but always falling short on his overtake attempts. “Charles, how do the tires feel?”
“Fine,” he gritted out.
“Keep going.” Why are you struggling so hard? was what Bryan didn’t explicitly ask but Charles could hear it loud and clear. If he was to win the race, he had to fight harder.
He was losing time around Massenet and Casino square. He could improve upon that. He’d been too cautious until now, with Lando just barely out of his grasp and Oscar literally glued to his ass, but he could do better. Take those turns a little faster and not fall even further behind – maintain the gap he had now and then speed the hell up and even overtake. Yeah, he got it.
For a while nothing changed despite his efforts and the team called him in for a tire change. Nothing felt better than a fresh set of tires and nothing boosted his confidence in his abilities more. He got this! Though first he had to gain back his position. Max was in front of him and was very likely going to throw a wrench in Charles’ plans for winning that weekend. Then again, their races and clashes were always the most fun part of the race, so Charles would at least enjoy his downfall.
Charles put pressure on Max, going as fast as possible and trying on a number of occasions to overtake. Just minutes earlier he’d been doing that to get to pole, and now he was fighting for P3… He did manage to come almost parallel to Max but the narrow streets of Monaco were merciless. Monaco. He had to do this!
More determined than ever, Charles pressed on the gas harder. The Red Bull was trying to get out of his sight at the Massenet and Charles knew Max would leave a big gap between them after that turn if he let him. Charles had to speed up, breathe down Max’ neck; he had the advantage of newer tires over Max anyway.
Imagine winning his home race twice in a row!? His fans were going to go crazy! Charles bit his lip and didn’t cut his speed much as he approached the turn of Casino square and then everything happened within the blink of an eye.
“Charles, there is –” Before Bryan could finish his sentence, Charles was slamming head-on into a car lying sideways across the track and spinning to the right. He crashed into the safety barriers hard, a tire breaking off and rolling away. “Charles! Are you okay?” Bryan demanded quickly in his ear. Before Charles could orient himself, he heard an explosion. A couple of cars woozed by quickly as Charles turned to the left to watch a ball of fire surround the Red Bull. “A red flag, there’s a red flag!”
Another car came into view and all Charles could do was watch as it almost bumped into the fiery one before continuing on. It was Max’ car, he realized suddenly, as he watched the flames lick at it. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to put that together: Max’ car was on fire! Charles started unbuckling himself as yet another car passed by, this one much slower and careful at dodging.
“Charles! Answer me, boy, are you okay?”
“Yes, yes – is Max – is he okay?” Charles croaked as he exited his car shakily, helmet still on and connected to the radio. It was his only connection to the outside world and he needed it now. There was fire, the car was – he could see a human figure struggle within it – Max. Charles’ breathing got more labored as he stared, body frozen.
“We don’t have information yet, Charles. It’s a red flag,” Bryan said in a neutral voice and Charles tried to move towards the burning wreckage, but the radio cable pulled him back. Just in time too – two more cars passed by between them, catching him by surprise. “Charles, stay where you are for now, okay? You’re in shock. The marshals are coming out now, they’ll take care of it. There’s a red flag, please report back to the garage. The race is suspended.”
Suspended? Charles’ whole body shook as he watched two men run out and spray the Red Bull with fire extinguishers. “Is he okay?” he yelled weakly and then repeated it louder. The marshals were preoccupied, it seemed, because there was no answer. With all the flames and smoke and foam, Charles could no longer make out the driver. Max, because it wasn’t just any driver. “Merde…”
“Son.” Charles jumped when he felt hands on his arm and turned around to meet the eyes of another marshal. “C’mon, son, we need to get you to safety. Are you hurt?”
“Wait – no, we can’t just – he’s –”
“He’ll be alright, he is being taken care of. Come with me, yeah?” The man smiled kindly, a smile similar to his father’s, and Charles caved. Max would be alright, was what the marshal said. He’d be alright.
“Bryan, please tell me once you have updates, okay?” Charles asked before he started following the older gentleman.
“For now, all we know is the race is canceled. Are you feeling okay, Charles?”
