Gentle Reminder You Can Rise Up From Everything. You Can Recreate Yourself. Nothing Is Permanent. You

to the people who are following me

thank you

im sorry

I understand Ferrari because if I had a man that pretty hopelessly devoted to me I would torture him for fun too

I LOVE YOUR FICS.

Could you write a fic that's basically Lestappen 2022 with all the RANCID vibes. They hate each other. They are still in their enemies phase. I just saw a post the other day talking abt how no one writes Lestappen in its true form anymore. I just feel like you could make it work. I love you/p. Take care, babe.

OKOKOK I have come up with like a snippet of sorts. not proof read. Grammarly hopefully did me justice. enjoy!!! (and I hope this is what u were looking for. I'm not exactly all that good at writing anger without overdoing it so if this seems a bit theatrical I m SORRY)

Charles Leclerc does not see Max Verstappen until it’s too late.

Not until Bahrain, when the red and the blue clash like blood in water. Not until the mirrors show an outline of a charging oracle-blue machine, cold and venomous as if Milton Keynes had spit out a monster shaped like a man and tfold it to hunt Ferrari dreams until they were roadkill.

And Charles — oh, Charles — blinks only once. Stares ahead with the sun of Maranello behind his eyes and burns.

He pretends he does not see. He lies. He drives like he's the only one on track, and Max drives like the world owes him a crown and Charles is wearing it wrong.

But the thing is: Charles was first. The prodigy. The golden child, the prince of Monaco, the one they said would rise like the sun. He earned the world’s love with his smile and his storms, carved himself into Ferrari like a sacrament, bled for the reds.

And now here comes Verstappen. Entitled. Ruthless. Son of a serpent and bastard of a legacy, forged in Red Bull steel, who takes and takes and wins.

Charles doesn’t just hate Max. He despises him. Deep in the marrow. In the clenched jaw during cool-down rooms. In the snatched glances in press conferences, when Max’s voice slinks around words like he’s choking on contempt and Charles’s fists curl beneath the tablecloth.

It’s war. Has always been war.

"You brake tested me,” Max snarls in Saudi. “What are we doing? Playing games?"

Charles smiles, eyes wide with holy fury, flicking the switch on his steering wheel like he’s executing judgment. “Maybe drive better.”

The lion does not forget the leopard’s teeth.

He dreams of tearing Max off the racing line by the throat. Not to kill. Never that. But to remind. He has claws too. The desert heat licks at his halo, sweat under fireproofs, and Max breathes down his neck like a curse from the dark side of the grid.

They play DRS chicken in Jeddah and it is not racing. It is theatre. It is a cathedral built from engine smoke and tire marks. Two titans circling, noses bloodied, hearts rabid. This is not a rivalry. This is a fucking holy war.

And when Max gets the better of him — again — when the RB18 slips past and Charles sees the blue of it slice through the night like a guillotine, he does not feel defeat.

He feels rage.

The kind that settles in the bones. The kind that remembers.

In Imola, it rains. The kind of rain that tastes like betrayal.

Charles spins. He spins. The world turns red, then brown, then blue. Mud flays the Ferrari livery. His hands slam the wheel. The scream he lets out is not of a driver who made a mistake. It is of a man who can feel the season slipping through his fingers like a dying animal.

Max wins.

Of course Max wins.

And Charles watches from the podium, third place and humiliated, wet hair clinging to his forehead, hatred soaking deeper than water ever could. Max grins. The champagne sprays.

Charles doesn’t blink.

He thinks of claws in the wet. Of animals cornered. Of leopards waiting for the desert to dry again.

"You were pushing too hard," Max says later, lazy in the press pen. "You tend to do that."

And Charles — Charles bares his teeth. “At least I was trying.”

The cameras catch the flash of something in his eyes. The way his whole body coils like he's seconds from lunging across the gap. Journalists say it’s rivalry. F1TV edits it with dramatic music.

But it’s hatred. Real, pure, searing. It burns.

By Spain, the gods mock him.

Pole. Glory. Domination. And then —

Smoke.

Engine failure like a slap across the face.

Max inherits the win.

Charles punches the wall in the garage. Carbon dust on his knuckles. Sainz stays back, wisely, like a man who knows not to disturb a hurricane.

Later, Charles walks through the paddock with a stillness that frightens. He sees Max celebrating with Christian Horner. Sees the way he laughs with his whole body like it never hurt to lose anything.

Charles wants to ask: How does it feel to win when the world hands it to you? But he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks past. Like Max is already dead to him.

But he is not. He never is. He is always there.

Monaco is a bloodletting.

His home race. His city. The weight of decades behind him. Every street named after the ghosts of his childhood. And yet, strategy fucks him. Ferrari fucks him. The weather fucks him.

Max — Max’s silence fucks him harder.

Charles doesn’t place. Doesn’t matter.

Max says nothing. Not to him. Not even a smug smile. That would’ve been human. Instead, Max gives him a glance so blank it’s worse. Like Charles is just another name on the board. Like he is irrelevant.

Charles doesn’t sleep that night. Stares at the ceiling of his Monte Carlo apartment, listening to the sound of celebration down the coastline. Fireworks. Laughter. Somewhere, Max is grinning.

Charles thinks of drowning.

