Work Text:
“I think they’re trying to change me.”
Charles sits down, rubs against the sore spot just above his neck. It never used to hurt quite this bad after a treatment. Lately a lot of things seemed to hurt more, though.
He hopes it’s not on purpose.
“I told you this would happen.” Sebastian doesn’t sound unkind. Charles almost wishes he did, wishes he would stop pacing the room and sit down next to him, anything to distract Charles’s thoughts from the dull ache.
“Do you have any painkillers?” He has some himself, given to him after he was recalibrated, but he hasn’t taken those in weeks. Doesn’t trust them, anymore, and why would he?
Sebastian throws him a box of ibuprofen, finally sits down next to him. Charles chokes the pills down dry and leans into Sebastian, who immediately wraps an arm around him.
“Did you make that back-up like I told you?” Sebastian asks carefully, gently stroking the soft skin on Charles’s upper arm.
“I did, after I remembered how the USB works.” Charles gently nudges his shoulder against Sebastian’s. “This is too old-fashioned for me. No one did it when I grew up.”
“That is why it works.”
Charles couldn’t argue with that.
*
Charles thinks it will always be a bit disconcerting, seeing split skin without any blood. And it’s not like it’s new, he mainly remembers seeing the red spill out in old movies and footage, the bright colour always a shock, but it still feels… off.
The mechanics – that’s how Charles thinks of them anyway, they tinker and make sure the drivers work as they’re supposed to – are working on Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian’s watching their every move.
Charles nods in greeting and takes his seat, waits to be plugged in. He wonders what his treatment will be this time. He didn’t notice anything wrong, but that never meant anything. He’s not supposed to, the implant’s fail-safe systems deliberately turned off for the drivers.
“They think this will fix it,” Sebastian says suddenly, startling Charles. “It won’t. But this isn’t making it worse, at least.”
“What are you being treated for?” Charles asks.
“I told them the steering wasn’t right. It’s cheaper to try and fix me than to fix the steering. Should have known.” Sebastian shrugs, the mechanic extending a claw to pin his shoulder down. “Sometimes I wonder what Aston Martin wanted me for, if they do not listen.”
“Maybe their ears need to be fixed,” Charles says. Sebastian chuckles.
“They do. But they will fix our voices first and then complain we are too loud.”
The ensuing silence is only broken by the mechanic whirring as it’s closing the skin up again.
“I wish… Maybe this was better before. I think…” Charles stutters.
Sebastian, finally free to move again, leans over to cover Charles’s hands with his own.
“At least we get to keep ourselves now,” Sebastian says. “I’m glad I got to keep you.”
He’s ushered out before Charles can reply, can even take in what he’s said. The world goes dark as the mechanic starts working on his implant.
*
It’s just a tiny thing, really.
But Charles makes damn sure he keeps this particular memory anyway.
They’d decided on it not too long after their final race together, not wanting to let the other go yet, not knowing if they could still be together when the next season started. Charles had brought it up, wanting the reminder, something no one could take away.
Sebastian knew just the place, a tattoo parlour who would do what they wanted, who’d done the same for others. Charles had never considered it, body modification not really his thing (the irony), but Sebastian was persuasive enough to coax him into it, gentle enough to make him want to himself.
When the artist showed them the designs – magnified so they could check the details – Charles was sold.
“No one will know but us, right?” Charles asked.
“I have not heard of that happening yet,” the artist reassured him.
“They would have to replace half the grid at this point,” Sebastian joked, and that worked wonders, Charles extending his hand and letting the artist find the best way to place the stencil, securely in between his fingers where no one ever needed to adjust him.
By the time the artist is done, the skin is red and irritated, some raised lines the only indication there’s something different.
Charles hisses when he runs his thumb over it, but can make out the message clear enough.
Don’t waste it.
He won’t.
*
The first time they try to alter his memories, Charles is beyond himself. He’d thought he was safe, after all these years.
