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There is no light left here. 

All the warmth has fled and yet 

I remain

with arms crossed around myself,

partly to stave off the cold you made

and partly to contain the heart you broke. 

There is no good here.

And my every atom screams

for turned-backs and tucked-tails

and heavy-footed clumsy escape. 

Rather than migrate South I stubbornly stay. 

I will light fires in your wake. 

Where I cannot find good, I must make it. 

Where there is no warmth, I must create it. 

Lazarus Rises: Amongst other things 

By Berklie Novak-Stolz 

Charles’ feet pound on the pavement, blood rushing in his ears, chest heaving with each gasping breath he takes. 

The sun has already dipped below the mountain, and the streets of Monaco are starting to chill. In this part of town, there aren’t many people around. Mostly locals, probably coming from work. 

Charles shoves past them all, choking in desperate breaths. 

“Out of the way,” he gasps, elbowing past a couple taking up too much space on the sidewalk. 

They curse him out, but he doesn’t stop. 

By the time he makes it to the right apartment building, he’s already wasted ten minutes. 

Ten minutes, running through the streets, because apparently the coordinates aren’t always accurate. He’d been told he probably wouldn’t end up exactly where he wanted; he didn’t think he’d waste ten minutes having to run home, though. 

When he gets into the building, he slows his run down to a fast walk. He doesn’t want to get kicked out of his own building. 

He gives a smile to the concierge, a man who no longer works at the desk in his own time. The man gives him a smile back, though clearly more perplexed than his own. 

Charles ignores him, and digs his key out of his pocket. It’s the same one from his own time, because he’s never had to change it since the day he moved in. Even when Max moved in with him, he just had another key cut. 

And after he’d died . . . well. Charles hasn’t changed a single thing. 

Charles shifts impatiently on his feet as the elevator slowly descends. He doesn’t have time for this. 

Two hours. He gets two hours to try and convince his past self and younger Max not to race this weekend. The Championship deciding race for the 2025 season, and he has to try to convince them to sit it out. 

It’s not enough time. It was never enough time. Losing precious minutes makes it even worse. 

When the elevator finally dings, Charles throws himself inside. He jabs at the close door button multiple times, almost shaking in place as the doors finally start to slide closed. 

He’s about to see Max. 

For the first time in months, he’s going to see his husband. 

He presses the button for their floor, then jabs the close door button a couple more times, just for good measure. 

Slowly, the elevator rattles to life, jolting oddly as it starts up. He frowns for a moment, because it’s been years since it did that. It got fixed at the end of 2023, Charles is sure. 

Whatever. He was quite preoccupied, in this particular week of 2025. His younger self is five days away from the final race of the season; the race that will decide whether he’s World Champion. He probably just didn’t notice the elevator acting oddly. 

The closer it creeps to the twentieth floor, the more Charles’ body shakes. 

He paces back and forth in the carriage, thumbnail between his teeth, trying to clear his thoughts. 

Two hours to convince Max and younger Charles not to race this weekend. He’s spent weeks writing down all his arguments; coming up with counterarguments his younger self and husband are going to say, and drafting rebuttals to those. The paper is creased to Hell and stained with his tears, but it’s sitting in his back pocket ready for him to pull out. 

The doors ding open. 

Charles’ body shakes like a leaf.

Max. His Max. 

He’s so close. 

He takes a tentative step out of the elevator, staring down the hall. The door he shares with Max stares at him. 

Max is just there. Right beyond that door, Max is waiting for him. 

His urgency returns, and Charles rushes forward. He knocks twice, trying to be nice, and then loses all decency and starts to bang against the wood, open-palmed and as loud as he can. 

He knows he can just let himself in with his keys, but he also knows Max and his younger self; they’ll try to hit him over the head with a bat, or something. 

Beyond the door, he hears his own voice. 

“Fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming!” 

Charles’ breath speeds up in his chest. The lock rattles loudly, and then the door swings open, as younger Charles says, “Who the fuck—” 

Young Charles stops. Stares. 

Charles looks at him for a moment, a second drawn out between them, and then he shoves younger Charles out of the way so he can dive into the apartment. 

“Max!” he calls out desperately. “Max, baby, where are you?” 

He goes to the sim room first, where Max is more often than not. Weirdly, there’s no Leo or Jimmy and Sassy at his feet, but they matter less than Max, as much as he adores them. 

They’re still alive, in his time. 

He rips open the door to the sim room, the knob slamming into the plaster, ready to leap into the room and pull Max into his arms, but—

He stops short. This . . . isn’t the sim room? 

It’s half filled with boxes, like it was when he first moved in here. 

That’s not right. He’d converted this room into a guest room within six months of buying the place in 2019, and then it had become Max’s sim room when he’d moved in in 2023. 

Why the fuck is it filled with boxes? 

He abandons the room, fear and desperation drowning him. 

He doesn’t understand. Everything is so different. Why is everything so different? 

It’s supposed to be the third of December, 2025. Max is supposed to be here. 

He goes to their bedroom, knowing it's the second most likely place for him to be. 

“Max,” he calls out anxiously as he opens the door. “Please, this isn’t funny, I need—” 

The bed sheets are red, not deep blue. The second bedside table is empty. Max’s clothes aren’t draped over the chair in the corner. 

The ugly, terrible truth starts to rise in him. 

Charles abandons the bedroom to go back to the front door. 

Younger Charles is still standing there, frozen in the doorway, hand still holding the door open. 

Charles grabs him around the shoulder, yanking him around to face him. 

Younger Charles’ lips are parted in shock, eyes wide and glassy. Charles holds his cheeks in his palms. 

“Max,” Charles says forcefully. “Where is Max?” 

Younger Charles blinks. “You—you’re—” 

Charles shakes his head, a little too vigorously. “Where. Is. Max.” 

“Max . . . huh? What?” 

“Max,” Charles repeats, feeling tears start to burn. This can’t have been for nothing. It can’t. “Our Max.” 

There is no glimmer of recognition on younger Charles’ face. Like that name doesn’t mean the entire world to him. Like it means nothing to him. Charles takes a deep, gasping breath, trying to suck oxygen into his tightening lungs. 

This can’t be happening. He can’t have travelled all this way, all this time, to be left with nothing. 

“Max Verstappen.” 

Younger Charles’ face twists into confusion. “Verstappen? Why the Hell would I know where he is? Why would he be here?” 

Charles’ chest feels tight. He thinks he might be dying. 

“Charles,” he chokes out, blinking back his tears. He’s young. Too young. He looks like a baby, still. “What year is it?” 

“What—” 

Charles shakes his younger self again. 

“2019! Fuck, stop that. It’s 2019.” 

Charles leans over and vomits. 

“This is really inconvenient,” younger Charles mutters, on his hands and knees, wiping up the bile on the tiled floor. 

Charles stares at him, slumped on the ground, back against the wall, not quite seeing, not quite hearing. 

“—show up here, looking for Max of all people—fucking gross, why am I the one cleaning—not even talking, do I lose the ability to speak French in the future—hey! Charles, or whatever.” 

Charles blinks, then looks up at his past self, standing over him with his hands on his hips. 

He looks at his watch, and his stomach lurches. 

“This is so strange,” younger Charles mutters. “Seriously, though, you’ve come all this way and you have nothing to say? Why are you here?” 

Charles scrambles to his feet, head spinning. He has to adapt, and quickly. It’s 2019, not 2025, but it’s still something. A Max will still be alive.  

There’s still a chance, maybe. If he does this right. 

“We need to find Max,” Charles says. 

His past self scowls. “Why?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to see him.” 

Charles narrows his eyes, a familiar anger with himself sparking. “Because I just travelled back in time to see him, that’s why. I don’t have long here, and I need—I have to see. I have to see him.” 

Younger Charles’ scowl deepens. “I don’t know why you would want to see a cheater, but fine. He’s in Monaco.” 

Charles starts in surprise, then peers at his past self a little closer. He looks tense and frustrated, like he’s still desperate and sad, the anger that always followed him so closely on clear display. 

“Please don’t tell me this is before the Belgian GP.” 

“Austria was last week.” 

Charles can’t help it; he laughs, desperately, hopelessly, holding his head in his hands. Of all the absolutely fucked up times he could come to, this, this is where he’s accidentally sent. He’s here to try to get them to work together to stop Max from dying, and instead he’s come to the week where their relationship is the worst it's ever been. 

How is he supposed to—

No. No, he’s not thinking like that. 

This has to work. It has to work. 

“We have to go,” Charles says firmly. He doesn’t care if his past self doesn’t want to; they’re going. “Right now.” 

“Right—I don’t even know if he’s home?” 

He’ll be home. He’s always home, lonely and desperate, scorned by the grid for being too intense, too focussed on racing to have any friends that don’t drive. 

He looks at his watch again. 

“We don’t have time for this. We’re going, now.” 

Younger Charles huffs loudly, then collects his car keys from the bowl by the door. 

“I don’t know why I have to see him,” young Charles mutters, opening the front door for them both. “Surely you can just deal with him on your own.” 

Charles stares at the back of his own head, feeling like he’s looking at a stranger. He knows, of course he knows, what he was going through at this time. Barely two years after his father died, struggling to adjust to F1, trying to fight against an older, more experienced teammate, and feeling like his first win was just robbed. 

And he was so angry. All the time, he was just so angry. 

He’s a bit of an asshole, though. 

“Don’t you want to know if I’m still driving for Ferrari?” 

Young Charles whips his head around, eyes wide and anxious. 

“Go,” Charles tells him. “Go, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” 

“Can’t you go faster?” 

Younger Charles glances at him. “Mate, just chill. It’s five more minutes.” 

Charles groans, fists pulling at his hair. He feels like he can’t breathe. 

He’s running out of time. Thirty minutes are gone already, lost to running through Monaco and talking to his younger self and now driving to Max. 

Thirty minutes he could’ve been with Max. Thirty more minutes he’s lost with the love of his life. 

Charles bends over in his seat, elbows on his knees, trying to suck even, deep breaths into his lungs. Younger Charles awkwardly pats him on the back. 

“Only five minutes. It’s not long.” 

He would say that. 

That Charles hasn’t spent five minutes anxiously waiting for news about a Max that’s crashed into the barriers. That Charles doesn’t know what it’s like, having five minutes change the entire trajectory of his life. 

“Hurry up,” Charles mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please. Please.” 

Younger Charles says nothing. The engine purrs louder. 

Charles drags his younger self by the sleeve of his shirt into the building. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” younger Charles mutters, trying to pry his hand off him. 

Charles can’t let him go. His past self doesn’t understand how serious this is yet, and in 2019 he was a fucking idiot. He might try to run off, but Charles needs to salvage what he can of this disaster. 

The concierge’s eyes bug out of his head at the sight of the two of them. Charles drags younger Charles with him to the desk, desperate to go faster. 