Silverstone, Austria, Paul Ricard. Brief flashes of redemption. Hope. Fire.

But Max is always there. Like a stain he can’t bleach out. Like the fucking shadow to Charles’s sun. They do not speak unless forced. When they do, the air turns to static.

“I liked your overtake,” Max mutters after Austria, like it chokes him to say it.

Charles looks at him, slow and sharp. “I didn’t do it for your approval.”

Max shrugs. His eyes glitter. “Did it to win, then?”

Charles bares his teeth again. “Did it to beat you.”

Max just nods. Like he’s waited a lifetime to hear it.

The summer break does nothing. Spa arrives and Max devours the grid from 14th like it was fated. Like the car was just a weapon and he was the hand of God. Charles gets fastest lap — a fucking consolation.

It’s not enough.

Nothing is.

By Monza, the Tifosi scream his name. Red flags wave. Italy breathes Charles Leclerc like incense. But Max is on pole. Or second. Or close enough it doesn’t fucking matter. They are always too close.

A lion and a leopard in the Colosseum. And the leopard always finds a way to bite.

Verstappen wins Monza. In front of the Tifosi. In front of him.

And Charles — Charles doesn’t cry. He can’t. The rage has burned the tears away.

He does not shake Max’s hand. Not properly. Just the barest brush. Their eyes meet, and there’s something in Max’s stare. Not victory. Not arrogance.

Longing.

Charles looks away like it’ll kill him otherwise.

Later, Max finds him. Alone. Behind the paddock, in the dark. No cameras. No team.

“You drive beautifully,” Max says, quiet, almost gentle.

Charles turns. “Don’t.”

Max tilts his head. “You hate me that much?”

“I hate everything you are,” Charles whispers. “I hate that you’re winning. I hate that I can’t catch you. I hate that I used to respect you. I hate that you look at me like you understand. You don’t. You never did.”

Max steps closer.

“I do,” he says. “I do.”

Charles shoves past him like it hurts to breathe the same air.

By Japan, it’s over.

Championship gone. Max crowned. Rain falling in sheets. Suzuka blurred in tragedy.

Charles finishes second. By seconds.

Max hugs him on the podium. And Charles lets him.

Just for a second.

Just for the world.

He doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

But when Max leans close, breath hot by his ear, and murmurs — “You made me fight for it,” — Charles feels something rupture inside.

He will not forgive. He will not forget.

But he will come back.

Because the phoenix may lose the crown.

But he never loses the memory of blood and ashes.

______________________

Charles Leclerc starts 2023 with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a soul stitched together by winter silence and rehearsed optimism.

He’s healed. Or he’s trying to be. Ferrari has a new boss, a new philosophy, a new promise. He wears the suit again like it’s not weighing him down, speaks in press conferences like he believes in second chances, and nods politely whenever someone brings up 2022 — the season of knives and thunder and Max fucking Verstappen.

He says, “We’ve learned a lot. We’ll fight again.”

But the leopard’s dewlap is wet. His claws dulled. His roar gone quiet.

Because how do you keep roaring when the jungle moved on without you?

Max stands on the other side of the paddock like he owns the world now. WDC twice over. Chin high. Eyes colder. He doesn’t gloat anymore — he doesn’t need to. Charles sees it in the way Red Bull walks into the paddock like a death march and leaves with trophies. Over and over and over. Max doesn’t need to say a word. The wins do it for him.

Bahrain is a ghost.

Charles qualifies P3. The car is twitchy, but he handles it. And then. And then. Lap 39. The engine dies again like it’s remembering what it’s meant to do — betray him.

He says, “No, no, no, come on.” And it sounds so much like last year that even the commentary box goes quiet.

Max wins.

And Charles watches from the garage. Headphones off. Mouth a straight line. He doesn’t punch the wall this time. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry.

He just leaves. Quiet. Swallowed whole.

By Jeddah, he’s already slipping.

Ten-place grid penalty for a new ECU. Brilliant. A P2 in quali becomes a P12. He drives like a man chasing redemption with a gun to his own head. Finishes P7. Not a single camera captures his face.

He doesn’t speak to Max.

Not when Max brushes past in parc fermé with a nod.

Not when Max mentions his name in interviews with something close to regret.

And certainly not when, behind closed doors, Max leans against a wall in the Red Bull motorhome and says, "He’s not the same."

Because he’s not.

The leopard has forgotten how to be anything but cornered.

By Australia, it’s a joke.

Lap 1, Turn 3. Contact. Gravel. DNF.

He climbs out of the car with the gait of a man walking away from a battlefield where he was the only one bleeding. Helmet on. No words.

He sees the highlights later. Sees Max. Calm. P1 again.

He wants to smash the screen.

He doesn’t.

He just turns it off.

They ask him in Baku how he's feeling. He says, “Okay.”

He’s not.

He says, “It’s progress.”

It isn’t.

Pole in the sprint shootout. Max beside him. They touch. Max throws his hands up. Shoves his way past post-race, voice sharp. “You didn’t leave space.”

And Charles — Charles snaps. Not publicly. Not yet.

But inside, the mirror cracks.

Because it’s always Max. Always him with the better strategy, the faster car, the answers. Always the golden boy with the wrecking ball smile and no consequences. While Charles is left to count the splinters of every single choice he's made.