They went in with surgical precision too, leaving his personal life alone, only focusing on the parts of his career that he’s been told are holding him back. To no one’s surprise, Sebastian’s been cut entirely.
He doesn’t realize until he sees Sebastian in the paddock, unfamiliar in the green racesuit at first but when he smiles, the other memories come rushing back.
“How is this even allowed,” he bristles as Sebastian pulls him to a quieter place.
“This is why I tell you to back them up,” Sebastian says soothingly. “We can put them back, too. If you are lucky they will not go back in again, if it’s not worth the risk.”
“What if they do?” Charles had hated that moment of disorientation, of thinking he knew that man but finding glaring holes where there should be memories. The all-encompassing sense of nothing was still rippling out in the corners of his brain.
“We fix it again.” Sebastian shrugs. “This has happened before and we find ways around it. It is how we drive cars and it is how we keep ourselves.”
Charles wishes Sebastian didn’t sound so resigned, not when he knows how a feisty Sebastian sounds, when he’s digging his heels in, fighting for what he thinks is right. It almost makes him doubt whether this really is such a perverted use of the technology, but no. He knows. Sebastian knows. It’s just how it is.
“Did they mess with your thoughts, too?” he can’t help but ask.
“I will check in the hotel.” Sebastian’s eyes dart away, head swiveling like he heard something.
“We can go without getting caught, now,” he says, brushing his lips across Charles’s cheek. “See you tonight?”
“If I remember,” Charles tries to joke, curling his fingers around Sebastian’s wrist for a last touch.
Sebastian smiles and waves, walking away briskly. Charles can see him rub his thumb in between his fingers. When he copies Sebastian, he can feel the ridges of the tattoo.
*
He remembers the feeling of awe when first meeting Sebastian in red.
Not just Sebastian in red. He, himself, had donned the red, the colour brighter than he could have ever imagined, and Sebastian looked like he had been born for it. Charles could only hope he brought the same honour to the rossa corsa.
“Oh, did they already get to you?” Sebastian smiled at him, a reassuring smile, and Charles couldn’t believe just how nice he was.
It seemed like a good enough start to their career together, Charles slightly awkward but Sebastian still welcoming, if a little distant at times.
The awkwardness surprisingly faded as the awe did too.
Or, well. It didn’t fade. He still felt it, nestled tightly into his chest, pressing against his rib cage when he got to know Sebastian better, learned what made him tick and how they had made him tick. It just adjusted to fit the odd relationship they were building.
“I don’t understand,” Charles said one night, when he and Sebastian had decided to go grab some dinner together after a long debrief. “I thought they would need to calibrate me more. I have heard...”
Sebastian takes a sip of his alcohol-free beer, licks the foam off his lips, making Charles’s thoughts trail off.
“There has not been a reason yet. They think the first one is still sticking.”
And of course, that was what had changed. His feelings about Sebastian had changed, worked its way from the implant to his brain.
“What if it does not stick?” He knows how this works. What he doesn’t know is how the prancing horse changes things, how they will push the envelope with him.
“Don’t let them know that and you might get out of here in one piece.” Sebastian looks at him, really studies him, and Charles isn’t going to back off, stares back defiantly at Sebastian until he sees Sebastian’s eyes crinkle in an unseen smile.
“You’ll get the hang of this. I promise.”
*
Every driver has a little notebook, given to parents or spouses for safekeeping.
It’s even more old-fashioned, and that is why it works in this new world, where precious little was still tangible and carefully written down.
That notebook contains them.
Their hopes, their dreams, their journey. Who made them the person they are. Their likes and dislikes. Some drivers add their measurements, just to be safe.
An entire personality, captured in ink on paper, spilling out across the pages.
Just in case they don’t come back from the dream.
*
“I should never have told them my feet were too big,” George complains, clutching at the wall to try and regain his balance. “Tripping over nothing but air is… well. A trip.”
“As long as they did not change your…” Alex squeaks as George pinches his arm. “What! You know what they say about guys with large feet!”
