Chapter Text
Charles has always thought the world was cruel. It’s just fact. All he has to do is take one look at the small timer on the inside of his wrist to remind himself of that fact. A timer that counts down. It does not stop counting down. It taunts him. It taunts everyone who has it.
He’s done the math. He’s figured it out. He figured it out long ago.
His soulmate dies on the 18th of July, 2021.
He doesn’t mark the date down. He doesn’t dare to, in case it makes it real. It stays real in his mind though and it does not leave. He cannot forget.
As he stands in the Ferrari garage, waiting for the all-clear to get in his car, he cannot tear his eyes away from the timer. It is ticking down, as always. Sometime today, however, it will reach exactly one year until his soulmate’s death. He can only lift his gaze when Sebastian clears his throat in front of him.
Charles doesn’t want to be jealous but it is a common feeling that he has long since been used to whenever he’s reminded of the fact that other soulmates get more time with each other. Sebastian gets 78 years. He, however, gets 22 years. It isn’t common to find your soulmate in such a short span of time, which makes it that much crueller.
“What?” he asks rather rudely, which earns him a knowing look from his teammate. Charles has enough decency to feel guilty. “Sorry,” he murmurs, tugging the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the timer that will only continue to distract him.
“It won’t do you any good if you keep looking at it, you know?” Seb chides. Charles can’t bring himself to meet his gaze because he knows he’s right. He still mourns though. He will always mourn. He can’t imagine how bad it will be when the timer stops counting down though. It makes him sick to think about it; to think about a life without the one person who is made for him. Has he met them? He will never know. Or maybe he will but it will be too late.
This is not the kind of topic he wants to start exploring. Not right before qualifying.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he decides on saying, eliciting a sigh from Seb. It’s not disappointed, but rather…accepting, like he knew that that was what he would say. It makes Charles a bit frustrated, really. How does this man know him so well? Why can he never have at least one secret to himself? Why does Seb always figure him out?
“You don’t think that maybe this is out of your hand? You could be…oh, I don’t know, thinking about something that you can control?” Seb says it rather pointedly, like Charles is supposed to know something that he does, though he’s not sure what.
“I am not allowed to be sad?” he shoots back defensively, furrowing his eyebrows at the thought of just…not caring. Seb sighs again, though it’s more tired now.
“Charlie, Max has been staring at you for at least ten minutes now.”
Charles hates the way that he perks up at the mention of the Red Bull driver. Seb watches him with an exasperated fondness. “You see?” he adds. “Look at you, Charlie. You’ve been obsessed with him for the better part of eight years. You could be happy but here you are, silently mourning a soulmate that has no identity.”
Charles meets Max’s gaze and waves, taking great pleasure in the way the man’s face lights up before he waves back. Seb sighs again.
“You are having trouble breathing?” Charles asks pointedly, staring blankly at his teammate as he stares back, completely unamused. “I do not see what the problem is,” he adds eventually, caving. “I will not take any chances with this being happy business. When the…when the time comes, then maybe I will consider it. But right now, when they are still alive, I will wait.”
“That is what people say when they are scared,” Seb deadpans. “You aren’t going to take any chances? You could have just been waving to your soulmate but you’re just going to wait for him to die? That’s it?”
Charles’ fear at the thought thrashes wildly in his chest, though it’s easy to disguise it as anger. He glares at Seb, who doesn’t seem surprised to get such a response. More anger. “Max is not my soulmate,” he snaps.
His teammate raises a brow. “You sound so sure,” he points out, to which Charles scoffs.
“Because he’s not going to die. Max will not die next year.”
“Oh, are you some sort of prophet now? You can see the future?”
“Why do you want Max to be dead, Seb? You are that desperate for a win?” Charles demands. “I am done talking about this. I don’t fucking care what you think about my decisions; I am doing what is right for me. Now go fuck off somewhere else. Anywhere but here.”
Seb relents, giving him one last look before he turns and walks to his side of the garage. Charles finally feels like he can breathe again and takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. There is a chair up against the garage wall, so he collapses down on it and buries his face in his hands. Through the gaps of his fingers, he notices a shadow over his lap.