He wants to fight him again. Like last year. The game. The war. The myth.

But there’s nothing to fight for.

Not anymore.

In Miami, he crashes in Q3. Twice. The walls feel closer. The track too narrow. The air too loud. He drives like he doesn’t care if it breaks.

Max wins from P9. Makes it look easy.

Charles stares at his reflection in the Ferrari trailer window for five full minutes before he speaks to anyone.

Later, Max comes by.

Stands by the door. Doesn’t enter. Doesn’t smile.

“You okay?” he asks.

Charles doesn’t look at him. Just mutters, “Does it fucking matter?”

Max leaves.

Charles doesn’t watch him go. But he feels it. Like he always does.

Imola gets cancelled. Flooding. A week to think. Charles doesn’t use it.

Monaco is supposed to be redemption.

He qualifies P3. Then takes a three-place penalty for impeding Lando. The city that raised him turns on him with sharp teeth and shaking heads. He walks through the paddock like he doesn’t hear it.

But he hears everything.

Max wins again. Again. Again.

And Charles — Charles doesn’t even stay for the champagne.

By Canada, he’s halfway back to the man he used to be before 2019. Silent. Guarded. Sharp only when he needs to be.

He finishes P4. Nobody notices.

Not even Max.

Austria is worse.

Sprint weekend. Chaos. Charles finishes P2 in the race, behind Max again. Always behind. Always the shadow. They shake hands on the podium. Cameras flash.

Max says, “You were quick today.”

Charles just nods. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile.

He’s slipping again and he knows it.

Silverstone. Pole. Maybe. If the wind’s right. If Ferrari remembers how to strategy. If the gods stop laughing.

They don’t.

He finishes ninth.

After the race, he sits in the garage long after everyone’s gone. Alone. Gloves still on. Visor down.

Max walks past. Glances in.

Doesn’t enter.

By summer break, the standings speak louder than any interview could. Max is flying. Charles is drowning. And the only thing worse than being beaten is being forgotten.

In Zandvoort, the rain comes. Not like Imola, not like last year, but enough to feel like a metaphor. Charles DNFs again.

Max wins again.

Charles stares at him on the podium like he might tear his face off with his teeth.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” Max says one day. Quiet. Private. Like a wound he doesn’t want to show.

Charles blinks. That gets through. Because Max never says that. Not unless he means it.

“I am,” Charles whispers.

Max shakes his head. “No. You’re surviving.”

Charles laughs. It’s dry. Broken. “Maybe that’s all there is now.”

They don’t talk again until Vegas. Not properly.

Charles is on fire. P1. Finally. Finally fighting again. The leopard, remembering.

He drives like he’s starving. Like the desert gave him back his goddamn pulse.

Max tries to defend. Can’t. Charles takes the lead and keeps it.

And he loses it in the pits.

Max wins.

Of course he fucking does.

Charles stands on the second step of the podium like a crucifixion. He smiles. It’s fake. It’s perfect. His hands shake around the champagne.

Max glances over at him.

“You deserved that one,” he says, later.

Charles doesn’t answer.

Because maybe he did. Maybe he does.

But deserving doesn’t mean anything when you're standing under the lights of Las Vegas with a bottle in your hand and your name second.

Abu Dhabi comes. Quiet. Inevitable.

Max dominates.

Charles finishes second in the race. Again. Again. Again.

And in the cool-down room, they don’t speak.

But when Max leaves the room first, Charles glances at his empty chair. Just for a second.

And he thinks: I miss hating you.

Because hatred means fire. Hatred means power.

And now, all he feels is tired.

But somewhere in his chest, something stirs. A memory. A rumble.

The leopard isn’t dead.

He’s just learning how to roar again.

______________________

He says the right things. Says he’s ready. Says they’ve made progress. Says this is the year they fight again.

But his eyes twitch when people say Lando Norris is Max Verstappen’s greatest rival.

The first time he hears it, it’s Miami, lap 57, champagne flying like mockery in the night. Max P1. Lando P2. Charles? P5, behind Oscar. The camera pans too long across the podium. Zooms in on Max’s smile. The easy, unbothered kind. Lando’s grin, soft and hungry at once.

They say, the new rivalry of a generation.

Charles doesn’t breathe for five full seconds.

He flinches. A tiny tick in his jaw. But the cameras catch it. The stills go viral. “Charles watching Max and Lando like it should’ve been him.”

Because it should have been.

Max used to look at him like that. Like war. Like danger. Like the only one worth swinging at. In 2022, it was a duet of destruction. Parry and lunge. Predator and prey. But now?

Now Max talks about Lando in interviews with heat. Respects him. Argues with him on track like he used to with Charles. Door-to-door. Elbows out. Flares of fury.

Charles?

Charles is clinical. Careful. Controlled.

Because fire got him burned. And the scars are still too raw.

In Jeddah, the Ferrari is quick. Not Red Bull quick, but close. Close enough that Charles should be bold.

He isn’t.

Lap 27. Lando sends it on him into Turn 1. Late. Arrogant. Perfect. The Charles of 2022 would’ve held it around the outside. Trusted himself. Gone wheel-to-wheel into 2. Dared Max to follow.

But this Charles?

He lifts.

Let’s him go.

They ask him why after. He says, “It wasn’t worth the risk.”

