Chapter Text
“Coloboma,” the doctor says, very clearly, punctuating each syllable. “It’s a rare condition, for sure.”
Charles watches as his mother grips the straps of her handbag a little too tightly, a little too anxiously. He was just a child then, no more than six years old, but he remembers it all perfectly.
“It’s like a hole in the structure of the eye,” the doctor continues. “A gap that fails to close completely before a child is born. In Charles’s case, it’s even more interesting. You see...”
He types something on his keyboard and turns the screen toward Charles and his mother.
“Classical coloboma usually affects only one eye, taking the form of a keyhole. You can see it in these images. In Charles’s case, however, it occurs in both eyes, and the shape is a little different, as you well know.”
The image on the screen shifts to a close-up of Charles’s eyes, deep green, crossed by thin, vertical dark pupils.
“I’m like a cat!” little Charles says excitedly, pointing at the screen.
“Indeed,” the doctor replies, smiling at him fondly.
“No need to worry, though,” he adds, and Charles’s mother finally exhales, relieved, the weight of every cent she’d saved for the consultation easing from her chest. “I’d like to run a few more tests, but as far as I can tell, it barely affects his iris. That means it shouldn’t affect Charles’s vision. Nor his day-to-day life.”
Except it does.
Had it been otherwise, it would have been a nice topic to bring up between sips of beer with friends at a pub on a Friday night. Or while trying to make conversation with some girl on a first date. But reality hit much harder.
Charles was born with catlike eyes and, apparently, many lives to live.
The first time it happened was the worst. He was only twelve, after all.
One moment he was in the school bathroom, hiding, the bullies just outside, waiting for him.
The next, he woke up in a fluffy bed in a bedroom decorated like outer space - not his bed, not his room - with a woman who was not his mother comforting him after what everyone insists was a very bad nightmare. He struggled, he fought. But eventually, he adjusted.
Until it happened again, only two years later, when his then-father threatened to beat the hell out of him for liking boys.
Then it happened again. And again. And again.
Eight times in total, to be exact, until now.
This was the ninth time.
The warmth and coziness are the first things Charles feels. Then comes the sensation of being trapped in his own body. He tries to move, but his limbs feel heavy, the blankets feel too good, his eyes too drowsy. Maybe he can stay there a bit longer. Just a few more minutes. Just…
He’s on the floor, blankets all around him, immersed in a faint scent of pine and a stronger one of lavender. Safe. Protected. Until he hears a cellphone, his cellphone?, buzzing somewhere, pulling him out of his slumber.
He reaches for the phone and puts it on silent. Sitting with his back against the sofa, Charles blinks a few times, trying to adjust. It’s a very spacious living room. The furniture is expensive, he can tell. There is a grand piano on the corner, facing the window. Do I know how to play? The view outside is something else entirely. That’s definitely not the Alps.
On the wall in front of him there’s a shelf, lined with large trophies, a helmet, some framed pictures. He’s debating whether to inspect them more closely or stay where he is a little longer, feeling like a warm little package, when a pungent smell invades his nostrils. He immediately feels something tickling the back of his head, like fingers running smoothly along his scalp. And then the door opens.
Carlos appears on the doorway, red clothes and big smile.
Charles shrinks automatically, feeling small inside his blankets.
“Qui t’as laissé entrer?”
Carlos raises an eyebrow, clearly confused. He’s still smiling, though.
“Good morning to you too, little cat.”
Okay. English. With a very strong accent, but definitely English. This Carlos doesn’t speak French, maybe.
“Who let you in? Charles insists, his voice sharper.
“The doorman, of course”, Carlos walks in, uninvited. He exhales and drops onto the sofa right in front of where Charles has built his fortress. “Have you had breakfast already?”
Charles ignores the question. Now that Carlos is closer, that sweet smell engulfs him completely.
“Do you always smell like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like… I don’t know. Mango. And something like strong leather. It’s kind of sweet, actually.”
And a little bit nauseating, he would like to add.
“Well, I guess… It’s just my scent, right?”
“Right”, Charles answers, tentatively.
Right? Really? He is not sure that’s the right answer, but Charles has learned from previous experiences that it’s always easier to go along with things until he can figure them out on his own.
“Just like you smell of honey”, Carlos continues “And vanilla. And freshly baked cinnamon cookies. It’s like Christmas all day long. Every day.”
Is it? Charles takes a deep breath, trying to recognize something in the air. He catches nothing.
“Are you ok, mate?”
“Bien sûr. Yeah. Of course.”