“Why would they change that too!”
“Did it hurt?” Charles asks, preoccupied with other thoughts. George pulls a face.
“Not as much as the shoes I wore for that first race. That was, yeah, that was a lot. I’m grateful they changed it, really.”
“But they could have just given you new shoes,” Charles insists. “Or changed the car when they knew you were coming in.”
“They have done so much for me already,” George shrugs. He’s trying for casual, but Charles can see the slight delay that betrays it’s only a facade. “I’m just doing what I have to, for the team. As long as it gives me the title in the end.”
“But the team…”
“Charles…” Alex shakes his head. “You don’t know how lucky you have it. You know what usually happens when we ask for things that could be solved this easy. Remember what happened to Pierre?”
Charles shudders. He’d prefer not to remember. It took them too long to get Pierre back to himself.
“Let’s go get lunch,” George says. He pushes himself away from the wall, stumbles over his new smaller feet again in his attempt to regain his balance. Charles and Alex don’t hesitate, just grab one arm each and help George get to the catering.
*
The first real taste Charles got of how far Ferrari is actually willing to go still stings, a bitter bite among the sweet tastes of victory from his first year in red.
He’d exchanged a few curt words with Sebastian after they’d crashed into each other in Brazil, when they’d ran into each other at the garage. Nothing accusatory, nothing even that bad, but Charles didn’t feel like making up at that very moment. He’d text Sebastian later that night to suggest getting a drink sometime the next week, when they had a bit of time and had cooled off a little.
And that should have been the end of it. Like it had been after previous clashes.
Instead, Sebastian was ushered in during Charles’s part of the post-race debriefs, stood in front of the whole group of engineers, mechanics, and Charles himself, and started apologizing.
“I am so sorry and saddened about what happened,” Sebastian said. “It was my fault, I should have listened and not attempted the overtake. I cannot express how angry I am at myself for costing you all of this work and I promise you it will not happen again. I can only hope this apology is enough to make you forgive me, but I will of course work harder than ever to finish this season on a high in Abu Dhabi next week.”
It’s… weird. That wasn’t how Sebastian usually spoke, either. Charles felt a familiar knot in his stomach, tried to look into Sebastian’s eyes but he was too far away, Sebastian not meeting his gaze only making him worry more.
That should have been it, too, but Sebastian cornered him again after the meeting was over, had obviously been waiting around.
“I wanted to apologize to you personally, Charles,” Sebastian started, in that same flat tone he’d used before.
“Why are you doing this?” Charles asked. “These things happen. We can grab a drink next week and talk it out and we will be cool.”
“No, I should leave you alone for now,” Sebastian insisted.
Charles reached out, tried to squeeze Sebastian’s upper arm like they’d gotten in the habit of doing, but Sebastian pulled away.
“I should have let you shine. I’m sorry.”
Charles couldn’t get himself to stop Sebastian from walking away then, tried to push whatever that was out of his mind. He’d gotten good at that. Better to do it himself than to let it be done to him.
That night, he received a message. From Sebastian.
Charles debated whether to open it, but he never really had a choice.
I’m sorry about all of that. Fixed myself now. Are we still on for that drink? I could use one.
Charles sent back his hotel room number and waited until the Sebastian he remembered showed up.
*
They figure out at one point that helping each other get themselves in order again makes the process go faster.
Sebastian tries to figure out why, usually, when they get started.
“It’s more… I have never felt this before,” he explains, fascinated by the upload speed changing when he stops touching Charles. “There must be something. Maybe it is…”
Charles pulls him in for a kiss, then, hears the old-fashioned USB devices beep quickly enough. He can sort through the changes later, Sebastian finally relaxing in his arms after removing the device from its spot just below Charles’s skull.
“I think I have heard of it before, but…” Sebastian continues when Charles kisses down his jawline. Charles sighs and sits back up, cups his hands around Sebastian’s face so he can really look at him.