Max raises a brow in his interview. “Sometimes you’ve got to risk it.”

And Lando—Lando just shrugs. Says, “You either go for it or you don’t.”

Charles doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits in the dark hotel room, watching footage of the move. Over and over. Listening to the soft squeal of tyres, the engine downshift, the roar of Lando’s McLaren. And the silence of his own hesitation.

He used to be brave.

Too brave, maybe. 2019 brave. Rookie brave. Divebomb into Max-at-Austria brave. Wet Monaco laps like he was driving for God. Spa. Silverstone. Bahrain. That boy with the bleeding heart and hands of thunder.

But he died in 2022.

He just didn’t stay dead.

In Australia, he qualifies well. Not pole — that’s Max — but close. Second. Lando third. The old script. A chance to rewrite the ending.

And for twenty laps, he fights. Really fights.

Max pushes. Charles defends.

It’s beautiful. Familiar. Like stretching a broken bone that’s healed just enough to ache again.

But then Lando’s on the radio. “He’s holding me up.”

And then he’s past.

And then Max is gone.

And Charles is alone.

Again.

They say, What a move by Lando Norris.

They say, Max Verstappen’s new equal?

They say, Charles Leclerc struggling to keep up.

He watches the interviews after. Lando laughing, standing next to Max like they were born from the same stormcloud. They talk about each other like future legends. Like equals.

And Charles feels it. That acid burn in the throat. The ugly ache of being replaced.

Is it jealousy?

Of course it is.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the hollow space where fear lives now.

Because in 2022, he flew too close. He was brave. Too brave. Max clipped his wings. The team lit him on fire. The strategy gods cursed his name. And now—

Now every time he gets close, he hesitates.

Because bravery is a luxury you lose when you learn what it costs.

Imola comes. The upgrades work. Ferrari has pace. More than McLaren. Maybe even enough for Max.

Charles leads for a while. Feels the wind again. Feels alive.

And then there’s a Safety Car. Late. Bunched field. Max right behind.

Ten laps to go.

Charles in P1.

Max in P2.

Lando in P3.

And the voice in Charles’ head whispers: Don’t fuck it up.

He drives tight. Over-defensive. Nervous.

Lap 60. Max lunges.

Charles squeezes him.

Tyres touch.

They both slide.

Lando passes both of them.

Wins the race.

Max P2.

Charles P3.

He doesn’t even stay for the cool-down room.

He walks through the paddock, helmet still on. People part around him like a ghost made flesh. He sits alone in the back of the Ferrari garage. Hands on his knees. Shaking.

He says nothing.

Later, Fred puts a hand on his shoulder. “You did well.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he didn’t. He flinched. Again. At the worst moment.

And the worst part?

Max doesn’t even seem mad.

He just says, “It happens. That’s racing.”

Charles wants to scream. Wants him to fight. To push him into a wall. To glare at him like 2022. Like rivals. Like enemies. Like he matters.

But Max just… looks at him.

With something sad in his eyes.

Like he knows.

Barcelona is quiet.

Charles finishes second to Max. He does everything right. No mistakes. Perfect execution.

And still—

Second.

He shakes Max’s hand on the podium. Doesn't meet his eyes.

Lando finishes fourth.

They still call him Max’s rival.

Charles laughs bitterly in the hotel elevator. Alone.

I came back wrong, he thinks. I came back afraid.

Because he used to be first to the fire. Now he checks for exits before he breathes.

He’s scared. Not of Max. Not of Lando. Not even of losing.

But of what it means if he’s no longer the one.

Max finds him in Austria. Late night. After quali. They’re both on the front row.

“You were brave today,” Max says.

Charles shrugs. “Didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Silence.

Charles looks at him. Really looks.

And Max — Max doesn’t hate him. Never did. He’s looking at him like something rare. Something he lost once and doesn’t know how to get back.

“You still have it,” Max says, voice low. “You just don’t trust yourself anymore.”

Charles laughs. But it’s broken. “Why would I?”

Max doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because Max understands. And Charles hates him for it.

Hates him for still being fearless. For making it look easy. For moving on to Lando without ever needing to look back.

But he also wants to earn it again.

The hate. The war. The rivalry.

The reason Max used to look at him like that.

So in Silverstone, when it rains, and the track is a sheet of glass, Charles doesn’t lift.

Not when Lando lunges. Not when Max breathes down his neck. Not when everything in his brain screams, Flinch.

He holds.

He fucking holds.

P2. Behind Max. Ahead of Lando.

They shake hands in parc fermé. Max meets his eyes this time. And smiles.

Not like a friend.

Like a foe.

Charles walks away with a ghost of fire in his chest.

He’s still afraid.