“Fuck off, Seb,” he grumbles, though in reply he does not hear Seb. He hears Max laugh .
“Not a good talk then? It didn’t look like it,” the Dutchman says and Charles pulls his hands away from his face so that he can get a good look of his.
He is beautiful, as always.
“No, it was awful,” he confirms. “Though, I was a bit of a dick. It’s not Seb’s fault. He only wants what’s best for me. I do not make it easy.”
Max grins at that. “You don’t make anything easy. That includes your racing.”
It’s a sweet compliment. One that gets Charles to smile shyly. “Only you can turn what is arguably an insult into something sweet.”
“Oh, only for you,” Max brushes off, ignoring the way that Charles’ cheeks begin to sport Ferrari colours. Charles is glad that he does because he isn’t sure what he’d do if he had to explain to Max just why he started blushing from a comment so blatantly platonic. If Seb were here, he would say that it wasn’t, but Charles likes to think that Seb doesn’t know everything. It helps him to feel like he has some semblance of control. He doesn’t, but that’s against the point.
“Did you want to talk about it?” Max offers, giving him a soft smile. Charles can hardly say no, so he doesn’t. He’d like to talk to someone about his soulmate that isn’t Seb for once in his life.
“You have a timer on your wrist?” he asks, watching as Max nods and shows him the little timer. Charles didn’t ask with the goal of seeing it but he’s flattered anyway that Max trusts him enough to show him such a personal thing.
Luckily for the Red Bull driver, his timer tells him that his soulmate will live a long life. They will pass when he is likely in his early 80s. Charles smiles bitterly and shows his childhood rival turned friend his timer. He sees a flicker of understanding appear on his face.
“I see,” he hums. “Exactly one year?”
Charles nods, actually relieved to be on receiving end of absolutely no pity. There is, however, empathy.
“It must be awful.”
Charles nods again. “I just…Seb wants me to consider pursuing someone I, well, like . Is it wrong for me to want to wait though? It would be cruel of me to pursue someone who could not be my soulmate while they have a year.”
Max smiles fondly. “You are too loyal, you know? First Ferrari and now this soulmate,” he says with such warmth that Charles can’t help but feel shy in response. Praise is…hard to get when you’re a Ferrari driver.
“Two things,” he points out, trying to downplay the compliment. Max is persistent, however, and blunt. Unbelievably blunt.
“You sacrifice your own happiness for these two things just so they are happy and you don’t ask for anything in return.”
“I ask for a good car,” Charles protests but Max just grins.
“They need a good car to win though, no? To make them happy?”
Charles slumps, his head tilting up as he rests it against the wall. “It’s okay,” he says after a brief silence. “It’s like this.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” The words are spoken so softly that he actually feels as if he’s been caressed. His heart skips a beat.
“I know,” he whispers, running a hand down his face before signing tiredly. “This team though…it has been all I’ve known, you see?”
“I do. I know,” Max murmurs, flinching at the sound of one of Charles’ mechanics calling him over. With a weak smile, Charles stands and pats the Dutchman on the shoulder.
“Thanks for this, mate,” he says, trying not to cringe back at the sound of him using such a… god-awful term to refer to someone who is definitely more than just a ‘mate’ to him. “Good luck.”
“No worries, Charles. Good luck to you, too.” They both know that the luck will be misplaced with how shit Ferrari is doing this year, though Charles doesn’t say anything. Maybe if Max believes in him, the world will, too.
Deep down though, he knows that the world, with how cruel it is, will show him no mercy.
He finishes that year eighth in the Driver’s Championship with 98 points, no wins, and a measly two podiums. To make things worse, he loses Seb to the fucking Aston Martins.
2021, he knows, will be the worst year of his life. No amount of preparation makes him feel like he will make it out in one piece.
He will be destroyed.
.~*~*~*~*~*~.
On July 18, 2021, Charles finds himself pacing in his room with far too little time until the Silverstone race. His chest feels tight, and his breathing is strained, and no amount of walking and deep breaths can fix it.