“I know you got yourself a hell of a nest right there, but we should hit the road”
Charles looks around at the messy blankets and pillows scattered everywhere. A nest. That’s what Carlos called it. And hit the road, he said. Just like that. This time he won’t have time to adjust. It is too much information, too fast.
“We can grab breakfast on our way to the airport”.
Carlos pats him on the shoulder as he says it and the tickling sensation on the back of his head comes back stronger than ever. Charles shakes his head, trying to make it stop, to no avail. It only fades when Carlos pulls his hand away.
“You’re acting weird,” Carlos says. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
No. It’s just that you treated me like shit three existences ago, I had a really long night, I woke up here God knows where, I have no idea who I am, and we can keep adding to that. That’s what Charles wants to say. But he knows better. That would be the first step toward getting locked up in some sort of clinic. Again. Just the thought sends a chill down his spine.
“It’s okay,” he says instead. “I just… had a bad night. And my head hurts. That’s all.”
“Are you packed? We are really running late.”
“I guess. Just... let me check”
“Don’t forget your suppressants”
Charles has no idea what Carlos is talking about. He can only hope that the version of himself who’d been living this life had it all figured out.
Charles takes his time on the way to the airport, checking his phone. The first thing he does is open the map. They’re in Monaco. Okay. That’s close enough to France. He isn’t that far from the places he knows. From home. What’s home, really?, he can’t help but think.
Then he searches for his own name. Charles Leclerc. F1 driver. Scuderia Ferrari. The Prince of Monaco. He sighs. Him, a prince? What would Max think of that? He pushes the thought away quickly. It doesn’t matter. Max belongs to the past. To another life. To an entirely different existence.
He moves on to Instagram. He’s tagged pretty much everywhere. He scrolls through his DMs, so many names he doesn’t recognize, so many conversations to catch up on.
Carlos draws his attention back to the present, and Charles slips his phone away. He knows the drill. These first interactions are the perfect opportunity to gather information from people who actually know him in this life. He just has to play it safe. Ask the right questions. Answer wisely.
“So”, Carlos starts, very casually, “Lando was there, right?”
“Theeeere exaaactly…” Charles drags the word out, buying himself time, waiting for Carlos to finish the thought. Lando. The name stirs something warm and sharp in his chest all at once. It brings bittersweet memories.
“At your place. C’mon, mate, I could smell him everywhere”.
“Oh.” Charles blinks. “I couldn’t imagine.” Is that a bad thing?
“No need to cover for him. I’m not mad.” Carlos really doesn’t sound like he is. “I don’t really care. It’s not like I keep him on a leash or anything.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Even though I could.” Carlos laughs loudly, then stops, abrupt enough that Charles can’t tell whether it was a joke at all. He hopes it was.
“I just wish he’d tell me these things, you know,” Carlos continues. “He should. Especially now that we’re official and all.”
Okay. So Carlos and Lando are in some kind of … protective relationship in this life? Interesting. Disturbing. But interesting.
“How official?”, Charles keeps pushing.
“As official as it gets, mate. I mean, my mark isn’t going anywhere, right?”
Charles nods, as if he understands it all. Carlos doesn’t seem inclined to stop talking.
“But you know, once a brat always a brat. I don’t really expect him to change. A really bit of compliance wouldn’t hurt though.” He grins. “I’ll work on that. And you, uh?”, it’s like Carlos suddenly remembers Charles is still there. “How was your summer break?”
“Hmmm.” Charles tilts his head, trying to think of a good response that wouldn’t compromise him too much. “Uneventful, I guess.”
Carlos snorts. “Yeah, right. I saw the pictures. Uneventful my ass. A lot of very interesting non-events on that yacht of yours.”
Wow. I have a yacht? That’s new.
“What happens on the yacht stays on the yacht,” Charles says solemnly after a while.
They laugh. Charles hopes Carlos is satisfied. He isn’t.
“And… hm… Pierre?” he lowers his voice, as if it was sensitive information.
Pierre. The name doesn’t ring any bells. Something else to research later.
“I smelled him too,” Carlos adds. “This morning. Fading.”
“Oh…” How is it possible for him to have such a good nose? “It’s… private.”
The safest answer. It’s usually enough to keep people out of his business, especially when he doesn’t even know what his business is.
“I see.” Carlos shrugs. “I won’t ask about it again, promise.”
Charles smiles, wide and easy. Carlos smiles back and launches into the day’s schedule, joking the whole way. Free practice. Meetings. Media. Reality sinks in slowly. They are Formula 1 drivers. In his previous life Charles didn’t even have a license, and now he’s meant to drive the fastest car in the world. To compete. To win. His breath tightens.
Don’t panic. When the time comes, he will know what to do. He always does.