But he’s learning to roar through it.

to be loved the way i love f1, what a thought, but not like ferrari since 2010, no, that’s like a cursed love letter you keep reading even though it’s giving “toxic ex who keeps texting” vibes. no thank you, i’d rather be loved like red bull in 2023— chaotic, fast, a bit of drama, but at least we’re winning and making everybody mad. and maybe like mclaren after 2024? who knows, still figuring it out, but they’ll get there and so will i, just. let me breathe.

i’m not even sure i want to be loved— i just want speed, and noise, like driving down a street, f1 music blaring while my 1.2L engine pretends it’s a turbocharged beast, but it’s not, it’s just me, pretending i’m at monaco. but somehow it feels real.

so i went and chose engineering, because who wouldn’t want to suffer, like i’m not already doing enough by being born too late to be an f1 driver. like, yeah, i could’ve raced at 18, but here i am, soldering wires and calculating resistance, living the delusion that somehow, someway, toto wolff will see my tweets and hand me a seat so i can drive into the pit of my dreams.

but nah, i’m just here, pretending i’m quicker than i am, just like when i got my license at 18 and blasted f1 tracks as if i was about to win silverstone, while my car barely passed the speed bump at the end of my block. it was freedom, though. it was delusional and it was everything.

maybe i’m not even in love with people, maybe i’m just addicted to the idea of speed— and yeah, the walls i keep hitting don’t help, but hey, if i crash into a barrier, at least it’s a passion crash. i’m in love with the chaos. maybe that’s my problem.

but pls—if you’re gonna love me, don’t love me like ferrari, don't love me like “oh, we were so close but here’s p2,” love me like red bull— always faster, always something up in the air, always winning (in the most chaotic way possible). that’s the vibe i’m after, that’s the dream i’m chasing.

so, here i am—delusional, writing f1 rpf fanfics at 2 a.m. while figuring out why i’m broke and why my heart beats to the rhythm of pit stops, but if you get it, then maybe you get me. or maybe we’re both just chasing something that’s always just out of reach.

(aka: send help, and a car with a turbo unit, pls.)

YOU INCREDIBLE AUTHOR, HOW DO YOU KEEP WRITING SUCH INCREDIBLE CRACK?!? I have sent PARAGRAPHS to my friends about your fics, you’re so fucking skilled. Also how do you get all your ideas??

OH MY GOD PARAGRAPHS??? ACTUAL PARAGRAPHS???? I AM FLIPPING A TABLE IN GRATITUDE. i am knocking on your door at 3am just to whisper “thank you” and then moonwalk away into the void in tears of joy and unfiltered longing for validation.

as for where I get my ideas… honestly?? I don’t know. they break into my home. i wake up at 2am in a cold sweat thinking “what if charles was President of the World (ref to that one ferrari pr video lmao) and kept passing laws that exclusively ruin maxie's life?” or “what if kimi is silently in love with ollie but also just threw a bag of frozen peas at Lando for reasons unknown to everyone including moi?”

THANK YOU for being a complete legend and making me feel like i have 12 brain cells instead of just 2 that take turns driving. I love you. i would write 10k words of crack just for you and make every sentence worse than the last. fingers crossed. pinky promised. 💥💞

The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

chap2 draft kings????

ps. its not as devastating as i wanted it to be so I will probs change the whole thing in the final draft. so treat this as a snippet. as breadcrumbs. as baby powder. idk anway thank you anon for asking me to post even tho I technically forced u to ask me to post. lmao enjoy!!

Max keeps discovering Charles in pieces.

Little moments, misaligned. Like someone dropped a jigsaw puzzle of the person he loves and walked away before finishing it. Max is the one trying to put it back together. But the edges are soft. Some pieces are missing. Some pieces look like they’ve been through fire.

It’s not that Charles is a stranger now. It’s worse. It’s that he’s almost the same.

He still hums when he stirs his tea. Still folds napkins into little rectangles. Still says “bless you” when the dog sneezes. Still wears three layers when it’s cold out because “Max, my bones are delicate.”

But sometimes he skips meals like it’s second nature. Sometimes he runs till he nearly collapses, shirt soaked, heart clawing at his ribs, lips cracked from wind and silence. Sometimes he drives like death is something he could outrun if he’s just fast enough.

And none of it is in his notes app.

That’s how Max knows it’s old. Not from the memory loss. Not from the accident. It came before.

Charles forgot it all—but his body remembers. The rituals of hurt. The practiced choreography of self-destruction.

Max doesn’t know when it started.

Because Max wasn’t there.

Max had left.

Abu Dhabi 2021 had blown their friendship into dust and ash and regret. Charles had taken him out in the final race—maybe an accident, maybe a mistake, maybe some deep, subconscious act of rebellion—and Max had walked away like the wreckage didn’t matter. Like he could afford to.

He thought he was punishing Charles by cutting him off. Now he wonders if he just abandoned him.

He wonders—when did it start?

The skipping meals. The 2 a.m. street sprints. The hunger that wasn’t hunger. The ache behind Charles’ ribs that Max couldn’t see until it was too late?

He wants to ask. But Charles doesn’t remember.

They’ve been dating for four months now. Four months of Max trying to trace love into muscle memory. Four months of Charles waking up confused and Max saying, softly, patiently, “You’re home. You’re safe. I’m Max, and I love you.”

Max never thought he’d have this again. He never thought he deserved it.

Because maybe he wasn’t there when Charles needed someone. Maybe Charles reached out in the dark, and Max had already turned away.

He catches it one night. The tail end of a dream. Charles flinching in his sleep, face twisted in something awful, and murmuring a name Max doesn’t recognize. Not Max. Not even close.

Max holds him through it. Doesn’t sleep. Traces the freckles on Charles’ shoulder like they might give him clues. The next morning, Charles doesn’t remember the dream. Just stretches and says, “Did I talk in my sleep again?”