“Max. Le—uh. Verstappen.” 

The concierge blinks. “Does he know you’re . . . both . . . coming?” 

Charles’ hands are shaking. Younger Charles tries to tug his shirt sleeve out of his grip again. 

“No,” younger Charles says. “We’re in a bit of a rush. Is he here?” 

Charles almost vomits again. What if he’s really not here? 

No, he knows his husband. He’ll be here. 

“Um. Yes. I’ll call him now.” 

Charles whimpers. Why are there so many stops? Thirty five minutes down. Time is slipping between his fingers so quickly. 

Younger Charles pats his hand a couple times, like he’s not sure what to do. 

“We’re almost there,” he says, clearly trying to be comforting, but having no idea why this is important. Charles has no idea how to explain it to him, how life changing Max is for them. 

“Yes, sir, Charles Leclerc and . . . well, he’s here to see you. Okay, I’ll send them up.” 

The concierge turns to them, but Charles is already tugging his past self towards the elevator. He learns this building intimately in the next couple of years, Max’s apartment even more so. He knows where he’s going, even if he doesn’t have a key. 

Charles feels like his whole body is vibrating the closer they get, the more the elevator rises, the more steps he takes. By the time they get to the door, he’s shaking so hard he can’t even knock. 

Younger Charles huffs, then knocks for him.   

This time, Charles knows Max is behind the door. The concierge spoke to him. Confirmed he’s there. Said they can go up and see them. 

It might be 2019 Max, but it’s still him. Still his husband. 

The door swings open, and then there he is. 

Younger. Not quite grown into his features yet; too small, too thin, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is sitting on them. Charles forgot that he used to look like that: his Championships suit him. 

“Holy shit,” Max breathes, eyes widening. 

Charles throws his arms around him, then bursts his tears. 

When Charles has finally calmed down, Max leads the two of them inside. 

He can’t take his eyes off Charles, whereas younger Charles keeps scowling at Max. 

Charles understands why, even though it annoys him. He doesn’t much care for their petty disagreements over racing, because he’s here for far more important reasons. 

“This is so strange,” Max says, eyes wide with wonder as he sits down on the lounge. He doesn’t offer either of them a drink, but Charles isn’t surprised. Charles had had to teach him the basics of hosting, when they’d gotten together. 

“Imagine how I feel,” younger Charles mutters, sitting beside Max on the lounge—though a safe distance away. Charles’ heart twists painfully. 

He was so stupid at that age. He wasted so much time.  

Charles sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of them, needing to see them both but unable to go too far from Max. 

Blessedly, neither of them mention the slightly-more-than-minor meltdown he’d just had at the door. Max had been awkward enough about it already, gently patting his back while whispering, “What the fuck?” to his past self. 

“I saw in the news the other day there were some major breakthroughs with time travel,” Max continues, like younger Charles hadn’t spoken at all. A hint of a smile pulls up Charles’ lips; they were so good at being petty at this age. “Didn’t think I’d live to see it myself, to be honest.” 

Charles doesn’t really know what to say. All of his carefully plotted talking points and arguments are gone from his head, partly because they’re useless now, partly because Max is here. Max is in front of him. 

Four months without him, the worst four months of Charles’ entire life, and now he’s . . . here. Close enough to touch. 

“How old are you?” Max asks curiously, staring at Charles with his gorgeous blue eyes. “You’ve got to be like . . . twenty years older than us or something?” 

Charles’ eyes fill with tears again as he laughs. Younger Charles gasps in outrage, clearly offended on his behalf, but Charles just thinks it's funny. Max was always so funny, at the most inappropriate times. 

“I’m only from 2026,” he confesses softly. “I’m 28.” 

“Jesus,” Max mutters. “You’ve lived a hard life.” 

Charles sobers, shoulders slumping. It’s clearly supposed to be a joke, and any other time, Charles would’ve laughed. He can so easily imagine his Max saying that to some sponsor at an event, just to try to get Charles to giggle, and Charles would’ve had to try to keep a straight face while he attempted to apologise and shmooze the sponsor anyway. 

And afterwards, Charles would’ve scolded him, and Max would’ve poked him in the stomach and told him not to worry so much. 

It’s so easy to see it all. Everything he’s missing, everything he could’ve had. 

He so, so desperately needs this to work. 

“My husband died at the end of last year. Ah, 2025. I haven’t . . . coped very well.” 

Younger Charles and Max stare at him with wide eyes. He can’t really bear to see the pity on their faces, because neither of them really understand. He had hoped that they would never understand, but . . . He’s been sent to the wrong time. There is nothing he can do about that now. 

They have to spend the next six years learning and understanding what this means. 

Younger Charles stares at him. “Wait, but you said you were looking for Max. Why would you travel back in time looking for him when you could’ve gone to see your husb— . . .” 

Charles purses his lips. Younger Charles’ face drains of colour, lips parted. 

Max, bless him, is the last to realise, but Charles knows when he does. A smirk crawls up his face, and he sits back, kicking his feet up on the table. God, Charles had forgotten how cocky and arrogant he could be before he won his Championship. 

“Well, well,” Max says, eyes flicking up and down younger Charles’ body. “Decided to marry little old me, did you, Leclerc?” 

Younger Charles scowls, then reaches over to punch Max in the arm. 

“Ow!” Max yelps, rubbing his arm harshly. “What the fuck? You’re so violent. Why would I ever marry you?” 

Charles frowns, rubbing his palm over his chest. It aches, hearing any version of Max saying that.

“You’re lucky to marry me,” younger Charles says, tilting his chin up, regal and haughty. “I’m a catch. Handsome and talented and—and—I drive for Ferrari.” 

Christ, that was embarrassing to watch. Charles rubs his hand over his face, already annoyed with himself. Honestly, how did Max ever like him? Charles knows how strong Max’s feelings already are, but he honestly doesn’t know what Max sees in him. 

Max opens his mouth, glaring at young Charles, so Charles clears his throat before they can get into a real argument. 

“Yes, everyone is very lucky,” he says warily. He rubs his fingers along the centre of his forehead, trying to soothe the headache pounding away behind his eyes. 

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t even know—what is he supposed to salvage? How is he supposed to convince them not to race in some abstract Championship deciding race that’s six years into their future? 

This isn’t going how he wanted it to go. 

He’s supposed to be in 2025 right now. He’s supposed to be in Monaco, the week before Max dies, begging and pleading with him not to go out there. 

These two . . . they can’t even sit on the lounge and not argue. They’re children. 

“Why have you come back?” Max asks tentatively. Charles opens his eyes to find Max’s baby blues already trained on him. “You . . . you were looking for me?” 

Charles purses his lips, and nods. 

“Because I . . . die.” 

He looks like he’s tasting it in his mouth, like he can’t quite understand the concept. Charles doesn’t blame him. He can’t really imagine what it’s like, to meet the older version of somebody only to learn you die within six years.

“I came back to stop it from happening,” Charles confesses quietly. “Because I—I can’t . . .” 

Younger Charles’ shoulder slump down. Charles knows he gets it; their father’s death is fresher for him. 

Max’s brows furrow in clear confusion. “Uh, well, not to critique your plan, but surely it would’ve made more sense to go back to 2025?” 

Charles purses his lips, rubbing his forehead again. 

“Oh,” younger Charles breathes. “That’s why you were looking in my apartment for him. Why you asked for the year. You thought it was—” 

“2025,” Charles confirms quietly. “I—I don’t know why I’ve come back so far. It was—it was supposed to be 2025, and I was going to tell him how—” 

He breaks off, unsure what to do. 

Max is 21 years old. He doesn’t have even one Championship, let alone four. 

In a way, the damage has already been done; he already knows his future. In another, putting this burden on him—on them . . . he can’t even imagine the toll it would take. How difficult it would be to hear the details of their future, to hear they get everything they ever wanted but at far too high a price. 

“It was racing, wasn’t it?” younger Charles asks quietly. “I can see it on your face.” 

Yes. He would be able to tell, wouldn’t he? 

“Do I at least have a Championship?” Max asks, sitting forward. He’s trying to be lighthearted, but Charles can see the lines around his eyes, the tightness in his forehead. He can spot Max’s coping mechanisms from a mile away. “Please tell me I don’t die racing with nothing.” 

Charles licks his lips. 

He knows why they’re asking, of course. If it was him—and it is—then he would want to know as well. And nobody ever said he couldn’t tell them everything, so maybe some good news would be nice? 

“Four Championships,” Charles tells him, the usual pride blooming in his chest. 

Max’s mouth drops open, like he’s somehow more shocked that he manages that many Championships than that he dies. 

“Four!” young Charles gasps. Then he turns to glare at Max. “You’re so greedy, ugh.” 

“It’s gotta be because of the regulation changes, right?” Max asks, clearly trying to do the math in his head. “2022 through to 2025.” 

Charles’ little smile dies. 

“What?” young Charles asks immediately. “Why do you look like that?” 

“‘21 through to ‘24,” Charles corrects, shoulders slumped. His eyes start to burn again. 

“I fucking knew I could beat Lewis,” Max says proudly. Then, a little more anxiously, “I do beat him, right?” 

Young Charles rolls his eyes. “The better question is, who wins in ‘25?” 

Charles purses his lips. He has the trophy sitting at home, technically, but he hadn’t gone to the gala. He’s never celebrated. 

He can’t. He just . . . he can’t.  

In truth, he doesn’t even know how to say it out loud. 

I won, but only because Max crashed and died and got no points. 

“I . . .” Charles starts, but he trails off, throat choked closed and no real idea how to end that sentence. 

“You?” young Charles asks, brows scrunched together. “Me? I win? Do I win?” 

Charles nods silently. 

Young Charles is staring at him with wide eyes, confused and excited. “Why don’t you look happy? Why would I not be happy? What is going on?” 

Beside him, Max takes a deep breath, slumping back in the lounge. Charles can tell from the look on his face that he’s realised. 

“What?” young Charles asks, looking between them with narrowed eyes. 

“If I die racing at the end of 2025, and you win the Championship but you’re not happy . . .” 

Young Charles blinks, then blinks again. He turns slowly from Max to Charles, realistion dawning in his eyes. 

“You’re not saying that he—that it—that I win the Championship because . . .” 

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, scrubbing his palm over his cheek. 

He can still see it all so clearly. They’d been so close together, Charles only just outside of Max’s DRS; the two of them flying down the back straight; T6 coming at them so quickly; how Charles had abruptly been pulled from the back of Max’s car as he’d hit the brakes, but Max hadn’t; how Max had just kept going, and going, car turning slightly; Charles had taken the corner, looked in his mirrors, and seen Max’s car lodged deeply into the barriers. 

By the time he’d come back to the pit entry, the race had already been red flagged. By the time he got out of the car, race control had announced it would not be resumed. 

Charles had known what that meant immediately. 