“Come on, mi amigo !” Carlos, his new teammate for that year, calls from outside his room. They’ve managed to get close throughout the months that they’ve been racing together, though Charles knows that it will never compare to the camaraderie he had with Seb. He wonders if his ex-teammate even remembers what is happening today. What about Max?
“Coming, Carlos,” he forces out, wincing at the slight crack in his voice at the end.
“Are you alright?”
No. No, I’m not alright. I am far from alright. I feel like I am seconds away from collapsing, in fact.
“Yes,” Charles says hurriedly. “Yes, it’s fine.” Knowing that he’s not going to improve, he opens the door and greets his teammate with a weak smile. Carlos raises an eyebrow, making it clear that he doesn’t believe him, though he doesn’t say anything. Charles isn’t sure whether he’s thankful or not for his silence. Seb would’ve pushed for the truth even if it caused him to snap in reply. Seb would’ve taken it with a grain of salt. He would’ve given him a hug and told him that everything was alright. He would’ve been stern though, too—telling him that he can’t let this ruin him. That he will be happy eventually.
Charles misses Seb. However, his pride keeps him from seeking him out in the ugly green garage with Stroll .
He feels a little bit like he might throw up but simply prays that it doesn’t show on his pale, clammy face. He ignores the concerned looks from his team that are waiting dutifully around his car, ready to rip the tyre warmers off, as he climbs into the bright red vehicle and lets them buckle him in. With his head being confined in his helmet, it’s all the more obvious just how erratic his breathing is. Reaching for the steering wheel, his hands shake wildly and his vision begins to cloud. Tears? Surely not.
“Radio check, Charles,” Xavi says over the comms and Charles forgets where the comms button is. His blurry eyes dart all over his wheel as his chest heaves, trying with all its might to get enough oxygen for him to calm down. He can’t. Why can’t he calm down?
“Charles?” Xavi questions after it’s been too long without a response. Charles finally finds the comms button but his hand fumbles around in his attempt to press down.
“Y-Yeah,” is all he can say without making it blatantly obvious how fucking distraught he is. They're going to start the formation lap soon. He needs to be ready. Where is the gas pedal?
“ Jésus, merde, ” he chokes out, slapping the wheel to try and get himself together. All it really does is make his palms tingle from the harsh impact.
“Charles, are you alright?” Xavi asks, having the decency to sound concerned, though it’s the last thing Charles needs right now. Any more talking and he's bound to feel worse. It's like being asked if you're alright while on the verge of tears.
“I’m fine,” he gasps through the comms, suddenly feeling like the world is spinning around him. His soulmate is going to die while he is racing. This doesn’t feel right. Why is he here when he could be with them? He can’t be with them however because he doesn’t know who the fuck they are! How the fuck is he expected to get through this race without losing his fucking mind?
“Charlie!” the voice of Seb calls from his left and suddenly hands wrapped snuggly in green gloves are waving themselves in front of him. Charles angles his head to the left slightly, catching a blurry glimpse of Seb next to his car with his visor up, looking at him with distraught eyes. “Charlie, you need to take deep breaths, alright?”
“I-I can’t,” Charles stutters, suddenly feeling like the belts are too tight around his already struggling chest and the helmet is making his head too heavy. His hands grasp desperately at his seatbelts, though he’s unsure where the buckles are in this state and all his hands do is grasp at his chest wildly. Seb reaches for his helmet while he orders some of Charles’ mechanics to block him from the view of any cameras.
It’s a massive relief when the helmet is finally removed from his head and he can see that little bit clearer. “Seb, I can’t breathe,” he says, looking at his friend with wide eyes. He feels like this might be it. He’s going to die in his car before even staring the formation lap. What a pathetic way to go out.
“Yes, you can, Charles. You’re okay. It’s just a panic attack. You’re okay. It’ll pass,” Seb reassures him with as much empathy as he can muster in the middle of his own distressed state.