Max nods. Smiles. Lies. “Just some mumbling.”

He doesn’t say, You cried. You said ‘I didn’t mean to.’ You sounded so fucking lost.

Max keeps collecting the puzzle pieces.

He notices how Charles avoids mirrors. How he flinches when a plate drops. How he never asks about the years between them, like he knows something there is sharp and dangerous and better left untouched.

Max finds an old article one night. From early 2023. Buried in the archives.

Leclerc skips another media session. Ferrari release vague statement about ‘mental health and personal circumstances.’ Multiple sources confirm Charles has relocated to a private facility for recovery. No comments from family or friends.

Max stares at it until the screen burns his eyes.

He clicks the tab closed. Doesn’t bring it up. Just adds another page to his private notebook. His Charles Survival Manual.

Max should ask someone. Joris. Arthur. Even Carlos. But the idea of saying it aloud makes his lungs lock up.

Because what if they say, He needed you. And you weren’t there.

Max makes it his mission now. A quiet, invisible one. To be there.

He watches Charles brush his teeth and reminds him gently when he forgets where the towels are.

He stocks the fridge with his favourite things, even though Charles barely touches them.

He talks to Leo, the miniature dachshund, like Leo might remember what Charles can’t.

He counts calories in his head. Pretends he’s not doing it. Pretends he’s not watching how hollow Charles’ collarbones look when he changes.

He starts keeping a chart. A secret one. On paper. Not the Notes app. He calls it Days When Charles Eats + Smiles + Asks Me To Stay.

Some days he gets all three. Some days just one. Some days none.

He never blames Charles. He never gets angry. But some nights he sits on the edge of the bathtub, lights off, forehead pressed to the tile, and just breathes until he doesn’t feel like crying anymore.

He still loves him. He always has. Even when it hurt. Even when they weren’t speaking. Even when Max swore he was done.

He never stopped.

That’s the problem. That’s the entire problem.

Because now Charles is his. And Charles doesn’t remember being his. And Max keeps having to earn it over and over again. With every day. Every small gesture. Every act of love disguised as breakfast, or forehead kisses, or whispering “it’s okay” when Charles forgets who he is in the dark.

They’re lying in bed one night. Charles curled against Max, half-asleep, warm and soft and blinking slowly like a cat.

And out of nowhere, Charles says, “Do you think I was happy before?”

Max feels it like a slap.

Before what? The crash? The memory loss? The years they didn’t speak? Max doesn’t know which version of before Charles means. But it doesn’t matter. None of the answers are easy.

He swallows. “I think you were trying.”

Charles nods like that makes sense. “Were we… in love then too?”

Max closes his eyes. Breathes in. “Not yet.”

Charles tilts his head. “Why?”

Max thinks of 2021. The crash. The headlines. The cold war. The silence.

“I think I wasn’t ready,” Max whispers.

Charles smiles sleepily. “You’re ready now.”

Max wants to cry.

Instead, he presses a kiss to Charles’ temple and says, “Yeah, baby. I’m here now.”

He doesn’t say: And I’m never leaving again. He doesn’t say: Even if you forget me a thousand more times.

Because love, real love, is showing up even when no one remembers you were invited.

And Max? He’s staying.

He says it in the silence of his chest. He says it in the way he presses the hospital door open for Charles, lets the morning spill warm and gold across the pavement like it might disinfect something ancient. The third appointment. More scans, more progress, more hope threaded through jargon—post-concussive neurocognitive recovery, episodic memory lag, mild disinhibition, residual attentional deficits. Fancy ways of saying: his brain is still learning how to be his again.

And Max watches him, carefully. Always. Watches the small fidget Charles does with his hoodie string. The way he squints at the light like it’s something unfamiliar. The barely-there tremble in his fingers when the neurologist talked about executive dysfunction and possible long-term gaps.

But Charles still smiles. Still swings his legs over the curb like a child and says, with a bright, too-casual grin, “Can I drive your Porsche?”

Max blinks.

And that’s the thing—Charles asks with no idea that it’s the first time in years he’s asked for something like that to Max. The last time was before Abu Dhabi. Something simple like that. Joyful. Normal. It’s not food. It’s not medicine. It’s not Max’s name in the dark, half-remembered. It’s the fucking Porsche.

Max doesn’t answer right away.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the protein bar he’d stuffed there before they left the house. Chocolate and nuts. Not a meal. But something.

“Eat this first,” Max says, quiet but firm.

Charles raises an eyebrow, suspicious. “What if I don’t?”

Max shrugs, flicking the key fob lazily against his palm. “Then I drive.”

Charles groans. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s care,” Max says. “The threatening kind.”

Charles stares at him. Stares at the bar. Then mutters something in French that definitely translates to drama queen before ripping it open with his teeth.

Max watches him chew. Watches him swallow. Watches the stubborn set of Charles’ jaw loosen when the sugar hits his bloodstream and his whole body eases like it’s relieved he fed it something.

Only then does Max hand over the keys.

“Drive slow,” Max says, deliberately. “I mean it. Slow.”

Charles flashes him a grin that is not slow. It’s reckless and charming and familiar in a way that makes Max’s heart somersault. “Of course.”

Of course.

Of course, Charles drives like he’s qualifying for Monaco.