Charles didn’t answer, just disconnected himself from the radio and focused on keeping up with the marshal, feeling petrified as it dawned on him: the race was canceled because of him. Max had crashed in the barriers and Charles had pummeled straight into him, lit his fuel cell up like a bonfire. Charles with his rashness and lack of control over the car had caused so much damage. If Max was now unable to race anymore or had to skip multiple races because of the crash… that was going to be on Charles.
Fred came out to speak to him while the paramedic checked for concussion, but Charles couldn’t focus. Lewis was already there when Charles arrived, sitting quietly, still in his driving gear, and staring down at his hands in his lap. Charles felt a pang of guilt. This time Lewis couldn’t blame Ferrari for the ruined race; it was all Charles.
“How is Max?” he braved to asked once the medical staff moved away. Fred gave him an unreadable look and Charles avoided his eyes. “He’s – he’ll be able to drive again, right? Right?” He had to, he was Max. If Charles had to live for the rest of his life knowing he put Max Verstappen in a wheelchair and ended his astonishing career prematurely, he was going to –
“Charles, he’s dead,” Lewis said suddenly and his voice cracked. Charles blinked, looking at him with shock. Lewis looked like he was about to throw up. His eyes were moist and his age was suddenly a lot more evident on his face. He wasn’t lying or making a cruel joke. Charles’ stomach turned upside down and he swallowed bile.
“Charles…” Charles looked at Fred next but he had nothing more to say. Fred reached out but Charles flinched back.
Max was dead? Max was – Max – the car that he’d slammed into and lit ablaze – that was Max. He’d – there had been low visibility at the Casino – he’d been right behind Max, he’d barely had time to process and then he’d hit – Max, who he had known since they were kids – Charles – Charles had –
Max was dead. Charles killed him.
“Charles, breathe… I’m sorry for… You have to… In a minute, okay?... Here, come on.” Fred was speaking but Charles’ ears only caught every other word. His body churned under the man's hands. His knees weakened and he dropped to the ground, feeling his heart beat harshly against his ribcage. It was painful but at least his heart was still beating. Max’ wasn’t.
“Charles? Let’s go sit you down, yeah?” Someone was helping him up and pulling him to the side. That was Lewis but Charles couldn’t focus on his face. Everything was blurry and that was how he also realized he was crying, sobbing really.
All sound and color suddenly came in crashing down as if he broke above the water’s surface. There was commotion all around, people running and talking, so much screaming from the stands. A navy track suit passing by caught his attention and Charles pushed Fred aside roughly, peering at – Yuki. Charles deflated and then deflated even further when he noticed the red eyes of the driver and the tear-strained face of Kimi walking beside him.
Of course Yuki was upset – his team mate was gone. Kimi had lost his mentor.
Charles couldn’t stop thinking about the figure – Max – struggling in the car as the flames enveloped him. Couldn’t stop imagining the pain the man had been in while Charles just watched. Couldn’t come to terms with the fact that – that Max was never going to step onto the track again. They were never going to joke around or have a silly conversation of Max’ weekly odd topic or discuss a race in the cool down room. Charles was never going to see him again or hug him or –
Sobbing out, he fell to his knees a second time, fingers fisted in his hair. There were hands on his shoulders but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t just move on and go on as if nothing had happened. He’d – he’d killed Max.
Charles woke up again in the early evening with his mother by his side. She’d probably insisted they bring him back to his apartment because he awakened to the familiar look of his bedroom and Leo sleeping with his small head on Charles’ leg. Charles looked at his mother’s concerned face and immediately felt tears prick at his eyes again.
“Maman,” he whispered, feeling like a vulnerable child all over again and she got up quickly to pull him into a hug. “Maman, Max is gone,” he said with pain in his heart and broke into harsh sobs again.
“Let it out, baby, you’ll feel better after. I’m sorry for your loss, Charles.” Charles bit down on his fist, welcoming the pain, as he cried uncontrollably in his mother’s arms. Leo woke up from the violent shaking of his body but didn’t move away from the bed, the loyal boy that he was.