“I think,” he says solemnly, trying to make sure Sebastian listens this time, “I think this is because of your tattoo.”
He feels Sebastian trace it, sees him smile at it.
“I told you not to say that unless you mean it.”
Charles doesn’t even dignify that with a response anymore. If they didn’t mean it, Sebastian wouldn’t have chosen that phrase in the parlour.
*
“I hate how long this takes,” Charles complains. It’s only Sebastian with him in the calibration room, and the mechanic whirring in between them. This might just be a routine check, to see if the teams aren’t violating the parameters the FIA has given them, but Charles knows about a thousand things he’d rather be doing.
He’s also kind of anxious about comparing the versions again, after this. He doesn’t trust the FIA not to mingle anymore. He remembers when check-ups like these weren’t so nerve-wracking, his mom taking the kids in for their yearly check of the ports, but of course nothing’s that easy anymore.
“I would rather do anything else, too,” Sebastian says. “But at least we have these wonderful mechanics to work on us. Could be worse.”
The mechanic whirrs contently, and Charles feels his heart skip a beat, too paranoid that there’s someone listening in, that the machine can convey what they’re talking about, what else it could pass along in that case.
But no, that’s too paranoid. Formula 1 is not actively malicious like that anymore, no longer trying to play the drivers against each other to create rivalries for attention, preferring a more gentle and, well, human side to the drivers these days.
They never did seem to fix his tendency to overthink things, during these treatments. Maybe that wasn’t a priority.
“We know what we signed up for,” Charles sighed, still feeling kind of morose. He knew he would get changed, although they’d promised back then to always inform him, always work with him, to enhance him in a way that worked for everyone and would still allow them to work afterwards.
They’d never mentioned asking for his own input, in hindsight.
“We knew what we signed up for,” Sebastian echoes, blinking twice and shaking his head after the mechanic pulls the cable from just below his skull. “And we know what we thought we signed up for.”
Maybe one day, those two things will be the same, Charles thinks as Sebastian gets shown the door by the mechanic, beeping softly in goodbye.
*
“How do you feel, Charles?” the journalist asks, pushing the microphone underneath his nose immediately. Mia’s patiently waiting by his side, ready to record whatever he’s going to answer.
Charles doesn’t know why. They should know by now that he would never say anything untoward. And if he did, they would know soon anyway.
“I feel good, it is always nice to be on the podium. This is what we aim for this year and to achieve that in so many races proves that we will be ready to fight for titles soon.”
The journalist nods, studies him for a second and changes his tone immediately.
“I see. Up until this race, you were still in contention for the title this year. You even seemed to run away with it at a few points during the season. Does that sting, to be so close and to be let down…”
The journalist trails off, glancing at Mia.
“I do not call it let down,” Charles replies, when it’s clear the journalist won’t finish the question. “I am flattered you think I could have won, but we did not aim for that. We have a proper foundation to build on now and it is up to me to be more consistent, find the pace and finish the race.”
“Uh huh.” The journalist stares in the distance for a moment, like he’s looking something up quickly. “And about your relationship to your teammate, Carlos. There have been a few heated moments on track already. How do you see this progressing? Will it be just like you and Sebastian?”
Charles blinks, tries to match the question to the memories he currently has.
“I do not know what you mean,” he says eventually. “Me and Carlos get along very good and work together on track when it is expected. This is what is important. We win as a team and we lose as a team and I will not forget that.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time, Charles. Next time maybe we should speak sooner.”
“Thank you,” Charles says reflexively, before moving to the next microphone.
It’s not the only weird interview he has, but it is one of the strangest, he has to admit.
It only starts to click what’s exactly so weird about them when he’s back in the hotel, Sebastian’s hand rubbing comforting circles on his back as the back-up loads and he can finally accept the summary of the race as he’s seeing it.
“Those… fuck! Fuck! How could they…”
Charles swears a few more times in French until Sebastian manages to distract him from his latest treatment.
*
Sometimes, they don’t even need the backups anymore.