Max’s head hits the backrest as the Porsche peels out of the hospital parking lot with all the tenderness of a ballistic missile. He watches the speedometer inch, then leap, then sprint.

“Slow,” Max says through gritted teeth.

Charles is smiling. Wide. Bright. Alive. “This is slow.”

“You took that roundabout like you were defending from Lewis in Hungary.”

Charles laughs. Not politely. Not demurely. It’s wild, stupid laughter that fills the car like sunshine with a knife in it. “I remember driving like this on a bike.”

Max’s entire body stills.

Because that’s new. That’s a memory. Not in the notes app. Not something he pieced together. Something Charles felt.

“You don’t own a bike,” Max says, slowly, carefully. “You’ve never owned a bike.”

Charles shifts gears with terrifying confidence. “I do. A Ducati. Red. Very fast. Fred stole it.”

Max closes his eyes briefly. Breathes. “Why did Fred steal your Ducati, Charles?”

“I don’t remember,” Charles says, which is even worse.

Max doesn’t respond. Just calmly reaches over and shifts the gear himself using the dual clutch. Forces the car to a less homicidal speed. Charles protests, but Max just gives him a look. The kind that says, I have loved you through worse, but I will not die in this fucking car.

The ride the rest of the way is quieter. Not slow, but bearable. Max keeps one eye on Charles, the other on his phone, fingers already typing out a text.

Max: did charles used to have a bike

Fred: Max what the fuck He is never getting that bike back Don’t even ask

Max: what happened

Fred: He rode it like a man possessed High speed In the RAIN AT NIGHT In fucking 2022 It was right after the car started being shit midseason He didn’t sleep for like 3 days Was completely dead behind the eyes I took the keys He tried to fight me I told him if he got on it again I’d call his mother He backed off Do NOT give that boy wheels

Max stares at the message. Blinks.

Charles pulls into the driveway. His hand lingers on the gearshift like it’s a trigger. Like he could go again. Faster. If no one stopped him.

Max doesn’t move. Just studies the lines of Charles’ face. The flush of wind on his cheeks. The shine of joy and something far darker still flickering at the edges.

“Fred said you rode the Ducati in the rain.”

Charles blinks. “I did?”

“At night. Alone. After Ferrari started losing in 2022.”

Charles shrugs, but his mouth twists. “Sounds like something I’d do.”

Max wants to scream.

Not at Charles. Not even at Fred.

At himself.

Because he wasn’t there. He didn’t see it. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t know until now, years later, through a fucking text.

He wonders what else he missed. What other parts of Charles were burning while Max was building walls.

He unbuckles slowly. Reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Charles’ ear. Charles leans into the touch instinctively.

It makes Max ache—how soft Charles looks when he does that. How safe. And Max lets himself stay in that stillness for just a second longer, forehead to temple, pretending the world won’t unravel the second he lets go.

But it always does.

Because when he wakes up at three in the morning to the sound of the front door clicking shut, he already knows.

Max throws off the blanket. The bed’s cold on the side where Charles had curled up earlier, legs tucked tight like he was trying to make himself smaller than the weight of his own head.

He grabs a hoodie, socks barely on, and finds him on the street just outside the house—dressed in a fitted thermal top and leggings, trainers laced too tight, pacing slightly like the road itself owes him something.

It’s cold. Max exhales and sees his own breath.

“Charles,” Max says softly.

Charles turns.

His face is bathed in the amber spill of the streetlamp, soft and clean and wide-eyed. He’s too still.

And Max knows that look. Max knows that stare.

It’s the one Charles uses when he’s searching—when his brain is rifling through memories like loose paper, trying to find the one with Max’s face in it. The one with meaning. It’s a glance that lasts just a beat too long, just a second too clinical, like Max might be a stranger he’s bluffing familiarity with.

Max swallows.

“Where are you going?”

Charles shifts slightly, eyes darting away. “Just for a run.”

“At three in the morning?”

Charles shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Max nods, stepping down from the porch. “Alright. I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Charles says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s okay. I… I don’t wanna bother you.”

Max looks at him. At the gentle slope of his shoulders. At the way his hands are tucked into his sleeves like he’s hiding from something invisible.

“You’re not bothering me.”

Charles hesitates, fidgeting with the seam of his top.

Max watches him. Watches the way his eyes flicker—not like he’s lying, but like he’s trying to navigate fog. Like some part of him knows Max’s voice, Max’s presence, but the lines aren’t connecting right.

“I just didn’t wanna wake you,” Charles says after a long pause. “You’re my husband, you should rest.”

Max stops breathing.

It’s the third time this week.

The third time Charles has said it. Casually. Like it’s fact. Like it’s muscle memory his brain never quite unlearned. My husband. Like they’re something, like they’ve been everything, and somehow it makes Max’s ribs contract and expand all at once.

Max doesn’t correct him.

Can’t.

Because maybe it’s not true, not in paper, not in public, not in whatever timeline Charles thinks he’s living in—but something about the way Charles says it always makes Max wish it had been.

That in all the months lost to the void in Charles’ head, Max was still there. Maybe not fully formed. Maybe not complete. But present. Familiar. A name stitched in the lining of something warm.

“Alright,” Max says quietly. “Lead the way.”

Charles flashes a small smile, barely more than a twitch, and turns on his heel, jogging down the path. Max follows.