Charles cried like a child as his mom held him. Max and him – they’d never been the closest of friends. Hell, they didn’t even follow each other on Instagram. But Max was – Max was the one constant in Charles’ life. The only person on the grid and off it that gave Charles drive, that understood racing was breathing and that pushed, pushed, pushed. Max was – Max was racing. He was all that embodied F1 and for someone as passionate for the sport as Charles that meant a lot.
Not only that, after so long of existing around each other, he was someone Charles considered a friend and appreciated more than he could admit to the world. He was a rival and they bickered frequently, but when it came down to it, Charles knew he could trust Max, could rely on him. Because Max was a genuinely good person, despite his awful upbringing and how envious Charles could sometimes get over his consistent wins.
A good person that didn’t deserve what Charles had bestowed upon him. “It’s the curse, maman,” Charles whined through tears and his mother shushed him.
“Don’t talk like that, baby, of course there’s no such thing. This is a dangerous sport, baby – those things happen, unfortunate as they may be.” She continued but Charles tuned her out. It wasn’t the sport, it was Charles, acting irrationally and driving unsafely. If he hadn’t crashed into the car, if he’d been paying more attention at the turn, there wouldn’t have been literal casualties today. If he hadn’t been under the Monaco curse, Max would have still been alive. He was cursed, however, and perhaps those around him paid the price as much as he did.
Charles stared out of the large windows into the pitch black sky as tears fell silently down his face, hours after his mother had retired to the guest room. At the stars that he had no chance of seeing in the middle of Monaco. At the stars where his father, Jules, Charlotte and now Max resided, looking down at him with disappointment and blame. He squeezed his eyes shut and begged the universe to go back in time. To repeat this awful day and make sure no one suffered. No lives were lost.
The day that would turn out to be a year ended as a living hell.
—
Charles woke up feeling nervous and restless as if it were time for race, and for a moment he thought the nightmare of a day yesterday was just that – a nightmare. The pain in his chest and the crisp memories of Max being burned alive on the opposite side of the street said otherwise, however. He ran a hand through his hair and wondered what to even do with his day. Back when Jules had passed – and that was a raw and painful thought right there, already bringing him into a curled up position on the bed – Charles had been young. Not even F1 yet. His godfather’s death had taken a long time after his crash, and yet it had brought him to his knees, had been a tragedy that kept Charles off the track for weeks. He couldn't bear race while his friend, Lorenzo's… friend, no longer couldn't. What made him so special, what saved him from such collisions and not the people that deserved it more?
He was just meant to be miserable, perhaps. Charles sighed deeply and curled up on his side. He wanted to stay in bed forever.
Ah, putain, his mother was in the apartment. Maybe he could convince her he was fine and send her on her way. He wanted to be alone. Charles forced himself to get up, just to speak to his mom. When he opened the guest room, however, he found it empty. Untouched. Charles blinked. “Maman?” he called out, stepping into the hallway again and poking his head into the bathroom. Leo ran after him as he checked the living room and kitchen too. Nothing. Maybe she was out for breakfast? With a bad feeling in the back of his head, Charles rang up her phone. “Fuck, please be okay,” he whispered as he waited for her to pick up.
“Baby, hi! How did you sleep? Are you ready for the big day?” She sounded as cheerful, gleeful as she had the precious day when they phoned. Charles' eyebrows furrowed and he grasped onto the marble kitchen counter top. Max was dead, any happiness seemed mocking and disrespectful in that moment. “Charles?”
“Did you go out for breakfast?” he asked, just to keep himself calm. His mother didn't deserve his sour attitude. She hadn't killed a man.
“Hm? I will have breakfast with Arthur on the way. We're both very excited! Wait, let me put him on.”
“Ah, Charlie! Good luck at the race! Just do what you did last year, yeah? You got this!”
“What?” Charles asked, feeling more and more confused. “What are you talking about? The – the race was…” Charles trailed off as his eyes locked on the large digital clock on the TV stand. 25 May, Sunday. “It's today.”
“Charles, baby, are you okay?” his mom chimed back in. “Of course it's today – we're coming to see –”
“I'll be right back,” Charles muttered as he hurriedly hung up and pulled Google up on his phone. There was silly hope blooming in his chest and his whole body felt like it was tingling. In expectation, in fear.