“They are going to die while I’m racing, Seb,” Charles chokes out. “What the fuck am I going to do? Will it…will it feel like anything? I-I don’t know what to do.”
“The race is going to start soon. You can either step out or you can win this for them, Charlie. You need to keep breathing though, alright? Deep breaths. As deep as you can muster.”
Charles likes the sound of stepping out and hiding in his driver room so he can curl himself into a ball and watch the timer reach zero, but he likes the sound of winning this for his soulmate more—a soulmate who might be watching him right now. So, he nods and starts focusing on his breathing. He forces himself to zero in on that vital part of keeping himself alive.
“I need to go now, Charlie. It’s okay, alright? I promise you. You can do this,” Seb comforts him, swiftly helping the Ferrari driver put his helmet back on before he gives it a reassuring pat and jogs back to his car. Charles’ breathing begins to slow down the longer he sits there just staring at his wheel. Seb is right. He can do this. He will win for his soulmate.
“Charles, are you alright?” Xavi asks once again and, this time, Charles knows where the comms button is.
“Yes, yes, it’s fine now. I’m fine now. I can race. Sorry,” he confirms quickly before giving a thumbs up to his team. They smile at him, though they look just as frazzled as Charles felt mere moments ago.
He stares right ahead of him, where Hamilton is, and focuses his mind. He may not win this but he’s sure as Hell going to try. Having not achieved a podium this year yet, achieving his first one today is something that he will be proud of anyway.
So, he takes a breath and peeks under his glove for one last look at the timer while it’s ticking down.
Six minutes. Six minutes until the person who was made for him is no longer with him. He’s not even sure he will finish the first lap before it reaches zero.
A bad feeling overcomes him, causing his heart to plummet. This doesn’t feel right. Why doesn’t this feel right?
“Seb told you not to worry,” he whispers to himself, though it doesn’t help. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to lose control over his breathing, however. He does take a few more deep breaths just in case while he’s given the go-ahead to turn on the engine. It takes another minute before his team takes the tyre warmers off his car and walks off to the side of the track with all the equipment.
Five minutes.
Four minutes when they finally begin the formation lap. He tries to push back his nausea, though the bad feeling in his gut doesn’t go away—it continues to get stronger.
He checks his wrist one final time just before the lights and feels his heart start to race at the sight of just over a minute . Fuck not being scared—he is petrified . It’s an all-encompassing feeling that constricts his chest, though he’s too far in. It’s too late to back out. He can’t drive but he’s going to have to.
Fuck.
This can’t be happening. This can’t happen. Why must this happen? Must the world be so cruel? What has he done to deserve this fate? What must he do to repent?
Charles tries to pull together the remaining dregs of his sanity as the lights begin to count down the time until the start of the race. The world is cruel. Why is it cruel? He can’t accept this…this punishment .
The world doesn’t listen. It brushes him off without so much of a glance. When the lights are out, he pushes his way to third but it is a blur. Ahead of him, Max and Lewis are fighting brutally. In the second corner, Max gets a snap of oversteer that causes his car to jerk towards Lewis, who is giving him such little room that Charles is sure he has a mini heart attack. They nearly collide in front of him and he lets out a quiet gasp.
They continue to fight and Charles’ bad feeling just worsens. He is stiff from fear and heaving in his seat. This is not right. Something is wrong in front of him. This is wrong .
“Look at you, Charlie. You’ve been obsessed with him for the better part of eight years. You could be happy but here you are, silently mourning a soulmate that has no identity.”
“I will not take any chances with this being happy business. When the…when the time comes, then maybe I will consider it. But right now, when they are still alive, I will wait.”
“That is what people say when they are scared. You aren’t going to take any chances? You could have just been waving to your soulmate but you’re just going to wait for him to die? That’s it?”
“Max is not my soulmate.”
“You sound so sure.”
“Because he’s not going to die. Max will not die next year.”
“Oh, are you some sort of prophet now? You can see the future?”
Max can’t die, can he? Charles has been so in love with Max for half a decade that the thought causes a choked breath to escape him, like the mere thinking of this is like a punch to the gut. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so scared? So fucking loyal? Fuck his loyalty.