They’re enough, this is enough, and as Charles moves his hips so Sebastian hits that spot inside of him, he feels like himself.
He can feel Sebastian come back to himself too, could almost swear Sebastian starts feeling more solid underneath him.
Charles wants to trace his muscles, the lines of hair and definition on his chest, want to brand this into his memory.
Maybe, he thinks deliriously, so close to falling off the edge but unwilling to let go, if they plug in that damned USB stick before these kinds of moments, he could find out how Sebastian sees him when they’re together like this.
When they catch their breath afterwards, Charles tells Sebastian, still giddy with the idea.
“You don’t want my memories like that,” Sebastian says, tracing a ticklish finger down Charles’s side, nestling further against his chest.
“What if I do,” Charles insists. “We make a good team. I know this.”
Sebastian’s silent for a little while.
“We should go take a shower,” he eventually says, annoyingly not moving away from Charles to actually put that plan into action. “It will be good for you.”
Charles kisses Sebastian until he’s convinced to go for round two instead.
*
Charles can’t believe his luck.
He got fourth in his home race. He finally saw the checkered flag in Monte Carlo and he got fourth.
It’s not a victory but it feels like it, and he sure celebrated like it’s a win with his team. His only regret is not being able to share it with his teammate, watch him up there on that podium in second place, and he’s so happy he could burst. Getting his treatment during the podium ceremony was only a minor inconvenience, and he will not let it kill his buzz.
Which makes it all the more strange that both his mother and his older brother are looking at him with worry in their eyes.
“Are you not happy for me?” Charles asks, smile still so big his cheeks feel like splitting.
“We are, but…” Pascale starts.
“There is no but,” Charles interrupts her. “The team worked such a good strategy for me. Without them, I could have never done this.”
“Did you get in touch with Seb yet?” Lorenzo asks Pascale, a lower tone of voice than usual. Charles can still hear him. He doesn’t like where this is going.
“Did you not see Carlos there?” Charles continues, exasperated. “These were valuable points. We never expected to win and this is the best we could have wanted. If only I had been there to back Carlos up, he maybe could have won too.”
“Seb isn’t quite there right now,” Pascale says to Lorenzo. Charles almost feels ignored. “I left him a message.”
“He will respond when he’s back, then.” Lorenzo shrugs. “Nothing more we can do, if he won’t…”
“Get that thing away from me,” Charles hisses. The spot just underneath his skull already hurts from whatever his so-called family did with it. He doesn’t like his brother waving the red stick at him again. He knows they never do it themselves. This so-called backup is a sham. “If you can’t be happy for me, I will go to my real family. Mattia is happy. Carlos is happy. You have never supported me like Ferrari has. They would never…”
The rest is lost to a squeak, as Lorenzo lifts him up by his upper arms and marches him into the house, Pascale murmuring darkly behind them while closing the door.
*
Every driver has a notebook.
Charles makes sure to fill his to the brim.
He’s used to cramming too much into too small of a space, knows how to make the most of every inch, how to work around the limitations.
His whole life is in there, carefully noted, his writing getting smaller and smaller towards the end until it’s barely legible.
He’s afraid of the moment he’ll run out of space.
*
“And you tried the backup?” Sebastian asks. Charles glares at him, for good measure.
“We did but it wouldn’t take and now he’s…” Lorenzo waves his hands in the air.
“I found his notebook for you,” Pascale adds, “but I don’t know where to start with this, I have not... I do not know. This is all important. He knows it. It makes no sense that he will not know it.”
Charles tries to tune them out, plays the Italian anthem in his mind instead, until Sebastian is right in front of him, wrapping a hand around his jawline and stroking his cheek with a thumb.
It’s… strange, the way his body seems to melt into the touch, how he instinctively seems to rub in between his fingers, where some strange ridges meet the skin.
“Will you let me take you on a tour, Charles?” Sebastian asks, and something inside of Charles snaps. He wants to say no, wants to throw Sebastian out, curses at his body for being so eager to follow.