He’d been kneeling next to his car, vomiting onto the floor of the garage, when somebody standing near him had dared to whisper, “90% of the race was completed. He’ll get full points.” 

Full points. None for Max. Finishing the season twenty points ahead, his first Championship secured, and his husband dead. 

“Well, at least you got a Championship, right?” Max says weakly. 

“That’s not funny,” both Charles’ snap at the same time. 

Younger Charles glares at Max, then crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. Charles knows how upset he must feel, even if he doesn’t really like Max right now. But Max—he’s been in their lives since they were five. His death means something, even without their marriage. 

“How could you even say that?” young Charles mutters, standing from the lounge. Charles feels just as sick; he might know just how poorly timed Max’s jokes can be, but sometimes he really does just want to punch his husband. “Do you not understand the conversation we’re having right now? Are you stupid? You die. Die. You get in the car to race, and then you never get out again.” 

Max rolls his eyes. “You’re not the one that dies, so don’t tell me how to feel about it, Leclerc.” 

Young Charles turns to him, fire in his eyes, and Charles can see the start of another argument coming from a mile away. 

He stands himself, pulling his lip between his teeth and shoving his own feelings away. These two didn’t ask for this; he came back, years too far, and has thrown a lot of information at them very quickly. They need someone to keep things under control, and it has to be him. 

When he glances at his watch, he sees that an entire hour has passed already. There’s only an hour left. 

“Look, I know I’ve come back too far,” he starts, looking between them both. 

Young Charles is clearly upset, eyes pinched at the corners and hands tucked under his armpits. Charles knows that means his hands are shaking; shoving them under his arms is how he hides it. And Max . . . his lips are pursed tightly, cheeks missing the natural flush that always sits there. He’s just as upset, even though he’s trying to hide it as well. 

“You should get your money back,” Max says confidently. “They sent you to the wrong time.”

Charles presses his palms into his eyes, laughing so he doesn’t cry. As if he cares about the fucking money. 

“It doesn’t matter about that,” Charles says, dropping his hands. “And I’m here now. So—” 

“Can’t you—I don’t know, can’t you go to the time you were supposed to go to?” young Charles asks, a little desperately. “Give it another go?” 

Max looks at him hopefully, young eyes wide and innocent. 

Charles looks away. 

“This was my only chance,” Charles reveals in a whisper. “It’s too hard on my body. They don’t let you go back again. This was . . . this is it.” 

The seriousness of it hits him again, the gravity of being sent to the wrong time. This is his only chance to save his husband, and it’s so far away. He can tell them everything, but it will still be six years. Maybe his presence in the past has already created a butterfly effect that will ripple through time and stop them from being able to do anything. 

The two of them fall into silence. Charles can’t bear to see the realisation, the understanding, on their face. 

“Are you kidding?” young Charles mutters, shaking his head. “You didn’t think to fucking check they were sending you to the right time? This is Max’s life, and you’ve screwed it up?” 

Hurt and guilt blooms in Charles’ stomach. He doesn’t know why he’s not at the right time, but he tried, he tried so hard, and he knows that his past self can’t bear to watch somebody else die but this is his husband. The love of his life. His soulmate. Young Charles can’t even begin to comprehend what Charles is going through. 

“I—I tried,” Charles says, chest heaving as he tries to suck in a deep breath. “I—I—” 

“Clearly that’s not good enough, is it?” young Charles snaps. “He could die because of you, and all you can say is that you tried?” 

Charles gasps in a breath, ribs aching. It’s the same things he’s been thinking for an hour, shoved back in his face mercilessly. He knows how important this is. He knows what it means that he fucked up. 

He doesn’t know what went wrong, but all morning the only thing he’s been thinking about is seeing Max. Seeing his husband again has consumed his every waking thought since he cleared the physical and psychological exams. 

Maybe, because of that, he missed something. Did something wrong. Didn’t double check, or—or something. Too focused on the wrong thing, and now he’s stuck here, maybe worse off than he started. 

“Hey, back off,” Max snaps, standing as well. “Can’t you see he’s hurting? Have some fucking respect! As far as I can see, you’re the one who’s bitching and whining and he’s the only one who’s actually trying to do something here.” 

Young Charles turns to Max, lip curled back. Charles is trying to catch his breath, but each time he inhales, it gets harder and harder. 

“Don’t tell me how to talk to myself,” young Charles says angrily. “You don’t know me. Fucking Hell, are we even sure this is real? I would never marry you. I hate you.” 

“Charles,” Charles gasps, trying to slow his breathing down. He holds his hand over his chest, glaring at his past self. He can see the way Max flinches, even if his younger self can’t. 

“This is why you didn’t win last week,” Max says, crossing his arms. “One bad thing happens and you can’t bounce back. Instead you’re being a bitch baby and crying about how everything is so unfair.” 

Younger Charles holds his hand to his head, scowling. “Just shut up, Verstappen,” he hisses. “You’re such a fucking know-it-all, and a dirty little cheat—” 

“If you deserved that win, then you would’ve had it—” 

“You pushed me wide, and then got away with your dirty move—” 

“Yeah, which means it’s legal, so stop fucking whining—” 

“I’ll push you off in Silverstone and see how you like it—” 

“Boys,” Charles says desperately, breath catching in his chest. Younger Charles has his palm pressed into his eye, his face is pale, and his words are starting to slur. Charles is quite sure neither of them have really noticed. 

His own head is starting to pound and throb, like his eyes are going to explode out of his skull. 

“Try to push me and I’ll drive us both into the fucking wall—” 

“Piece of shit fucking driver, and shit fucking person, I wouldn’t marry you if we were the last two people in the world—” 

“So original Leclerc, except you do marry me, and I bet I top—” 

“Stop it,” Charles shouts loudly. He can’t bear to let either of them make light of his marriage, even if it’s eventually theirs. “Both of you, shut up.” 

They both turn to him, eyes wide and with a guilty expression. 

They’re so . . . young. 

He forgot how easily they were riled up back then. He and Max never fought anymore, and now he’s seeing just how quick to anger they used to be. 

“Charles, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charles says angrily. He can’t believe how callous and cruel he’s being. In a way, Charles understands; he knows his past self is angry, and hurting, and doesn’t yet know how to handle all these emotions. Instead he’s become defensive and mean, trying to hurt everybody else, and unfortunately it’s worked. It fucking worked. “And don’t say shit you don’t mean. I know you’re angry, but I also know Max makes you a better driver. Stop sulking about that, and start learning your fucking lesson.” 

Younger Charles stares at him, lips parted. 

“And Max . . .” Charles sighs, hands on his hips. “You bottom more than you top.” 

Max’s mouth drops open. 

Younger Charles laughs. 

Then his eyes roll back and his body collapses. 

“Not long now, Charles,” Doctor Shannon says. “Hold out your hand, please.”

Charles blinks. His eyes sting a little. He didn’t realise he’d gone so long without blinking, and now his eyes are dry. 

Shannon clips on an oximeter. Charles barely feels the pressure. 

But, then, he barely feels anything anymore. 

“Now, I understand you’ve already signed a release form, but I just need to go over all of this again with you.” 

There’s an odd little mark on the wall opposite them. It’s shaped a little like a star, like the ones Max used to wear on the back of his helmet. Charles can’t take his eyes off it. 

“We need to do a full assessment of your fitness today. We need to understand your lung capacity, your heart health, oxygen levels. We’re going to be very thorough, because these trips can be quite strenuous.” 

When Max had won his third Championship, he’d had his helmet design planned weeks in advance. He’d even taken it to the race before he won, because he’d had a chance there. Charles had rolled his eyes at how cocky Max was about it, even though he’d known just as well as Max that he was going to win. 

Max had held the helmet up, proudly displaying his triple stars, and told Charles, “Three just looks good, doesn’t it? Balanced.” 

“We’ll start with some simple exercises: pulls up, crunches, general things to test your strength. Then we’ll do a stint on the treadmill, five kilometres, to monitor your oxygen and your heart.” 

When Max had gotten his fourth, he’d had the audacity to pout about it. 

“Three looked prettier,” he’d sighed. “Like—one, two, three. One slightly raised. Like a podium! But four . . .” 

“After that, we’ll do a psychological exam. If you pass them all, we’ll book you into the next available time slot.” 

He’d been so excited about Charles getting to have his own little star. 

“We’ll be matching,” he said, grinning widely. “Then you just need to catch up. Always a step behind, aren’t you, Leclerc?” 

“Always.” 

“Let’s begin.” 

Charles pushes himself up through his palms, squeezing his abs as he goes into the height of his push up. 

“You understand that this is very dangerous,” Shannon says formally. Charles can just see the toes of his feet, standing and watching as he does his pushups. “Your body is not built for this. You can only go back once.”

One chance to save Max is better than none. He didn’t think he’d get any chance at all. 

“The time you’ve selected is 3rd of December, 2025. You understand that you will have a maximum of two hours to complete whatever tasks you wish?” 

Charles nods, then lowers his body. 

“There are no rules about interacting with your past self,” Shannon tells him, pen tapping against his clipboard. Charles exhales sharply as he pulls himself up, chin rising above the bar. “We haven’t yet seen any ill effects. But once you return, if you successfully manage to prevent Mr. Verstappen’s death, you’ll return to an alternative timeline.” 

Charles wonders how they would ever even know there were ill effects, if the future gets altered so severely. For all they know, the world they’re living in currently is not the world they should be in. 

Charles isn’t going to question it, though. He doesn’t care about the ethics of time travel, or whether they’re all blissfully unaware that the world they’re living in has been altered. He just wants Max back. 

“Do you understand what that means, Charles?” the doctor asks, voice as serious as Charles has heard it. He flicks his eyes over to him, taking in the stern look on his face, and then looks back to the wall as he lowers himself down. “It means that when you return, you will be the only person who remembers the original timeline. Your consciousness will take the place of your alternate self. Eventually, your memories will . . merge, so to speak. The alternate timeline’s memories will subsume the memories of your original timeline, until eventually, it will be like it never existed.” 

Good. Charles never wants to remember what it was like to live in a world without Max. That is the best possible outcome he could ask for. 

Charles keeps his upper body steady as his feet pound rhythmically on the treadmill. 

“And one last thing,” Shannon says. “While there are no timeline problems with interacting with your past self, having two of the same people exist in one timeline is . . . challenging. It’s why you can’t be in the past for more than two hours. There can be side effects, on either you or your younger self, but these are not long lasting. It’s simply your body trying to adjust.” 

Fine. Whatever. Charles doesn't care, as long as when he gets back, Max is still alive. 

He reaches up and pulls the oxygen mask from his face, resting it under his chin and turning to look at the doctor again. 

“So?” he asks. “Have I passed? Can I go back?” 