He doesn’t care if Max isn’t his soulmate. All he knows is that he’s so in love that he’d give up his entire racing career for the man fighting for first place right in front of him as if his life depended on it. It might just fucking end his life!
He has been so loyal. He has been so cruel to himself. Seb is right; he was scared. He was so scared that he didn’t dare to take a chance. Why should he put his soulmate before someone who he has loved for years? That doesn’t make sense!
He could’ve been fucking happy years ago. Max could’ve been making him happy. Instead, Charles let his fear and his god-forsaken loyalty stop him. He is never being selfless again. He will never ask for anything—he will take. He will take and take because he deserves it.
“Oh, my God,” he gasps, the words coming out raspy from emotion. He’s just about to drive through Copse Corner when Max and Lewis collide and Max goes careening through the gravel and into the wall with such speed that half his car is in the barriers.
Charles is swerving off the track before he knows what he’s doing. Xavi is in his ear, no doubt asking him what’s wrong and on the verge of scolding him like a child, but Charles just stops his car. He rips his helmet off along with his balaclava, which is then followed by aggressively undoing his buckles.
Fuck his race. He was never going to win anyway. He was going to pass out on track with the condition he is in. He’s saved his fucking life if anything.
He leaps out of his car and sprints to the steaming hunk of the metal that has trapped Max. “Max!” he yells, ripping off his gloves and throwing them to the ground—the sweating is going to kill him. When he reaches the car, the sight is far from good. Max’s head is slumped awkwardly on his shoulder and his hands have fallen limp on his lap. He extends his arm to him under the halo and barely manages to grip his shoulder, shaking it desperately.
“Max, can you hear me?!” Charles calls, receiving no response to indicate he’s alive. He tries to undo his helmet but the car is so far into the barrier that the angle is awkward at best. Without much of a choice, he climbs onto the sidepod and undos Max’s helmet from over the halo. It works and he tosses the object to the side.
Staining Max’s balaclava is a red liquid that is pooling in his gaping mouth. His eyes have fallen shut and there’s no reaction to the removal of his helmet. Charles, at that point, is barely aware of the fact that he is crying. He’s sure time has stopped as he presses his fingers to the Dutchman’s carotid artery. In full view is his timer, which is ticking down from three seconds. He waits with bated breath, feeling a weak and unsteady pulse under his fingers until he doesn’t.
The timer reaches zero just as Max’s heart gives up.
“No,” Charles whispers, eyes widening in pure terror. “Max, no. No. ”
The world is a cruel place. He is reminded of that fact in that very moment; the moment he loses Max’s pulse. The moment it stops.
It’s never going to start again.
Max is…
Help comes too late. Charles makes himself as useful as possible in his catatonic state. Much of it feels like a blur, really, as he helps the marshals lift Max’s limp body out of the car and onto the ground. Paramedics arrive moments later and desperately try to bring him back. They suction the blood out of his mouth and force a tube down his throat, closing a mask over his mouth to breathe for him. They pierce his skin with all sorts of needles and feed all sorts of liquids into his bloodstream and Charles just stands there. He can’t do anything else but just stand there and watch.
He watches them finally begin CPR as they attach the ECG and wonders if it’s just too late.
A stronger man would have faith. A stronger man would be calm. A stronger man wouldn’t beg but he has never claimed to be strong. So, he looks up to the sky with eyes glistening with tears, both shed and unshed.
Je ferai n'importe quoi. S’il vous plait. Il est jeune. Trop jeune. S’il vous plait. Je l'aime. Ne laisse pas ça être ça.
The world is a cruel, cruel place sometimes. It’s greedy and apathetic. It’s harsh and unforgiving. It’s stubborn and selfish. It kicks you while you’re down and revels at the sight of your pain. It never makes anything easy.
However, Charles finds that it can also be merciful.
“We have sinus rhythm!”
The words send a shock through his body, suddenly bringing him back to the present. Everything becomes clear once more and he lurches forward. “He’s alive?” he asks a paramedic and receives a nod in reply. He doesn’t have the time to be relieved just yet.