Max Verstappen, he typed in and hit search. There were a number of news articles covering media day and the starting grid of the race, but nothing on a fatal crash in Monaco. Charles opened Wikipedia and stared at the summarized ‘about’ section. Born on 30 September 1997. That was all. Born. Alive. Not dead. Charles' head hurt and he slid down to the floor, leaning his head against the cold marble. Leo came over and barked once. Charles smiled at his dog and pet his head gently.
“He's alive,” he said and then laughed out loud as tears of a different kind streamed down his face. “Mon Dieu, he's alive!” It really was all a nightmare. A vivid nightmare of the worst kind, but just a nightmare nonetheless. Charles hugged Leo close to his chest and cried into his soft fur like a baby. Cried with relief. Cried with the tears he would have loved to cry a day after Jules’ death too.
He continued with his usual pre-race routine, although this time the call with his mother and brother while he walked Leo was longer and filled with reassurance on his end. He was fine, just nervous for the race, nothing wrong going on! He went to the garage, tried to get into the mood, to do his usual round of greeting the others and wishing them a good race. Many things seemed to trigger the feeling of deja vu, but Charles knew his team and the other drivers – they all had their rituals and tasks, all the same every time a race weekend came up. There was nothing extraordinary that could happen, so it made sense that it all felt familiar.
“Good luck, mate,” Lewis greeted with a smile as he passed by.
“You too!” Charles returned a little too earnestly.
“Let’s hope they don’t fuck us over. Again,” Lewis drawled and Charles blinked. This conversation felt too familiar also. All the way to the eye roll of his teammate as he stepped away and towards his car. Charles watched as Lewis spoke to his engineer and had to shake his head to force it back into the race. He always had the same silly conversation with Lewis before they got onto the track. Nothing abnormal was happening.
The race. Right. Charles was starting at P2 and only had to gain one place. Absolutely within the realm of possibility if he focused and raced well, as he knew he could. Only a few laps later, however, Charles realized he was going to finish the race the way he started it – sandwiched between Oscar and Lando – if he didn't do something more.
“Charles, how do the tires feel?” That distracted him momentarily – hadn't Bryan said the same thing in his nightmare? But especially with the memory of his nightmare looming over his head, Charles grit his teeth and pressed harder on the pedal. He was going to get it right this time.
“Fine,” he gritted out.
“Keep going.”
His nightmare had gone tits up, but his thinking in it was correct. His slowest turns were precisely the Messanet and Casino and he had to improve. He just had to take the nightmare for the warning it was: be careful and don't crash.
After pitting, Charles took Messanet swiftly and inched closer to Max’ car. Grinning, he took a right at Casino square but just as Bryan started speaking in his ear, he went nose-first into another car and spun to the side. No. Charles craned his neck to look at the track as his chest contracted in fear. No! No, it wasn't possible – it wasn't going to –
“Charles! Are you okay?”
The Red Bull burst aflame on the other side of the road and multiple cars sped past, just barely avoiding the crash. Charles' heart skipped a beat. No… Charles watched in slow motion as his nightmare played out in front of him again.
Bryan’s voice was in his ear but Charles couldn't pay attention. It was hard to breathe, to think. Max – the nightmare – he –
“Is he okay? Max? Is he okay?” he sputtered out, shaking hands going for his belt as a few slower cars passed by. Maybe the nightmare wouldn't become reality in its full glory. Charles wasn't a prophet, it was impossible. Max had to be okay. This was the real world and Max just had to.
“We don't have information yet, Charles. It’s a red flag,” Bryan said as Charles finally managed to get himself out of the car. “Charles, stay where you are for now, okay? You're in shock. The marshals are coming out now, they'll take care of it. There's a red flag, the race is suspended. Please report back to the garage.”
Red flag? Red flag!? No, no, no, no. Charles fell to his knees as he watched the two men come over with fire extinguishers. No. Please no.
“Son. C'mon son, we need to get you to safety. Are you hurt?” Charles didn't answer, only continued staring, not compiling. He didn't make it easy for the marshal but the man did drag him to the pit stop eventually, where a medic could look at him. Lewis was sitting in the corner already, quiet and solemn. Like in his nightmare. No. Charles pushed away the paramedic, heart racing, and ignored Fred as he stepped up to his teammate. Lewis looked up and his eyes shone with tears.