The doctor flicks his eyes down to the control panel of the treadmill, then to a screen displayed with all of Charles’ vitals. He can’t see them, but he knows it’s fine. He may not have been able to get out of bed for months, but he’s spent ten years at the peak of fitness. 

“You need to do the psychological,” the doctor says, lips pursed. “Then we’ll see.” 

Charles smooths the hair back from the forehead of his past self, staring back at the peaceful features of his sleeping face. 

He was so young. A child. He doesn’t know why he was ever allowed in an F1 car. 

“He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” Max asks anxiously from the doorway. 

He’d tried to convince Charles to take his past self to a hospital, but Charles had known it wasn’t necessary.

“He’ll be fine,” Charles says, making sure the blanket is tucked tightly under his chin before he turns back to Max. “It’s an effect of my presence. Once I leave, he’ll wake up.” 

“You’re sure?” Max asks, shifting on his feet. “How would they even know, if you return back to a changed reality?” 

Charles doesn’t really have an answer, he supposes. He’s been wondering about the ripple effects of time travel himself, but he’s been too selfish to really question the ethics of it all too much. 

“They said they haven’t seen any ill effects,” Charles says, the only real reassurance he has. 

Max doesn't look very reassured, though. He looks worried, and terrified, glancing down at the young Charles passed out on the bed. 

“He’s only so awful to you because he’s jealous,” Charles tells him softly, leaving his past self tucked in the bed to cross the room to Max. 

Max looks up at him, blue eyes so young and innocent. 

“He’s just sad,” Max murmurs. It’s a very kind and generous take on young Charles, one Charles is not sure his past self deserves. “And a bit lost, I think.” 

“I am,” Charles confirms quietly. “And fucking terrified. I was always comparing myself to you, and finding I didn’t quite measure up. That’s why I was jealous.” 

“There’s not exactly much to be jealous of,” Max mutters bitterly. More bitterly than Charles expected; he’s not sure he’s ever really heard Max talking about himself like that. “Sure, I’ve got a couple wins now, but . . . Nobody likes me. I know how the grid talks about me, and the whole world calls me Mad Max. But him . . . everyone adores him.” 

Max never told him that. That he felt like that. 

Charles doesn’t like the idea of Max thinking like that, living like that, when he knows what’s underneath. How kind and generous he is, how smart and witty, how deeply he feels and how strong his sense of right and wrong is. 

He couldn’t bear to leave him here like this, still thinking those things about himself. 

He leads Max back out into the living room while he thinks about what to say and how to say it. Max looks at him with such trusting, hopeful eyes, and Charles knows, without a doubt, that Max loves him already. 

Max had told him that, of course, and Charles had believed it to be true a little; Max’s awkward attempts to start conversation, about the weather, about flags, about the things Charles did wrong in a race. 

But, privately, he’d always thought it was more of a crush than love. They were never really close enough for love. 

With the way Max is looking at him right now, the softness in his eyes, with such gentle and easy trust—well, it’s the same way he looked at him through their relationship. Charles was so stupid, for never realising it before. 

He drinks it in greedily, always so starved for Max’s love even when he was given it freely and to excess. 

When they take a seat back on the lounge, Charles turns his entire body so he’s looking directly at Max. He leans his side against the back of the couch, head resting on the cushion, knee bent up on the seat and touching the side of Max’s thigh. 

“They all come to our wedding,” Charles tells him quietly. They all went to Max’s funeral, too, but Charles doesn’t want to say that. Max opens his mouth, but Charles knows what he’s going to say. “No, no, not just because of me. I don’t even—half of them I don’t even know that well. But you . . . in my time, you were—” 

He swallows, looking to the ceiling as he tries to push back his tears. 

“The younger drivers were always so in awe of you,” he whispers. “And you always gave them time, no matter how busy you were. You were their favourite person to go to, whenever they had a question about anything. Not just racing, but media, or PR, or—I swear, there’s this kid who joins in ‘25, Ollie, and everyone thought I was going to be his mentor and I guess I kind of did too, but he fucked up in his first race in ‘25 and you know who he went to for advice? You. Not me. You. And I asked him why he didn’t feel like he could come to me, because I wanted to help, you know? And he said that he was too scared of disappointing me. But, you—he told me that he knew you would give him fair advice, and comfort, without making him feel like he’d done something wrong or like he was stupid. I know that the media and the public and the drivers aren’t treating you fairly right now, and I wish, I wish, more than anything, that I could pull my head out of my own ass long enough to realise that you’re not my enemy, but in the future you’re . . . you’re the best of us. In every way.” 

Max’s eyes look shiny. Charles wants so badly to kiss him, to hold him, to tell him that even though it’s hard right now, everything will be so beautiful eventually. 

“You really do love me, don’t you?” 

Charles’ heart pangs. 

“I do,” he confirms, throat tight and swollen. He doesn’t really care that this is the first time Max is going to hear it. “I love you. I love you so much.” 

Max’s face twists into something odd and complicated. “Hearing you say that is so . . .” 

Charles feels incredibly selfish. Like he’s stolen something from the both of them, just to mend his own heart. 

“Is it ridiculous that I want to say it back?” Max asks. He looks a little nervous, clearly trying to tentatively test how Charles will react if he says the words. 

Charles’ eyes fall shut. His chest hurts so much; he didn’t think coming back would be this painful. He thought it would make him feel better, not worse. 

As much as he wants to hear it again, for the first time, for the last time, he can’t take it away from Max and his past self. That would be even more selfish. 

“I think you both deserve for him to be the one to hear it for the first time.” 

“He doesn’t like me,” Max says, voice brittle and sad. “He doesn’t even want to be my friend. But you—you’re—” 

Charles waits patiently, feeling a little like his heart is breaking. Of all the things he imagined about going back in time, trying to reassure Max that he’s a good person, that he’s loved, was not what he thought would happen. 

“You love me back,” Max whispers. 

“He will, too,” Charles swears. “I promise. You—you’re my soulmate. There is nobody else I could ever love. He’ll realise that eventually.” 

Max chews on his cheek, then sighs. 

“I guess you won’t kiss me, either?” 

Oh, how he wants to. He wants to, so desperately. If he’d gone back to 2025, like he was supposed to, then he probably would’ve. He wouldn’t have been taking anything from them, but it would’ve meant so much to him. 

But these two . . . these two. Max probably wouldn’t care, but younger Charles would never let it go. To know that his first kiss with Max would never really be his, never really remembered; he’d be ridiculously jealous. He’d probably not talk to Max for weeks over it. 

Charles understands, now, what he’s taken from the two of them by coming here today. He can’t take this, too. 

“No,” he says gently. “My Max and I—we talked about our first kiss a lot. It was even in my vows. He—he was so stupid. For our first date, he took me to a gelateria in Ventimiglia and then we walked down to the beach and he just kissed me right there, in public, and it was awful because he was too fast and too eager and our noses bumped together and I accidentally bit him. And we got photographed. It was all over the internet by the time we got back to Monaco.” 

Max looks completely horrified, and Charles understands why. It was pretty terrible at the time, too. Neither of them were keeping their sexuality a secret, but they weren’t out yet, either, and then suddenly their first kiss was splashed across the front page of every newspaper in the world. 

But, now—

“I didn’t talk to him for weeks, but he—” Charles’ face softens, body melting into the lounge. This is the first time he’s been able to think about this story without bursting into tears. “He was so persistent. Texted and called to apologise, sent me a bouquet of flowers every day, no matter where we were. No, don’t smile, I ran out of vases on about day three and had to put flowers in every sink in the house to keep them alive.” 

Max smiles wider. “So you didn’t throw them out.” 

Charles melts. “No,” he murmurs. “I didn’t throw them out.” 

Max looks at him so gently, so lovingly, that Charles almost feels like it’s his Max. Almost. 

“Then he sent me this bouquet of lilies—my favourite, just so you know—with this long card, apologising for everything, asking for another chance, saying he’d do better this time. That he just wanted one more chance, to prove that he could do it right. So I called him and told him we could try again, if he promised not to be so public about it. And he said—” 

Charles swallows. His eyes burn, and his chest aches, but he wants to say it. He wants to be able to tell somebody all these amazing, beautiful, good things about his sweet Max. 

“He said, “But I want everyone to know it’s you and me, Charlie. Always.”” 

Max goes quiet for a long moment, staring at Charles with soft eyes. 

Then he reaches out, and takes Charles’ hand in his. He slots their fingers together, looking down at their hands as he does so, then lifts his eyes back to Charles.

“You and me, Charlie,” he whispers. “Always.” 

Charles feels—

He feels—

Like he’s dying all over again. Like he’s being reborn. Like Max is giving him peace. 

Charles squeezes his hand back. Max might not know what those words really mean, not yet, but he will. One day, he will. And even if it’s not his Max, it’s easy for Charles to make the same promise he has every day since that conversation. 

“Always.” 

Carefully, Charles lifts their joined hands to press a lingering kiss against the back of Max’s knuckles. Then he tucks their hands against his cheek, closing his eyes and letting himself sit in this moment. 

He misses Max so much. He feels like he hasn’t been able to take a breath since he died, all his love and grief sitting inside him and weighing him down. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t feel . . . better. There are too many differences between this Max and his Max for him to truly feel like he’s got his husband back. 

But it’s better than nothing. This is so much better than nothing. Charles doesn’t know how he’s ever going to be able to return to an empty apartment, the rest of his life stretched out in front of him, lonely and meaningless without the person he’d made all his plans with. 

“I didn’t think you’d be able to forgive me for last week,” Max murmurs eventually. “You’re so angry at me.” 

“Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s about to win. Back to back, in Spa and Monza. He’ll forgive you then.”

A grin stretches across Max’s face. “Back to back,” he says, in a little bit of awe. “I didn’t even do that.” 

Charles smiles as well, feeling it reach his eyes for the first time in months. “Trust me, I won’t ever let you forget that.”

Max laughs.

“He’s just hungry,” Charles says, sobering a little. “Be patient with him. Eventually he realises that F1 isn’t everything.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

Charles gives him a sad smile, rubbing at his chest again. 

Of everything Max has said today, this is the one that marks him the most different from his future counterpart. Even though Charles’ Max was still hungry, still wanting, some things came before F1. 

Each other. Their marriage. Their families, for the first time in their lives. The baby they’d been talking about having. 

“The 2026 season started today,” he confesses. “My first chance to drive with the number 1 on my car.” 

Max frowns, blinking heavily. “Why would you . . .” 

Charles shrugs. “The agency only had one slot available for me. The choice was fairly obvious, no?” 

Max looks a little helpless, cheeks blotted with red. “I know you’ve already said it, but it’s hard to imagine you ever feeling this way about me. I thought I’d . . .” 

“Harbour your unrequited love forever?” 

Max looks surprised, the red in his face deepening even further. “He—I told you about that?” 