When he loses the battle, Charles meekly follows him outside, Sebastian keeping a tight grip on his wrist.
They take a walk through Monaco, his Monaco, the one Sebastian has no right to know, except he tells Charles’s stories like someone who’s heard them too often and has treasured every detail, and little by little, Charles remembers himself through the familiar stories.
As a grand finale, they end up at the beach. They always do. He always does.
Charles brushes a kiss against Sebastian’s cheek, laces their fingers together. Sebastian digs his toes in the still-warm sand.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
“Happens to all of us some day,” Sebastian shrugs, trying to play casual. “I’m glad you got back this quick. Usually this takes longer. It’s an error they don’t want to fix.”
“What did they even do?” Now that Charles can feel the holes, the places where the wrong puzzle pieces were stomped down hard to make them fit, he recoils at the patchy version of himself that had somehow been created.
“They went in too deep,” Sebastian explains, still not looking at Charles. “They tried to get the emotions, too. That fucks with you. We’re just lucky that…”
Charles hugs his knees close to his chest as Sebastian trails off.
“Why do I not feel lucky?”
Sebastian doesn’t answer. There is nothing he could say, anyway.
Charles can feel the anger settling underneath his skin.
There has to be a better way. He can’t do this alone.
*
“We are thinking plan C,” Xavier says in Charles’s ear. “Plan C, question?”
It’s only the first race of the season. The title won’t be lost here, definitely can’t be won here either. He could play nice, stay behind Carlos like they’re asking of him, let the team decide what’s best for them.
He’s not actually interested in any of that. He can see the plan clearly in his head, how he can win, and if no one else sees it he’ll take it himself.
He’s not going to waste it again.
“I have an assignment for you,” Charles says, the familiar words rushing out in an unfamiliar accent. “What lap times is Max doing and what times is Carlos doing?”
He works out his side of the question while Xavier looks up the requested information. If he can keep pulling similar lap times as Max now, when he’s on worn hards and Max on mediums, and if he’s close enough to Carlos’s times at the moment, it should work out.
Xavier comes back with the exact numbers he was hoping for.
“Box me. Next lap,” Charles says. “I am coming in for new mediums.”
“Focus on plan B,” Xavier tries, but Charles won’t be persuaded. He’s seen this play out before, in multiple cars throughout the years, many different voices in his ear.
“I box this lap,” he insists. “Copy?”
The sigh from Xavier is barely audible over the roar of the engine, but Charles relaxes anyway.
“Copy. Box this lap.”
He does. The pit stop is alright, nothing to write home about, but Charles knows what to do and before long, he’s back to his previous place, right behind Carlos, waiting for further instructions.
“We are still on plan B, do you copy?” Xavier says.
Multi-21, Seb. Multi-21.
Charles ignores Xavier, passes Carlos a few corners laterand starts to hunt Max down.
It takes a little while, long enough to make Charles doubt himself. Then again, this isn’t from himself. That’s why he bides his time, doesn’t let the desperation creep around the edges, renews his focus.
And sure enough, two laps before the finish, he passes Max easily and wins the first race of the season. Again.
The taste of victory is sweet, not even muted by the inevitable treatment he gets ushered into after all the celebrations are done, before they get to the debriefs. It’s even sweeter when he finally makes it back to the hotel room, gets to share the stolen leftover champagne with Sebastian.
“I wish you could have seen it,” Charles says, after he’s done with the back-up again, Sebastian still plastered against his back. He can’t be casual about that now, anymore, now that there was no guarantee Sebastian would be waiting for him after every race. After every attempt to make him fall back in line, every new experiment they thought up to push his implant that bit further.
“I need to get used to retirement first before I go back to the paddock,” Sebastian jokes, and Charles already doesn’t want to hear it, pushes him back onto the bed to show his gratitude.
He wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without Sebastian.
The green USB stick next to his own red one is proof of that.