“Is he – is Max okay?” Charles asked in a small voice and held his breath, awaiting the answer. The answer that he knew, deep down in his bones.
“Charles –” Fred started but Lewis spoke over him.
“Charles, he's dead.” Charles felt the world tilt and found himself on his ass on the ground, Fred crouching next to him.
“Breathe, Charles.” Why would Charles breathe when Max couldn't? He clawed at his throat as he struggled to take in air. Max was – not just in a nightmare, in the real world too – Max was – he didn't want to say it, he didn't want to acknowledge it. Hoped if he didn't, it wasn't going to be true. Charles wailed, putting his head to the asphalt. It hurt something different after feeling relief just a few hours prior. It hurt something different when he'd received a sign from above and still had fucked up, had put Max in an early grave.
He woke up again, just like in his dream, to his mom standing by his bedside. Charles took in a sharp breath. Her sad, concerned but sympathetic face reminded him anew of Max’ death and Charles couldn't help but burst into tears and reach for her.
“Maman,” he whispered and she hugged him tightly. “Max is – he's really gone.” It was all he could say before his sobs overcame him.
“Let it out, baby, you'll feel better after.” No, he wouldn't. He would never – how could he? The fourth person he had lost – it wasn’t something he could just forget – his long lived rival and friend was gone. Max. Charles sobbed louder. “I'm sorry for your loss, Charles.” It wasn't his loss. Max probably wouldn't even consider him a friend. It was a loss for the world. For Max’ family, for Max' cats, for everyone in his team and his friends and his fans, for the sport. Charles cried harder.
—
Charles woke up feeling the race day nerves and for a moment thought everything was normal. Then the recollection of the previous day crashed upon him with no mercy and he ran to the bathroom to empty his stomach. If his mother wasn't awake, she was going to be now. Charles groaned as he flushed and sat down on top of the toilet seat, head in his hands. Max.
“Maman?” His head was killing him all of a sudden. As he deserved. Fuck, Max. Charles’ eyes filled with tears and he felt guilty over the fact. Who was he to mourn and cry? He was the guy's killer for god's sake. “Maman?” he yelled this time, confused. Where was she? With a groan, Charles got up to wash his hands and face and went in search for his mother. She wasn't in the apartment. Charles stood in the middle of the living room, Leo looking up at him with big eyes, as he tried to make sense of the situation. He was experiencing another deja vu and if life continued messing with him like that… Charles didn't want to finish that thought.
Feeling scared but also hopeful, he decided to do a quick Google search before calling his mother this time. Max Verstappen. Born on 30 September 1997. No entry for death. Charles was floored and had to take a seat on the couch.
No. This had to be a joke. Maybe Wikipedia was taking its time to update or maybe – maybe what Lewis had told him the previous day was still not made public knowledge. He seemed to remember it all hitting the news but maybe he was confused. And Charles was going to be pissed if he found out Red Bull and the FIA were delaying news of Max’ death just to make themselves look better! He opened his chat with Pierre where the previous day they’d messaged after his mother retired to her rooms. Where his friend had admitted Yuki was a mess, Carlos too, and Pierre had invited them into his hotel room, so they weren't alone through it all. No such texts were visible in their chat history and Charles stood frozen looking at the last message Pierre sent – from two days ago. What!?
Did you delete the messages from yesterday? he typed out and pressed send, feeling off. Something was very wrong. Maybe Pierre thought the other grid mates would be embarrassed if word of their sadness got out. But – Pierre couldn't delete Charles' side of the chat, could he?
What? We didn’t text yesterday came an almost instant reply. Charles gasped and dropped his phone but then picked it back up when another ping sounded. Charles, are you freaking out about today? Buddy, the Monaco curse is broken, you can rest assured you'll do great today! Broken!? Was it really? He'd gotten someone killed – wait, today? Charles looked at the date on his digital clock and felt faint.