Charles smiles wistfully, nodding once. “I know everything about you. I know how long you’ve had these feelings. I know you cried last week, after I unfollowed you and told you not to speak to me again.” 

Max’s face falls. 

“I know you’ve never known what to do with all these feelings you have for me,” Charles murmurs. “That you’ve spent a long time thinking it makes you dirty, or wrong, or a disappointment to your father.” 

Max tries to give him a smile, but it’s shaky and weak. 

“They’re not dirty, or wrong,” Charles whispers. “I know that he—that I don’t understand it right now, but Max, I—I swear. I do eventually. The respect and admiration I have for you, the love that I feel . . . Fuck, Max, I left Ferrari, spent more money than you could even dream of right now, traveled back in time, just for two hours with you. Two hours to see you, to try and fix this, so that I can . . . have you back. I want you back so badly, there’s no one else on Earth—” 

His voice hitches in his throat, eyes burning. God, he didn’t mean to put all this on Max’s shoulders. He was supposed to go back to the week Max died, he was supposed to warn him, tell him not to get in the car that weekend. 

He shouldn’t be here, expecting a 21 year old Max to listen to his heartbreak. 

He glances at his watch; seventeen minutes to go. His heart squeezes harshly in his chest. 

Fifteen minutes left, that’s all he gets, and then he might be staring down the barrel of an eternity without him. He doesn’t even know how to think about it, how to process it, how to face going back. 

“I’m sorry I’ve done this to you,” Charles says, a little desperately. He doesn’t have much time, and there’s so much left for him to say. “I can’t even—I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling. This was supposed to make things better, not worse.” 

“Hey, no, it’s alright,” Max says soothingly. Charles laughs helplessly; he doesn’t know how Max is the one comforting him. “I—I know this hasn’t gone how you’ve planned. But, you know, if you’ve got any tips on how I can avoid dying, I’d definitely listen.” 

Charles scrubs his eye with his palm, then reaches into his back pocket for the stupid piece of paper he wrote. He looks down at the arguments he’d made, the convoluted logic he’d used to try to convince them both to skip the race, and decides none of that really matters. 

“Your brakes failed,” Charles tells him, folding the paper and laying it on the lounge. It flashes in his mind again, the way Max’s car had just continued to go straight ahead, disappearing into the barriers as Charles had taken the corner. He feels numb and detached from the story as he tells it to Max; it used to be that he couldn’t get a word out without bursting into tears, and now it’s like he’s outside of his own body. “I don’t know why. Red Bull did an investigation, but they wouldn’t tell me.” 

“Just . . . just like that?” 

Charles blinks sluggishly, trying to force it from his mind again. The way Max had shot forward, the dust, the way Charles’ whole body had shaken as he’d climbed out of the car, desperate for news, just to see everyone looking at him with sadness and pity. 

“Just like that,” Charles whispers. 

Max takes a deep breath, slumping back against the lounge and staring up at the ceiling. 

Charles has no idea what could be going on in his head right now. As well as he knows him, he can’t think of how Max could be feeling. 

“So how does it work, then?” Max asks him, head tilted to the side. “If you get back to 2026 and I’m there, will you be in an alternate reality? Do you just become one person, two sets of memories?” 

Charles has to hide his smile. 

His sweet Max, always so curious about everything. 

“They said that if there is an alternate timeline, I’ll end up in the body of that version of myself,” he explains slowly. He’s not entirely sure he understands it himself, but they’d been very, very clear about what would happen, that he should be prepared for things to be wildly different but also for them to be the same. “Like my mind just—just replaces that version of me. But then, eventually, those memories will replace my own. So if—if I get back and you’re—you’re alive, then eventually I won’t remember the timeline where you died.” 

Max’s lips part, brows knitting together as he tries to figure it out. Charles doesn’t blame him for being confused; he’d sat through hours of videos trying to explain to him the theory of time travel, the ripple effects it creates, how paradoxes are created but also that they don’t really exist. 

“But if you don’t remember the timeline where I died, then why would you travel back in time? Would this conversation ever even happen?” 

Charles would be upset about wasting his time with Max talking about time travel theory, except he knows his husband. He knows how he fixates on things, how he digs down into a problem until it’s solved, and it’s a trait that annoys so many people but that Charles adores. 

He can’t be upset about wasting time, when this is just . . . a part of Max. 

“The way they explained it is that once something happens in the past, it becomes a fixed point,” Charles says. He doesn’t really understand it himself, but he can try his best. He holds his hand out flat, then points to the tip of his middle finger. “So, I came from here, yes?” 

“Yes,” Max says, staring at Charles’ hand. 

Charles drags his finger down to his wrist. “And then I jumped back to here to see you. And when I go back, I’ll end up exactly where I started, back at my finger. Yes?” 

“Sure,” Max agrees, following the path of Charles’ finger as he drags it back up. 

“I’m not in an alternate universe, because those don’t exist. This just is the timeline. So whatever changes I made, that is just how the universe is. And because you saw me with your own eyes, it’s a fixed point. It happened, whether there is a Charles that remembers the crash or not.” 

Max frowns. 

“I don’t understand,” he admits. 

“Me either,” Charles says.

Max laughs at him, then reaches out for his hand. 

“Maybe it’s more like . . .” He presses his finger against Charles’ elbow, his touch gentle and soft. “This is your 2019.” Then he slides his finger slightly further down Charles’ forearm, towards his hand. “Then this is your 2025, where I— . . .” He purses his lips, then shakes his head slightly, and moves his finger further down. “This is 2026, when you travel back.” But instead of moving his hand back towards Charles’ elbow, he slides it further down to his wrist. “Then this is now, the new 2019.” Then further down, dragging his finger to the tip of Charles’ own. “Then this will be the new 2026. You’re just . . . going to take a shortcut there. So it’s linear, even though it’s not linear.” 

It’s so hot when he’s smart. Charles has no hope of understanding anything Max just said, he just knows Max already gets all this way better than Charles. 

If this was his real time, he’d be kissing Max already. Straddling his lap, hands wandering under his shirt, kissing away all the words he’d probably still be trying to say. 

Charles lifts his eyes from his hand, to see Max already looking at him. 

A lump fills his throat, and his decision not to kiss Max wavers. 

What hurt could it really do? Max wants it, he wants it. He’s had to go four months without, and the temptation to give in is so strong. 

It would be so easy. So easy. 

But he’s already taken so much from them today. He . . . he shouldn’t. 

He glances at his watch. Thirteen minutes. 

“I was going to try to convince you and I not to race on the Sunday,” Charles admits, pointing down to the paper he’d scribbled all over. 

“Both of us?” 

Charles shrugs. “Hardly seemed fair that I would get to race and that would get me the Championship.” 

Max gives a small, wobbly smile. “Most people would’ve let themselves win.” 

“Most people haven’t learned what it’s like to win the same race your husband dies.” 

Max’s smile drops. His inhale is shaky and weak. 

Twelve minutes. 

“Max,” Charles says urgently, reaching out for him. He grabs Max’s thigh desperately, then switches to his hand, taking it in both of his and holding tight. “Please. I know it’s so far away from you, but please don’t get in that car.” 

“Charles, come on,” Max says, clearly unsure. “It’s in six years. Who even knows—everything will probably be so different. Even if I don’t race, I don’t know that it will . . . fix anything.” 

Charles doesn’t know either. For all he knows, Max’s death is some destiny bullshit. He’ll save him in this accident, only for him to have another. 

“Please try anyway,” Charles says, voice hitching. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m so selfish. I didn’t want to—this wasn’t what—but I love you, I love you so much, I had to try, and you have to try—” 

Max leans forward, grabbing Charles around the shoulders and pulling him forward for a tight hug. It’s more awkward than normal, Max not used it at all, Charles used to a bigger, broader Max, but he presses his face into Max’s throat and he smells the same. It feels the same. 

His eyes burn and his throat hurts but Max’s fists are clenched into the back of his t-shirt and Charles feels almost normal. 

“I’ll try,” Max swears. “Fuck. Of course I’ll try. Last race of 2025, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Charles breathes, trying to suck in as much of Max’s scent as he can. Even if he gets back and nothing has changed, at least he’ll have had the chance to remember all these little things. “Don’t race. Please don’t race.” 

“Everyone’s going to think I’m insane,” Max whispers, laughing humourlessly. “But I’m not marrying Charles Leclerc and then dying immediately.” 

Charles tightens his arms around his waist. 

He’s such a fucking idiot. Charles just loves him so, so much. 

“Max,” Charles starts, then clears his throat to try and wash away the burn. “My Max, I mean. The night before he died, we—we were talking about time travel, and what we’d do if we ever went back.” 

Max is quiet against him, hand rubbing up and down his back. 

“And he said if he went back in time, the only thing he’d try to do was get his past self to ‘stop fucking around’ and tell me how he feels.” 

Charles pulls back, reaching out to gently cup Max’s cheek in his palm. Max leans into it, eyes so open and trusting. 

God, Charles hopes he’s saved him. 

“In my time, we got together at the end of 2021. Married in 2023. And my Max said he wishes we’d had another two years, and I said he was greedy, but—two years. You don’t know how much I’ve wished for those two years.” 

Max looks so sad as he looks at him, shoulders drawn inward, little crease between his brows. 

“You saw him,” Max whispers. “He hates me. I—I wish I could give you those two years, I do, but he—he doesn’t even like me.” 

Charles shakes his head quickly. “I do like you. I mean—I did. He does. He’s just jealous. Go slow, you have to go slow, but do it after Monza. It was the first time I thought I could actually do this, could make it in F1, so he’ll be more open. Not so jealous. Just—just go with me to the club that night, and tell me I did a good job and I might even kiss you myself.” 

Max’s eyes widen slightly. 

Charles lets a small smile turn up his lips. “If you’re really smooth with it, I might even let you fuck me.” 

Max inhales sharply, pink blooming on his cheeks. 

Charles laughs quietly, smoothing his thumb over Max’s pink cheek. He’s so pretty. So sweet. Charles misses him so, so desperately. 

“Just be patient, okay?” Charles asks quietly. “Don’t let me push you away. Then one day, he’ll—he’ll wake up and realise you’re everything he ever wanted, and then he won’t want to spend a single second apart from you.” 

Max smiles at him. “Always a step behind, aren’t you, Leclerc?” 

Charles’ stomach twists. 

“Always,” he says, a little wistfully. 

He feels a little tug in his navel, like it’s being pulled by a hook, and he knows what that means. 

He’s not ready. He’s not ready to go back, he can’t face saying goodbye again. 

But no matter what he does, he’ll go back anyway. 

Quickly, he tugs both his own wedding ring and Max’s ring from his ring finger, where he’d been wearing them both since the accident, then pulls Max’s hand towards him and presses them into his palm. 

