Calling Me Out On Main Smh

calling me out on main smh

gonna go study now. gonna lock in so fucking hard u wont even see me. BYE.

if i post another fic u have all the permission to call me out. not that u need permission. but still.

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.