25 May. Sunday.
No, this had to be a joke. With shaking hands, Charles opened Max’ Instagram account. Yesterday, he'd posted a picture of his cats, his last ever post accumulating millions of likes by the evening while the world – was either kept unaware or mourned. Charles’ head was a mess. Charles had spent the night looking at it, at the three happy cats on Max’ legs, begging for food, until he inevitably dozed off.
The post was still there, of course, but it was marked as posted 25 minutes ago. There were a few thousand likes and barely any comments. Charles dropped the phone again as he hyperventilated. Was it… Had it all been a dream? Again!? Charles took Leo on a walk as he reluctantly texted Fred.
Are we racing in Monaco today? he asked and received a call a minute later from a suspicious Fred. He convinced the man he was not under the influence and can indeed drive and tried to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Charles was at a loss. As a last resort, a last sanity check, he led Leo down the path to Max’ building. They were almost neighbors so it only took a few minutes to get there. Charles took a deep breath and greeted the receptionist. “Good morning. I was just wondering… is uh, is Max Verstappen here? I am Charles –”
“Mr. Charles Leclerc, I know,” the man said with a grin. In French also – Charles wondered how Max got around in here. His French was abysmal. “Yes, Mr. Verstappen is up. Should I ping you in and alert him of –”
“No! No, no, I just – I – thank you, that was all. Bonne journee!” He gave a smile and an awkward wave as he speed-walked out of the entrance and had to lean against a tree outside. Max was – Max was alive. Charles was going crazy.
He followed his pre-race routine and headed for the track, feeling skittish and anxious. George waving at him from across the paddock? The same as he'd done twice now. Pierre asking if he was feeling okay instead of complaining about his breakfast was new but also expected after their exchange earlier. Kimi and Gabi trailing after Max as he passionately maxplained something, hands in the air? Same as yesterday, but also same as any race. Oscar and Lando bickering like an old married couple facing divorce loud enough for him to hear as he just passed by? The same as yesterday. The talk with Carlos and Fernando? The strategy he and Lewis were told? Also.
Charles knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He knew almost all that was about to happen and had no explanation for it. Was it really fate telling him in the form of a dream that he was a failure and about to kill someone? To try and discourage him from racing? That was his best running idea at the moment.
“Good luck, mate,” Lewis said and Charles nodded stiffly.
“You too,” he said, feeling like he was reciting a script.
“Let's hope they don't fuck us over. Again.” Charles gulped and moved away. Deja vu.
Just like in his dream, he got stuck between the two McLarens without a real chance to get out if he didn’t get more competitive after pitting. Just like before, he found himself behind Max post-pit and edging closer in an attempt to overtake. Charles tried to play it safe, to maintain a constant two-second gap and not push too hard, not force a mistake on Max. His team was obviously getting dissatisfied, especially with the large gap Max had left between him and the car in front.
“We’re still on plan A,” Bryan reminded him suddenly in a coded message of What the fuck are you doing? Why are you wasting good tires and clean air? Get his ass and overtake! Charles was a master interpreter after years working with the man and he had to reluctantly press the pedal harder. He could hardly risk his job and name. Ferrari’s.
“Copy.”
He still put pressure on Max, he still raced competitively, but now he knew what to expect. Knew to swerve more to the right as he took the fated turn. And so he did. All that got him was a rattled brain as he clipped the wall and was sent flying into Max’ car anyway. He spun around and ended up with a front-row seat of another explosion.
“No!” It all happened faster than Charles could comprehend but it happened the way it did in his dream too. The fire and another racing car that almost crashed into it too. Next couple of cars starting to slow down as they passed. Charles didn't have the strength in him to get out of the Ferrari. Just watched as the flames consumed the Red Bull and the figure inside – Max – flailed around, struggling to get out. He watched the marshals intervene and ignored Bryan in his ear. “This is a punishment, isn't it?” he asked as the tears fell freely and then a marshal was tapping the halo of his car, asking him to come out.
Charles made it back to the garage where Lewis was sitting defeated and leaned against the wall next to him, sliding down to the ground. No. He couldn't believe – he'd had a second chance and he'd – he was truly cursed. Everyone around him died. He brought it onto them. Charles –
“He's dead, isn't he?” he asked roughly, just to have it confirmed. The helmet was still on and he refused to take it off. He didn't want to be seen, he didn't want to see.