“Charles,” Max says, shaking his head and already trying to push them back. “I can’t—” 

“You have to,” Charles tells him firmly. “When I travel back, my mind will end up in the body of the new Charles. And that new Charles—he might have different rings, or no rings, or maybe everything will be the same but I can’t lose them. I can’t. So you need to keep them for me, please, keep them safe.” 

“But you don’t even know—if I never see you again—” 

Charles shakes his head quickly. He doesn’t want to think like that right now. When he returns to the future, he’ll let himself mourn and grieve all over again, but right now, maybe the last time he ever sees Max alive, he doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

But last time . . . last time he got nothing. A cocky smirk as Max pulled his balaclava on, a wave from the Red Bull cockpit as they settled in after the formation lap, and then Fred walking up to him as he’d stumbled out of his car to say, “Charles . . . They’re not restarting the race. I’m so . . . I’m so sorry.” 

“Please, keep them,” Charles whispers. “You can give them back to me in 2026, okay?” 

Max looks so unsure. It makes him look even younger. 

There’s another tug in his stomach, stronger than the last. 

Panic flares through him, and he knows he doesn’t have any time left. 

“I love you,” he says, words stumbling over each other in his desperation. He knows his cheeks are wet, but he can barely feel it. “I love you so much, and I’m going to see you in 2026.” 

“Charles—” 

“I am,” he says firmly. “Promise me.” 

Tears spill down Max’s cheeks, and he rubs them harshly with the back of his free hand. 

“I promise.” 

He pinches the rings between his thumb and forefinger, then slips both onto the ring finger of his right hand. 

“I’ll save the other side for him.” 

And Charles—

He’s selfish. He’s so, so selfish. Eventually, he won’t even remember this from his side anyway, once he goes back and his memories from this timeline disappear.

But he doesn’t care. 

This might be the last time he ever sees Max, his husband, his soulmate, the love of his life. 

He rushes forward, grasping Max’s cheeks and pressing their lips together. It’s the same as it always was; his lips are soft, and warm, and fit so easily with his own. Max is so eager with it, but so clumsy, too, not knowing how Charles likes to be kissed, not knowing to open his mouth, not knowing to lick his tongue behind Charles’ teeth. 

Charles pulls back only a millimetre, gasping for breath, the salt of his tears heavy on his tongue.

“I’ll never love anybody else,” Charles whispers, fingers digging into Max’s cheeks. 

Max reaches up to grip his forearms, nudging their noses together. “I hope that’s not true,” he murmurs. His voice hitches, and he takes a deep breath. “You have more love left, I know you do.” 

Charles shakes his head. “I don’t,” he moans, then pulls Max close so he can kiss him again. It’s wet and desperate, a terrible kiss to anybody else, but Charles only cares about having his husband close. “You’ll be in 2026, promise me you’ll be in 2026. Tell me you’ll be there baby, please.” 

“I swear, I’ll be there. You and me, Charlie, yeah?” 

Always, he thinks. 

Charles leans in, pressing their mouths together too hard; their teeth bump, noses pressed in. 

The tug in his stomach worsens, and Charles knows time is up. 

He gives himself another second, trying to memorise this, so he never forgets what it’s like to have Max kiss him. Then, he rips himself back, standing from the lounge and backing away. He doesn’t want Max to have to watch.  

“I love you,” he says, whimpering as the heartbroken pain in his chest worsens. He rubs at it, stumbling over the coffee table as he backs away. “I love you. I love you.” 

Max stares up at him, stunned, cheeks pink and wet. 

“I—” 

“Don’t,” Charles interrupts. He pauses by the exit to let himself have one last look, one last moment, one last second taking in Max’s beautiful face and eyes and lips. The tugging in his gut is stronger and stronger, like he’s half-way to disappearing. “Save it for him, okay?” 

Max stands as well, stumbling over the corner of the coffee table. 

“Charles, wait—” 

“I love you,” Charles says again, in case it's the last time. That morning, he didn’t know it was the last time. Now he does, but it doesn’t feel any better. 

He turns his back, stumbling around the corner, hand disappearing in front of his eye, stomach pulling, pulling, pulling—

“I—”

Charles is gone before Max can finish his sentence. 

Charles feels incredibly numb, and so, so odd. 

He blinks, the cans of food in front of him blurring. 

Why the fuck is he looking at food? 

He turns his head to this side, trying to work out where he is. A supermarket. 

Why the fuck is he at a supermarket? 

The nausea of travelling through time rises quickly, and he takes a deep breath, trying to settle his stomach. Spots dance in his eyes for a moment, and then disappear. 

Slowly, he puts the can of chickpeas back in place on the shelf. 

His wedding ring glints in the harsh overhead lights. 

He frowns as he pulls his hand closer, inspecting the ring closer. Unless the time travel is messing with his brain, he swears that he just gave that to Max. 

Except—no, this isn’t his ring. 

It’s—

Charles drops the basket on the ground, clattering loudly as food spills out, and then starts to run. 

He doesn’t waste any time knocking when he gets back to the apartment. 

The house key is in his pocket, where it always is, and he unlocks it quickly. 

It’s not lost on him, how much easier it was to run to his car, to run from the car to the elevator, to run from the elevator to here. He’s stronger than he was in his original 2026. 

There’s a ring on his finger, and he doesn’t recognise it, but there’s only one. 

He was out shopping, which he hasn’t done in months. He’s been unable to get out of bed. 

And Max promised. He promised he wouldn’t get in the car. 

The key scratches around the lock as he tries to shove it inside, hands shaking terribly. He has to take a deep breath to try and calm himself down enough to unlock the door. 

When it finally swings open, he gets swarmed by a barrage of animals. 

Leo barks loudly at his feet. Jimmy and Sassy twist through his ankles. A third cat has its front paws propped up on Leo’s back, staring up at Charles with its sweet blue eyes. 

He blinks. 

Why is there a third cat? 

No, no, not important right now, he can worry about it later. 

He steps over the four of them, hand braced against the wall, heart in his throat. His mouth feels dry and full of sand, and he can barely talk through it. 

His palm drags against the wall as he slowly makes his way further down the hall. 

Then—

“Charles, seriously, we’re going to get kicked out if you don’t start to teach Leo how to shut up.” 

Charles’ heart squeezes, then drops through his stomach. 

Oh. Oh. 

“Charles, did you hear me? And don’t tell me that I can teach him, you promised that you would handle his training.” 

His body tips to the side, shoulder crashing against the wall as his knees wobble and collapse beneath him. 

It’s—

He’s—

Max rounds the corner, scowling and holding a bag of treats. 

“When I agreed to get this dog, I forgot that I’d have to train you, too,” he’s muttering, prying open the bag. 

His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed pink, glasses fogged up and perched on the end of his nose. Charles would know he’s been cooking just from that alone, because he always looks like a mess whenever he’s trying to follow a new recipe, but he’s also wearing a red apron with little Cavallino’s printed over it, and Married to the 2025 F1 Champion embroidered across the chest. 

Charles recognises that stupid apron. His team gave it to him on the morning of the final race last year, to bolster his spirits before it started. They’d filmed him opening it, and he laughed himself sick and told the camera he couldn’t wait to see Max’s face. 

They’d never posted the video, of course. 

Charles had never gotten to give the apron to Max, either. 

When Max catches sight of Charles, slumped on the floor, shoulder against the wall and staring up at him in shock, he drops the bag and rushes over to him. 

Leo swoops between them to pick the bag up between his teeth and drag it away, but Charles doesn’t care. 

“Hey, Charles, baby, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” 

His face is so much broader than it was in 2019. He’s filled out but also lost his baby face, grown into his nose and eyes and lips. There’s a dot of sweat at his temple. His shoulders are broad, even in the old AlphaTauri sweatshirt he’s wearing. His eyes are the same gorgeous blue they’ve always been. 

Charles reaches out, hands shaking, eyes filled with tears, gently touching Max’s cheek. 

It’s real. He’s real. He’s alive. 

Max’s lips part. “Oh,” he breathes. “It’s you.” 

“It’s you,” Charles says, breath hitching. “I—I don’t—I was so scared—” 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Max says. Tears well in his eyes, turning the blue dark and clear. “All these years—I knew when you’d be coming, but I didn’t know what would happen in Abu Dhabi. And then we got through that race, and I lived, and I just—I’ve been so excited to see you again. So that you would know it worked.” 

Charles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, not able to comprehend what he’s seeing.

He’s alive. 

It worked. 

Max is alive.  

“I thought you would be here last weekend,” Max admits, tears spilling down his cheeks. “First race of the year. Because you said—you said you missed it. And you weren’t—and I—I got so scared, but you’re here. You made it.” 

“They pushed the first race back to honour you,” Charles sobs. 

Then he launches himself forward, throwing his arms around Max’s shoulders and burying his face in his neck. He smells exactly the same: like he did four months ago, like he did seven years ago, like he did fifteen minutes ago. 

He cries into Max’s neck, fingers clawing at his shirt as he tries to press them as close as he can. 

“It worked,” he cries, not quite able to believe his husband is in his arms again. “It worked. I can’t believe it worked.” 

He cries until his swollen face can’t cry anymore, his head pounding, and Max holds him the whole time. Rubbing his back, giving his shoulder little kisses, reassuring him that he is here, he is alive. Crying as well. 

Max pulls back first, then takes Charles’ face in his hands. 

Charles feels terrible. His head is throbbing, his sinuses feel like they’re about to explode, and there’s a numbness starting to creep in his chest. 

“Can I kiss you?” Max murmurs, thumbs sweeping over his cheeks. “Charles and I talked about it. He said that he wants me to. Would want me to. Uh—you know.” 

Horror grows in Charles’ stomach, as he realises what Max is saying. 

“Oh, God,” he moans, lifting his hands to cover Max’s over his face. “I’ve taken your Charles from you. I’m—I’ve stolen his body and he’s gone, like my Max was gone—” 

“Hey, hey, no,” Max says, shaking his head. He leans forward to pull him into another hug, hands sliding to the back of his neck. “Charles. No. It’s not like that.” 

“It is,” he cries. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I would never—I never wanted you to feel like this—” 

Max shakes his head against him, then pulls back enough to press their foreheads together. Charles grips Max’s forearms tightly, stomach roiling with his anxiety and guilt. 

He never intended to be this selfish. To tell Max he was going to die, make him live with that for years; to give him the memory of seeing Charles’ heartbreak; and, now, to take away his Charles, replace a happier, lighter Charles with this monstrous, heartbroken wreck. 

“But my Charles will come back,” Max murmurs, fingers digging in tightly to the back of Charles’ neck. “That’s what you said, right? His memories and your memories will merge together. You’ll eventually remember his version, and my Charles will come back.”

Oh. 

He . . . He did say that. 

His own memories will disappear, replaced by this new version of his Charles. His grief will be gone, the crash will be gone, and he’ll become whatever Charles he’s accidentally scooped out and replaced. 