“Where are you taking him?” he adds, receiving the answer of “Coventry Hospital”. He stays until Max is safely inside the ambulance and he sees it drive off to meet with the helicopter that will take him to the hospital before he’s left alone in the gravel beside the very thing that had nearly taken Max’s life.
Charles’ gaze is downcast as he stays there a moment longer, cupping a hand over his mouth as he tries to work through everything that has just happened. With wide eyes, he turns his arm over to reveal the timer that was at zero not that long ago.
It’s ticking down. It’s…it’s fucking ticking down.
Sixty-four years. Sixty-four beautiful years. Charles can’t suppress the sob of relief that escapes him at the sight—at the realisation that Max will be alright. He’s okay.
Heavy with exhaustion, he trudges his way back to his car after taking Max’s helmet. He takes his time putting his helmet back on and buckling himself in before he takes another moment for himself.
He wants to tell Xavi about everything to provide the drivers with some piece of mind but he knows that people are listening. People are always listening and they will exploit every drop of information he shares.
“He is alive,” he eventually breathes out into the comms, hardly believing the words coming out of his mouth. “It is bad but he is alive.” It’s another massive relief all over again, being able to say those words out loud.
He drives his car back to the pitlane to find out that the race has been called off. He climbs out of his car and takes Max’s helmet, holding it close to his chest while he tries to pry his own helmet off with one arm. It takes a little longer, but it comes off, and he throws it into his car with his balaclava. The cameras that are likely still around can see the redness of his eyes and the tear streaks, so he tries to keep his head down.
It doesn’t take long before Charles collides with someone sporting Aston Martin colours and lets out a long sigh, falling limp in their arms. “He died,” he whispers. “I felt him die but he’s alive.”
“It’s okay, Charlie. It’s okay,” Seb reassures him softly. “Do you know what hospital he is going to?”
“Coventry.”
“Alright. We need to deal with a few more things here but I’ll take you to the hospital after, got it?”
Charles nods and time becomes a blur until he’s standing outside of the hospital. He doesn’t want to think about what people will say regarding his relationship with Max, but this certainly won’t help. He wants to be selfish though. He promised to be selfish. So, he follows Seb inside, letting him do all the talking until they’re finally taken to a meeting room that has, no doubt, been prepped for drivers, family and team staff that will come to visit.
He thinks about Max’s family and his heart aches for them. He can’t imagine what it would’ve felt like to be watching what happened through a television screen. It’s sickening. If he had their numbers, he would’ve called them long ago with information. He only hopes that Christian will provide it for them.
It’s what he hates about this whole situation—just how useless he is.
“Charles,” Seb says softly, coaxing Charles to meet his eyes. The Aston Martin driver gives him a gentle, reassuring smile that reminds him that everything is alright. Or that it will be, at least.
Somehow, he finds himself smiling back.
.~*~*~*~*~*~.
Over the next three days that Max is unconscious, drivers come and go to give their best wishes. His family has also made it after taking the first flight to Silverstone, though they are staying at a hotel nearby. Charles doesn’t leave. He’s too afraid to do so even though the proof that Max will be alright is visible on his wrist.
When the nurses first came in with information about his state, they were quick to reassure Seb and Charles that there would be no lasting injuries—that he would be able to race again. Charles feels immense relief for him. Now he sits by his bedside, dutifully watching over him and, admittedly, checking his pulse every few minutes just to be sure he’s okay.
It still feels too good to be true. Every time he reaches for Max he expects his hand to just phase through as if he’s a ghost. It doesn’t, however, and everything is fine. Everything is…perfectly okay.
What did Charles do to deserve this?
Whatever it is, he’s glad he did it. Or maybe the world just felt like being merciful for once. Either way, he’s never complaining about anything ever again.
“Charles?” Max croaks from his bed, causing Charles’ gaze to dart to his face. “What are you doing here?”
Charles almost becomes offended at such a question. “I–I– excusez-moi? Max, you did not just ask me that question.”