“Yes,” Lewis replied just as gruffly and Charles' shoulders shook. He felt defeated. Fred came to demand he saw the medics but Charles said nothing, not looking at the man and shrugging off his hand, and Lewis eventually asked him to give them time. “I think – I think I clipped him a little when I passed… Maybe if I hadn't, maybe it would have been in a better position for the – for the marshals to help.” Charles startled at that and looked up at Lewis who was still stubbornly staring down at his hands. There were tear traces down his cheeks. The car driving after him – that had been Lewis, of course. He was the one that almost also crashed into the Red Bull right as the red flag was announced.
“No,” Charles said and finally took off the helmet to look at his teammate. “You – you couldn't have known there is a wreckage, you were right behind us, it's not –”
“The red flag only got announced after I clip–”
“Lewis, mate,” Charles said and grasped the hand closer to his with desperation. “It's not your fault. It's – I fucked up,” he admitted out loud for the first time, he realized, and choked up. “If I hadn't – if I had been paying more attention and didn’t just…” Didn’t just outright kill him, he didn’t finish. Lewis didn't say anything, just squeezed his hand, and Charles broke down into loud sobs. “I'm sorry.”
This time he was awake for his mother's arrival, Arthur right behind her. There was a lot of talking but Charles could focus on none of it. He saw Yuki's hunched shoulders and noticed he was walking in the direction of Pierre. Good. He saw Lewis slip away, he watched as the grid emptied, but didn't leave. He couldn't. He had to be dragged home by his mother and when he did eventually end up back at the apartment, Charles just sat on the couch and stared at the empty wall. No, not empty. There were frames. Of his father. Of Jules. Of him, Arthur and Lorenzo – a broken set of brothers, two of them having their life scorched by the third. Of one of his very first F1 podiums in Austria, with Max there too because of course he was – he was a permanent fixture on the podium and in his life. Max. Charles cried like a baby for the third time in a row, body shaking and head spinning, as he clutched his mother's arms.
Are you okay? I'm with Yuki and Carlos now, they're over in my hotel room. Man, they're a mess. If you also want to join, feel free okay? We ordered five wine bottles and you’re welcome to help empty them, Pierre sent him later in the evening, as he had twice now. Charles felt like he deserved that kindness even less after fucking up so spectacularly despite being given the heads-up.
Thanks, Pear but I'm good. With mom. Take care of them okay?
He opened Instagram and immediately clicked on Max' profile where his last post was accumulating millions of reactions. Many sad fans mourning in the comments. So it was official then. Charles cried quietly into his hand as he stared at three cats that were now left without an owner. And then at the previous image of Max with his car. The car that Charles had totaled and Max who he had killed.
All he could do was cry.
—
When Charles woke up feeling nervous, he was almost afraid to get up from bed. “Maman?” When his mother didn't appear by the door within seconds as the caring and sweet woman that she was, the fear only deepened. With shaky hands, he opened Instagram and saw Max' last post was him leaning on the Red Bull. Charles stood up so quickly he saw spots. No, that couldn't be. What was – did someone delete his last post? Did his family take over managing his socials now that he was…
Unbelieving, Charles refreshed the page and startled as he saw the now familiar cat image. Posted less than a minute ago. Charles’ heart skipped a beat and he hurried out of the bed. The digital clock said 25 May, Sunday. He went out with Leo, not even bothering to change from his silky pajamas, and almost jogged to Max' building. The kind man from yesterday – from his nightmares? From… the building – smiled at him politely. “Hi, is Max Verstappen here?”
“Mr. Leclerc, hello. Indeed he is still in his apartment. Should I –”
“Yes, please tell him I'm coming up. Thanks!” He had to see this with his own eyes. He couldn't believe it otherwise. Max was – he couldn't say it yet. Couldn't get his hopes up only to crash down with unimaginable force. He took the elevator to the penthouse and banged on the door like a madman. Leo just sat quietly by his feet, giving him the side-eye. Charles would explain everything to him later but he had to make sure.