“But your Max . . .” Max says tentatively, quietly. “He’s still gone. I’m never going to be him.” 

No. Charles is never going to see his Max again. 

His chest aches, and his eyes burn. 

It was a long shot, it was always a long shot, but he’d still had hope. He’s been existing only on hope. 

But Max isn’t coming back. The beautiful life they’d built together is never coming back. 

Charles holds his hand over his chest, rubbing his palm over his heart. He’s always thought it odd, that grief can manifest so physically. Maybe he should be used to it by now, considering how intimately familiar he is, but it’s so strong. So potent. There’s no getting used to it. 

“My Max got buried in Hasselt.” There’s no grave for him to visit, Charles realises. No place for him to mourn. But— “And you’re alive. That’s what matters.” 

Max leans back slightly, just enough to be able to look at him. Charles drinks him in desperately, comparing him to 2019 Max, and to the Max he saw die. The lines around his eyes are deeper, clearly having laughed and smiled so much since 2019; but he’s sadder than his own Max, like life has been harder. 

Charles thinks that might be his fault. 

“I love you, too, by the way,” Max tells him, thumbs swiping through the tears on Charles’ cheeks. “You left before I could tell you.” 

Charles lurches forward, eagerly pressing their lips together. He feels like he’s drowning in it, trying to crawl inside Max and stay there forever. 

Kissing Max is exactly like he remembers it. 2019 Max had been so tentative, so awkward but so eager. 

This Max clearly knows him. Knows how to kiss him, knows how to love him. 

Charles pulls back, breathing heavily, unable to stop touching Max. He runs his hands over his shoulders, his waist, his neck, his face, trying to touch every part of him. 

“What happened?” Charles asks, desperate to know even though he thinks the answer might kill him. “You didn’t race?” 

Max winces. “I raced,” he admits apologetically. Charles’ heart seizes in his chest, furious and terrified that something could have happened to him. The other Charles must have been worried sick. “But you said it was brake failure, so I got it fixed. Made them triple check the car, refused to get in without them checking it over. And they—they found it. There was a little problem in the hydraulic line. Like a ticking time bomb, they said. So they fixed it, and I raced.” 

A simple little problem, fixed just like that, and Max is alive. 

His Max could’ve lived, if they’d just looked. 

“You weren’t scared?” 

Max smiles at him. “Fucking terrified. But, also, not really I guess. Because—” 

“Because what?” 

“Because if it didn’t work, I knew you’d come back for me.” 

Charles leans forward, pressing his face into Max’s neck, laughing and crying and shaking his head in disbelief. 

Of course he’d go back. In every life, in every reality, he would go back. 

“Always,” he promises.  

And Max—

He knows what that means, now. 

“Always.” 

Charles wakes up just past midnight, and he can’t bring himself to go back to sleep. 

Max is asleep beside him, for the first time in four months. Sleeping through it seems ridiculous, and stupid, and like a waste of their precious time together. 

He’d passed out earlier, physically unable to keep his eyes open, but now he’s awake he can’t go back to sleep. 

Instead, he traces the lines of Max’s face with his eyes, and then his finger. 

He’s not sure how long it will take for his memories to disappear. Already he can feel the new ones appearing, blurry around the edges. It’s strange, being able to remember the two different versions of his wedding day. 

They’re so similar that he would struggle to tell them apart, except apparently, the other Charles and Max had to deal with rain at their wedding. 

Their first kiss, too; he can see the sunlight reflecting off the sea in Ventimiglia so clearly, just like he can see the harsh glare of the overhead lights in the hallway of his hotel in Monza. He can feel his horror at Max kissing him in broad daylight, for everyone to see, as much as he can feel his joy and easy acceptance of Max pushing him up against his hotel door the night he won his second race. 

It’s odd, to be the only person alive who remembers that Max. 

Charles doesn’t regret going back in time. Not at all. Anything is better than that, than the Hell on Earth his life had become the day Max had died. He was willing to sacrifice anything, to bring him back. 

Except . . . he supposes he didn’t really think that that would mean sacrificing that Max, anyway. 

He’s alive, well and healthy, but once Charles’ memories disappear, there will be nobody left who remembers him. Nobody who will know how the sun shone in his hair the day they got married; nobody who will know he got bitten by a fish on their honeymoon and then pouted about it for days; nobody who will know that the first time he tried to bake Charles’ favourite cookie he set his apron on fire. 

What his face looked like the first time he told Charles he loved him. How he cried when Charles told him he loved him back. The way he’d proposed, hands shaking so badly he’d dropped the ring and Charles had to retrieve it for him. 

It will be like that version of them never existed. Charles doesn’t know how to grieve them, when he’ll still get to wake up to Max’s face for the rest of his life. 

Max blinks awake with the sunrise, easy smile stretching across his face, and Charles’ grief disappears. 

He’s here. He’s alive. There is no funeral, no grave, no sadness pulling Charles down and under. They were happy, once; now they get to be happy again. 

“I have something for you,” Max mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

They’re still half lidded as he yawns, reaching down to his right hand. Charles tracks the movement, watching as Max pulls the two matching rings from his finger. 

He and Max’s wedding rings. 

Heart in his throat, Charles accepts the two rings. 

“It probably hasn’t been very long for you,” Max murmurs, clearly more awake as he watches Charles closely. “But I kept them safe.” 

Slowly, Charles lifts his left hand, staring at the unfamiliar ring sitting there. There’s a vague, distant memory of Max getting on one knee to propose to him, but it’s not his own; it belongs to the other Charles, from years earlier than his own Max gathered the courage. 

The ring the other Charles and Max share with each other is similar, yet different. The embedded diamonds a different size, the width slightly thinner. 

It feels wrong to take the other Charles’ ring off. Charles stole his body and his husband; he can’t steal his ring, too. 

He slips his own onto his right ring finger, twisting it with his thumb, then holds Max’s ring out.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Charles murmurs. “I understand if you don’t want to.”

Max looks torn, glancing between the ring and Charles’ face. 

“Baby, I—I’ll wear it if you want me to have it, but . . . you don’t want it? I don’t—I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your version, and things are so different here. You don’t want to wear it to remember him?” 

Charles clasps it tightly in his fist, pain twisting in his chest. 

He understands that they’re different. He understands that there is almost nothing that this Max will remember that matches the original timeline. 

This Max is his own beautiful self, and that person is so similar and yet so different to the one he knew. He’s not a replacement for what Charles has lost, and he wouldn’t want him to be. 

But—  

“It’s yours, anyway,” Charles tells him, loosening his fist and holding out. “At least one Max will have it.” 

Max takes it from him, then slips it onto his right finger as well. 

Charles thinks it’s nice, that they’re both doing it. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, but it’s a version of them, together forever. 

“I don’t want him to disappear,” Charles confesses, twisting all four of their hands together. He bends his neck down, pressing a lingering kiss against the ring on Max’s right hand. “If I lose my memories, it will be like he and I never existed. He deserves more than that.” 

“Okay,” Max agrees easily, curling himself around Charles’ body. He’s so warm and lovely, everything Charles has been dreaming about for months. “What do you want to do?” 

Charles wakes to a heavy weight on his stomach, the last wisps of a warm and sunny day in Ventimiglia disappearing from the edges of his mind. 

He feels like he’s forgetting something important, but he can’t quite tell what it is. 

Max lifts his head from his stomach, blue eyes blinking up at him. 

“Well, hello there, sleeping beauty.” 

Charles yawns loudly, arms stretching above his head. His spine cracks, abs flexing tightly, and then he lazily wraps his arms around Max, one over his shoulders, the other lazily twisting through his hair. 

It’s getting so long now. He really needs to cut it, because Charles can’t stand to hear him complain about how sweaty he gets during a race one more time, except Max looks so handsome with long hair.  

“Cats? Dogs?” Charles asks, yawning again. 

“I’ve already let them out,” Max tells him. “I wasn’t kidding when I called you sleeping beauty. It’s almost midday.” 

Charles’ brows raise in surprise. That’s . . . very late. 

“I was having a lovely dream,” Charles tells him, fingers scraping against his scalp. “A bit odd, though.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. We were down in Ventimiglia, I think we were on a first date? And we got ice cream and went down to the beach, and then you just kissed me. Right there on the sand.” 

Max freezes against his stomach. 

“Weird, right?” Charles asks, trying to stifle another yawn. He really is tired, like his body was doing a workout during his sleep. “First date and you outed us. Lovely in a dream, but I think I’d kill you if you did that in real life.” 

Slowly, Max pushes himself up onto his palm, staring down at Charles with sad eyes. 

“What?” Charles asks, perplexed. “Why do you look like that?” 

Max purses his lips, then says softly, “You don’t remember anymore, do you?” 

Charles blinks. “Remember . . . what?” 

Max’s shoulders slump down. “Charles. The—the other Charles. He was here. Has been here.” 

Charles shoots up from the bed, eyes wide as he stares at Max. “He—older me? He made it back?” 

“A few months ago,” Max murmurs. “He said his memories were disappearing, but I—I didn’t think it would be so soon. You really don’t remember anything?” 

Charles lifts his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember something, anything from his other life. He remembers the last few months, everything he did and said, the races he’s won and lost, being so clingy with Max all the time, talking about retiring together. They don’t feel particularly odd; there’s no hint that his body was filled with the consciousness of a different version of himself. 

There’s a couple days that are very blurry, right around the first race of the season, where he can’t really remember much of anything. 

Then, before that, he just remembers this life. The older version of himself coming back and turning his entire life upside down, avoiding Max for months so he didn’t have to face the reality of this new truth, Max kissing him in Monza, the two of them tentatively trying to find equilibrium in the following year, Max proposing after his first Championship in ‘21, the beautiful years of the marriage, the growing sense of dread as the end of 2025 had gotten closer and closer. 

It’s . . . odd, to know there’s a whole other life he remembers nothing from. Like he has to mourn part of himself, even though the older Charles he’d met had been nothing but a shell. 

“He’s . . . gone?” Charles asks, not quite able to comprehend the idea. 

Max gives him a small, sad smile. “I think . . . Yeah, I think he’s gone.” 

Charles doesn’t know how to process that. How to feel about it. 

But he’s spent seven years living with the knowledge of what he was willing to do for Max. How far he would go, how much it destroyed him. 

The older Charles had been so . . . broken. Empty. Pale, hair limp, bags under his eyes; muscles withered away, body frail. Like it was worth nothing to him anymore. 

And Charles—he’s seen death. He’s experienced it. He knows what it did to him in the past. 

But his future self had clearly crumbled under the weight of Max’s death. 

Charles is glad he’s free now. That that version of himself is absolved from his pain and grief. 

“Was he happy to see you?” 

Max softens, eyes sad and wet. 

“Yeah, baby,” he says, giving him a wobbly smile. “He was.” 