And it starts okay. A light pace, cool air brushing their cheeks, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement.

But then—

Charles speeds up.

Not gradually. Not normally. Like his body remembers how to leave everything behind in a blur. He runs like he’s training. Like he’s qualifying. Like if he stops, something bad will catch him.

Max frowns. Picks up his own pace to match.

“Charles,” he calls. “Slow down.”

Charles doesn’t answer.

So Max pushes harder. Catches up. Draws even beside him. Sees the sweat on his temples, the wildness in his eyes, the clenched jaw.

“Hey,” Max says, softer now, like he’s trying not to spook a deer. “You don’t have to run like that.”

Charles breathes hard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Max says. “You’re sprinting. In the cold. At 3:18 a.m.”

Charles doesn’t look at him. Just keeps running like his brain is burning fuel and refusing to cool.

Max angles into him, nudges his elbow gently, slows his own pace by half a step—just enough that Charles has to adjust or fall out of sync. It works. Barely. Charles stumbles, glances at him sharply, then exhales, the fight leaking out of him.

They slow. Just a bit.

Max watches his breath come out ragged, watched his fingers flex open like they were clinging to something invisible.

“Do you always run like that?” Max asks, casual.

“I don’t know,” Charles admits.

He sounds young when he says it. Not twenty-six. Not world-weary. Just a boy with empty drawers where his memories used to be.

“I think I used to,” he adds, “When things felt too heavy.”

Max nods. Quiet. “You always said the faster you ran, the quieter your head got.”

Charles glances at him.

“You remember that?”

Max doesn’t answer. Just runs beside him. Step for step.

Because the truth is: Max remembers everything.

He remembers the first time Charles had run like that—after Silverstone. After the strategy call that cost him everything. He remembers Charles lacing up his shoes like they were armor, leaving at midnight, and not coming back until the sun cracked open the sky.

He remembers standing at the door with a towel and a bottle of water, pretending not to cry.

Now, Charles is beside him again. Running too hard. Breathing too sharp. Skin pinked with the cold. But Max is here this time. Not standing at a door. Not helpless.

He’s here.

And when they slow to a walk, when Charles finally presses his hands to his knees and pants for air, Max just puts a hand on his back. Steady. Firm. There.

“You don’t need to outrun anything tonight,” Max says, voice low.

Charles nods, not looking up.

“I just… sometimes I feel like if I don’t move, I’ll break.”

“You won’t,” Max says, certainty threading through his exhaustion. “Not with me here.”

Charles finally looks at him. Really looks. The confusion is still there. The faint edges of unknowing. But it’s softened now. Colored by something warmer. Trust, maybe. Recognition, even if it’s misplaced.

Max lets himself believe in it for one breath.

Then another.

Then, slowly, they walk the last stretch home under a sky that is just beginning to consider dawn.

if lando norris was 3 and charles leclerc was an apple then how many centimeters is the milk that i need to burn on the antarctic refrigerator to gain 3/10ths down the straight at the rainbow road grand prix circuit?

first of all, thank you for this question. It has changed my life. second of all, the answer is clearly blueberry.

you see, if Lando is 3 (which checks out), and sharl leclair is an apple (organic ofc), then the milk (specifically emotionally unstable almond milk) needs to be cryogenically yeeted onto the antarctic refrigerator, which, as we all know, is guarded by two penguins named Lewis and Seb.

once you bypass the ice circuit boss battle (featuring rookie Fernando Alonso on skates), u pour exactly π centimetres of combusted dairy essence into the carburettor of your Mario Kart and scream "FOR MONZAAAA" while drifting at preciselyy 42° angle into rainbow road.

congratulations! you now have 3/10ths and also irreversible lactose trauma. charles is still an apple. lando has evolved into 4 somehow.

science. ✨

exam went horribly *and* i got hurt by a staple pin in the span of like, 20 minutes, so WHEN I SAY YOUR VAMPIRE LANDO HITMAN OSCAR FIC CURED ME OF MY AILMENTS PLEASE BELIEVE ME

sucks to hear that abt ur exam. if its any reassurance, I have an exam tomorrow and I'm currently writing a fic SO GUESS WHOS DEFO FAILING

also, ps. thanks you so so so so so much for reading I LOVE YOU

heyy not to be dramatic but you kind of own the bearnellli tag on ao3. like. it’s yours. you have the deed and the corresponding mortgage. i love the way you characterise kimi as this little Italian chaos gremlin (who occasionally has an insecure side that has me reading like 🥹) and ollies gay panic whenver hes near.

idk if u take requests or prompts, but (on the off chance you do) if your divine creative powers ever feel like blessing us with a fic where one of them starts reading fanfic and then spirals into a black hole of thirst and emotional devastation (as one does)... I would simply ascend. no pressure. just respectfully, desperately, on my knees 🙏✨

giggling rn. THANK YOU FOR READING MY FICS AND THANK YOU FOR PRAISING ME I AM HIGH OFF DEM EGO

also yes i take requests. and yes I will try to write something around what u have asked coz I am a very good human being and a chronic people pleaser. and thank you for being on your knees I really really really appreciate it.

gonna manipulate mansplain malewife gaslight girlboss gatekeep our way thru this one

The white race suits are so the track knows we are pure of heart and will bless the car for this weekend