“Charles? Gotta admit that's a surprise,” someone said as the door opened. Charles’ mouth fell open. Max, in the flesh. Looking a bit disheveled, obviously not yet all put together for the day – not that he ever fully was. With a small side smile and seeming thoroughly confused. Alive. Charles' eyes filled with tears and he covered his mouth. Max was alive. Charles was reliving this day again. Charles was insane. “Charles?” There was a hiss suddenly and Charles remembered the cats from the picture. “Ah, nee, Sassy, stay in!”
Max came out to stand in front of the door and closed it almost fully to block the cat's path. He was so close now, Charles could feel the warmth radiating off his body. His body warmth – like, warmth of being alive, not of being set on fire. Charles blinked and all he could see seared into the back of his eyelids was the struggling form of Max behind a wall of flames. He took a step back. Max was looking with confusion now, his mouth opening – he had a freckle there, right on his upper lip, that freckle deserved to see another day – but Charles couldn't hear. He just gathered Leo in his arms and sped back to the elevator that was thankfully still on the same floor.
“He's fine, he's fine. It was just…” Just what? Could he really excuse it as a dream again? After the same day was happening for the fourth time? But what else was it supposed to be!?
The moment he made it back home, he rang Fred. “I'm sorry, I'm sick. Really sick. I can't make it.” He wasn't going to watch it all happen again. He didn't need the front row seat of Max' death a fourth time around.
Or maybe… with Charles not there, Max was going to survive.
Charles squeezed his eyes shut as he curled up on the bed and started counting down to the start of the race. Whatever happened, he wanted to be alone.
It was Zhou Guanyu from the reserve drivers that took his place, he saw online as he tracked all updates live from his phone. The Tifosi weren't happy that he was missing his own home race. Charles also wasn't happy. But he knew going there wasn't going to make him happier either.
I heard you're not coming in. That's a shame, man. The Monaco curse lives on huh? I hope you get better quick! Pierre sent an hour before the race. Charles loved Pierre. The man was his best friend, for sure. He knew he only had good intentions at heart. However, in that moment, with the reminder of the curse, Charles was close to blocking his number, just to let his displeasure known. Pierre knew how much all this affected him, damn it! He should have known better than to make light of it. Charles had to force himself to breathe and calm down. He was unusually more affected by the wording because of the hell of a journey the past few days had been. Pierre didn't seem to know about that. Pierre was his friend and meant well. Charles didn't reply nonetheless.
Another message vibrated against his hand and Charles turned the screen back on. you good, mate? you looked a bit freaked earlier. feel better soon! Max. Charles closed his eyes for a second. This could very well end up the last time he spoke to the man. He was likely going to get in that car and crash. With shaking hands he sent back, Watch out and be safe out there. Biting his lip, he quickly added, Casino square is rough, be careful.
what? was all he received back but Charles decided not to reply to Max either. There was a storm of emotions in his head and he couldn't make sense of any of them. He had to let Max and the others focus on the race. He could wallow in his misery alone.
The race began. His mother and Arthur started spamming him too but Charles just turned his phone off and continued watching the live stream on his laptop. Zhou quickly fell down to P7, behind Lewis, and after that Charles just stopped paying attention to his car. It was irrelevant for the action he was interested in. Max held on P3 for the whole duration of the race, managing to win a podium. He survived the crash – or, more like, it didn’t happen at all.
Charles' eyes got wet as he watched the Dutchman spray Lando and Oscar with champagne, looking all happy and satisfied. Max survived. All it took was Charles not being there. Charles and his curse.
Charles replied to his mother finally, to avoid her worrying and coming over, and then again ignored all of his social media. Nothing and no one mattered for the duration of the day. All Charles wanted to do was drink. He had to drown what he knew until he no longer did. Had to forget somehow that his presence in the race ultimately led to the demise of undoubtedly one of the best drivers the sport had ever seen. Perhaps it really was a sign that he had to quit racing. Who knew what was going to happen at the next race weekend because of him!? A chain crash and a group funeral!?
Charles drank and drank and drank and then laughed. At least he was no longer going to be stuck causing and reliving Max' death. Merde, what a day!