Charles tries to smile back, but his face feels odd and strained. He drops the smile, not bothering to pretend. 

“He left something for you, though.” 

Charles blinks, surprised. Max slides over the bed, opening the drawer to his bedside table and rummaging around for a moment. 

He turns back around, a small diary in both his hands. He smooths his palm over the cover, hesitating for a moment, then passes it to him. 

“I’ve read it a couple times,” Max confesses. “He—he wanted me to know it, as well.” 

Charles recognises it, vaguely. There’s some odd memories of him spending hours sitting at his desk, scribbling away furiously, sometimes with Max standing over his shoulder, sometimes without. 

He can’t quite recall what’s written in there, though. 

Carefully, Charles opens the cover. Sitting between the cover and the front page is a white envelope, sealed shut, with his name on front. 

Charles glances up at Max, who gives him an encouraging nod, so he gently rips it open. 

There’s a letter in there, his name at the top. 

And—

Two rings tumble out, and he recognises them instantly. They’ve been sitting on Max’s finger for seven years, to be returned to Charles whenever he made his way back. 

“He wanted you to choose what to do with them,” Max tells him quietly. “So you didn’t feel forced to wear them.” 

The choice is easy. Of course it is. Charles may not remember that life anymore, but it’s still a part of him. 

He puts his ring on his right finger, and then slides Max’s onto his right ring finger too. 

Max gives him a soft, adoring smile, then leans forward to give him a slow, loving kiss. 

“I love you,” Max murmurs. 

“I love you, too.” 

Charles opens the letter, and reads. 

My dearest Charles, 

Thank you for letting me borrow your body. I’m sorry I took it from you, even though it’s only temporary. 

Even though I don’t regret going back to save our Max, I didn’t quite realise what it would cost us all. For that, I’m deeply sorry. I went back to ease my own burden, and I didn’t think through what that would mean for you, or for Max. 

There’s a sadness to him that wasn’t there in my lifetime, and I can’t even express how much I regret that. 

But he’s here. He’s alive. 

When I first woke up in your body, I realised quickly what my actions meant for us all. 

I don’t want you to think that my decision to go back in time and save him was taken lightly. It might feel like that to you, but I have a feeling that you’ll understand. You’re me, after all. 

You’ll think of Papa, and you’ll think of Jules, and you’ll know that I did what I had to do. 

So when I decided to go back, I knew that there was a chance that that life would disappear. I thought that was okay, because I didn’t want to live without Max, but … we loved each other so much. 

And I know you two do as well, but I couldn’t bear to have no one in the world remember that I loved him so much I chose him over anything else. 

So, I decided to write this diary. I’ve filled it almost entirely, with everything I can remember from our lives together. I started from 2019, because I know that’s where everything diverges. 

When you get to the end, please be kind to me. I know you’ll be angry about what I told Max when I went back, what I did with him, but I think by then you’ll understand why I had to. 

My Max … My Max is dead, and he will be forever. That Charles died with him. 

But you two … you two will get forever. 

We didn’t really get to see each other on the morning he died. We were both so focused in the morning, and then didn’t cross paths in the paddock. My last memory of him is watching his car crash into the barriers, and I am so, so glad that you don’t have to live with that anymore. If there’s one thing I’m truly grateful to have spared you, it’s watching him die.  

But that last night we were together, we talked about what we’d do if we ever time travelled. And he said he’d go back to try and get a few more years of us together. 

After he died, the only thing I wanted was to bring him back, but … I think it’s lovely, that I was able to fulfil his wish, too. Two more years of you both together. 

He’s my soulmate. He’s your soulmate. 

You’ll never remember how much those extra two years mean, but to him and I, they’re everything. 

I chose him, he chose me, and now you two get to have forever. 

It’s him and I. Always. 

Take care of him, please. And enjoy falling in love with him all over again. 

All my love, 

Charles. 

“Tomorrow’s the big day.” 

Charles presses his face further into Max’s neck. He’s trying very hard not to think about it, and they’ve been doing a good job of avoiding it until now, but of course Max just has to bring it up. 

“I don’t want to talk about the race,” Charles mumbles, clinging tighter to Max’s waist. 

“Why? You could be Champion tomorrow. Charles Leclerc, 2025 Formula One World Champion.” 

Charles grunts. “Leclerc-Verstappen.” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Charles groans, then rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He wants to change the subject, because he doesn’t really know what he’s going to do with himself tomorrow. He will either be a first time Champion, or Max will be a five time Champion. 

Either way, their relationship will be different forever. 

But Charles likes the way it is now. He doesn’t want it to change. 

“If you win—” 

“We’ve talked about this, baby,” Max interrupts. “We’ve agreed. As much distance as we need, as long as we need, no hard feelings.” 

Easy for him to say. He knows Max, and he knows himself. He’s the weak link here. If Charles loses, he’s the one who’ll be jealous and angry. He’s the one who’ll need space. 

If Max loses, he’ll drink himself stupid for one night, and then move on, ready for the next season. 

Max sighs, then rolls over to his side. He shoves his hand underneath his cheek, looking at Charles with his pretty blue eyes. 

Charles can’t resist, no matter how much he wants to be performatively mad at him. 

He rolls onto his side as well, forcing Max to share his pillow with him, shoving his own hand underneath his cheek. Like this, they’re almost close enough for their noses to nudge, but Charles doesn’t have to cross his eyes to look at Max. 

“Time travel exists, now,” Max says quietly, smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. “If you lose, maybe you can come back in time to tell yourself what to do differently.” 

Charles scowls at him. “I’m not a cheater.” 

“Let’s see. If you lose, come back in time to this moment, so you can tell yourself how to fix it.” 

Ridiculously, Charles falls into silence, shoulders tensing. He almost wonders whether his older self is about to burst through the door, manic glint in his eye and advice pouring from his mouth. 

Nothing. 

A triumphant grin spreads across his face. “See,” he says, unbearably smug. “Not a cheater.” 

“Maybe you’re actually a Champion.” 

Butterflies twist in his stomach. He hopes that’s the case. 

“If I ever time travelled, I don’t think I’d come back to change a Championship.” 

“Yeah?” Max asks curiously. “What would you change?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t change anything. I think I would just . . . want to spend a day with Papa, maybe. Or Jules. Ask them about life, love, racing. Just one more day, knowing what I know. It would help, I think.” 

Max goes quiet for a moment, an almost melancholic smile on his face. He reaches out with his free hand to take Charles’, then squeezes it hard. 

“And I’d tell them about you.” 

Max looks surprised, brows raising. “Me?” 

“Of course. They’d both think it was hilarious that you’re who I married. I used to complain about you so much, they would think I’d gone crazy. And I’d want to tell them how amazing you are, and how successful you’ve been, and how much I love you.” 

“You shouldn’t waste your time with them talking about my achievements. I’ve heard you only get a couple of hours back in time. Don’t waste it on me.” 

“It’s not a waste of time to talk about you,” Charles says seriously, frowning. Max looks a little insecure, like he doesn’t believe that could be true. “Hey. Max. I’m serious. You’re not a waste of time. It would be an honour to tell them about you, and I know they would think the same.” 

Max looks doubtful, so Charles leans forward to give him a deep, slow kiss. He loves Max so much, and he can’t bear the thought that Max doesn’t know that. 

Max pulls back first, slightly breathless, and says, “Well, I’d go back in time and tell my past self to stop fucking around and just tell you that he loves you.” 

Charles snorts. “I don’t think past me would appreciate that very much. He’d probably kill you.” 

Max shrugs. “Or maybe he would tell me he loves me back, and we’d get a couple extra years together.” 

Charles giggles, turning his face into the pillow for a moment. He knows that’s not what would happen: he knows exactly how he used to feel about Max, and more importantly, Max does too. 

“Don’t be so greedy,” Charles says. “You already get the rest of our lives. Forever. Why do you need a couple more years?” 

“Why stop at a couple? Maybe I’d go back to thirteen and get us together then—” 

Charles laughs, then surges forward to kiss him. “You’re so stupid,” he says when he pulls back, ridiculously fond. “Thirteen? We’d kill each other.” 

Max rolls his eyes. “Psh, we’re soulmates. We wouldn’t kill each other. Maybe we’d have married at eighteen and by now we’d have an army of animal children.” 

Charles laughs again, then holds their enclosed hands to his chest. Sometimes he feels so much love for Max that it feels like it’s going to burst out of him, so big that it simply can’t stay inside his tiny body. 

“An army of animal children,” Charles repeats, shaking his head as he laughs. “What are their names?” 

“I think we name them after the Ninja Turtles. Michelangelo, Donatello—” 

Charles lunges forward again, pressing his mouth against Max’s in a fierce kiss. He’s just so . . . stupid. Adorable. Sweet and kind and amazing. Charles feels so lucky to have him. 

“You’re an idiot,” Charles mutters against his mouth, smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. “Idiot. I’d never marry you at eighteen.” 

Max pulls back, nudging his nose against Charles’. He looks a bit more serious, and the smile dips on Charles’ face. 

“The truth is, there isn’t anything I’d want to change about my life,” Max says, so honestly and earnestly Charles’ chest burns. “I’m . . . I’m so happy. You’ve made me so happy. So if I had to go back, that’s the only thing I’d want. To have more time with you, whether it’s ten years or two years or a day or even just the two hours I’d get in the past. You’re the only thing I want.” 

Charles feels a lump in his throat. 

Max squeezes his hand tightly. 

“It doesn’t matter what happens tomorrow, Charlie,” Max whispers. “What matters is you. Us. The only thing that’s important is we both walk away from that race still together.” 

“We will,” Charles murmurs fervently. He believes it, now more than ever. 

He watches Max closely, trying to memorise his face. The blue of his eyes, the freckle on his lip, the laughter lines on his cheeks. If everything is going to change tomorrow, he wants to remember them this way. 

If he loses tomorrow, he wants to remember this moment, remember how he feels right now, and know that he and Max are so in love that the thing they’ve dedicated their lives to is less important than their marriage. 

Racing will only last a few more years. He and Max are forever. 

“I love you,” Charles says. “And I—I love that you’d go back for me. I’d go back for you, too.” 

Max shakes his head. “Your dad—” 

“If it’s the three of you, if I could only see one of you again . . . I’d choose you. You’re who I’d go back for.” 

Max softens. 

“I choose you,” Charles repeats, a little more meaningful. He’s not talking about the time travel, which isn’t really real anyway. Not like them; not like the Championship tomorrow. 

Everything is going to change tomorrow, Charles knows. 

But the one thing that will stay the same—

“You and me,” Charles murmurs. “Always.”

“Always.”

and the universe whispers "darling, you can't save him"

oh, the fates tangle their threads but this time they are so mistaken 

and I can only bring myself to swear "watch me do it anyway"

he saved me first, you know 

By Abby S