“No, I’m…pretty sure I heard it come out of my mouth.”
He cannot believe this man. This idiotic man that is his soulmate. “No question about the crash? About if you are okay? You’re more concerned about why I am here by your bedside?”
Max pauses to think over the question before he admits sheepishly, “Yeah, that seems right. I’m awake, am I not? I must be okay.”
“You were not okay,” Charles states. “Half buried in the barriers. I had to climb onto your car to reach you.”
Max’s eyes widen. “Charles, you did not sacrifice your race and climb onto my damaged car.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I think I’ll be fine for a good…sixty-ish more years anyway,” he brushes off, noticing how the Dutchman furrows his eyebrows.
“You don’t know that!” he protests.
“Max,” Charles says simply, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt that he’s practically lived in for the past three days. God bless Seb for stopping by his hotel to get him a change of clothes. If he sat in his fireproofs any longer, he might’ve lost his mind.
He lets Max have a look at the numbers on his wrist and can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Wasn’t this…didn’t you…?”
“My soulmate died three days ago,” Charles murmurs, not moving his eyes away from Max’s. “I felt him die and I saw the time stop but fate was kind to me. To you . You lived.”
“Charlie…you’re serious? You’re being serious right now?”
“Max, do you really think I would lie about this—” Charles replies, giving his soulmate an exasperated look.
“I don’t. I don’t. I just…Charlie, I’ve been in love with you for at least five years now,” Max states breathlessly, looking at him as if he’d hung the moon and the stars.
“As have I,” he shares, hardly believing that this is real. Maybe he’ll just wake up tomorrow and find out these past three days were a dream. He hopes that his fears don’t become a reality.
“Been in love with you?”
Nevermind. Never- fucking -mind. He might just knock himself out if this idiot opens his mouth again. “You are such a dickhead, do you know that? I cannot believe —” Charles tries to scold him but all Max does is laugh. He would’ve been far more annoyed if it weren’t so relieving to hear.
“ O, mijn God , Charlie, come here,” Max chuckles, cupping the back of Charles’ head and pulling him down delicately so that he can press their lips together. Charles doesn’t protest at all, instead losing himself in the kiss so much that the world seems to fizzle away until it’s just them in this moment. Time stops for a totally different reason and the pure warmth that surges through him is a stark contrast to the cold air of the hospital room.
When they pull away, Max is grinning at him proudly while his eyes portray a kind of softness that Charles has only seen when their eyes meet. It’s nice to finally be able to put a feeling to the look. “I am still disappointed in you,” the Monégasque eventually says, earning himself another laugh from Max. He rolls his eyes fondly before he presses a soft kiss to his forehead, sitting straight in his chair once more but reaching for Max’s hand and intertwining their fingers.
“Join me?” Max asks, already making a move to make space in the bed but Charles swiftly lets go of his hand and rests it on his chest gently, stopping him.
“I need to notify your family and the nurses, Max,” he explains, smiling softly at the wide-eyed gaze of his soulmate.
“They’re here?”
“They’re staying in a hotel nearby. I promised them that I’d notify them when you’ve woken up.”
Max smiles then. “Thank you, Charles,” he says softly.
“You don’t need to thank me,” Charles replies with an exasperated shake of his head. “I’ll get the nurses and call your mother. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Thank God,” Charles mutters, trying to suppress his grin when Max barks out a laugh at his response.
In the next few weeks, if he isn’t needed on track then Charles is with Max. The Red Bull driver has to sit out of the Hungarian GP but he’s back for the Belgian GP and it’s as if he took no real hit in the standings. At the end of the Abu Dhabi GP, Max is declared the World Champion for 2021 after a tough battle with Lewis and Charles couldn’t be happier.
The world is still cruel sometimes and sometimes Charles can’t help but complain. He is grateful though. He is always grateful. It could’ve let the 18th of July ruin him. It could’ve made the paramedics just that little bit too late or the damage that much more severe, but it didn’t.
So yes, the world is cruel.
But it does care. It can care enough to change fate.