Chapter 1: Oscar
Chapter Text
Coming to it is not like in the movies. Max doesn't wake up from his traumatic head injury by blinking awake into a sterile, sun-lit room. He doesn't turn to find his loved ones sprawled on the couch beside his bed, hair messy and clothes unkempt. He doesn't even wake up in a way that makes sense. He just blinks, and things suddenly melt into confusing clarity. Thankfully, at least his head hurts.
In reality, the first time Max can say that he is fully conscious of what is going on around him is when he sees a well put-together Charles leaning against a wall, speaking to one of his doctors while she fiddles with a clipboard. She is stout, with round, rosy cheeks, and dark wine-coloured hair. She makes Charles throw back his head in laughter, which she seems particularly pleased with. It's a strange sight, partially because he knows that Charles hates hospitals, partially because he can feel that something is violently wrong.
He looks down at his hands, lying beside his body, left thumb trembling slightly, his forearms are covered in small bruises leading down to where his IV line is connected. They look strange, unnaturally pale, with his nails well-kept. They are still callused, more than he can ever remember them being, but there is a definite softness to them that he never thought he would get while staring at his hands.
He looks up again at just the right time to see the doctor gesture towards him, and then Charles turns.
His face has a lot more stubble than he usually likes, and his hair is a lot longer than Pascale allows it to be. It sticks out in looser waves, which goes against everything he knows about him. Max quickly finds out that frowning is deeply painful at the moment, but he can't seem to wipe the expression off his face, "Your hair is longer."
Charles lets out a huff of laughter. "Do you like it?"
"What about your mum?"
Charles's face does a funny dance, between perplexed and surprised that Max would ever say that. Before he can question it further, the doctor sits by his side and extends a hand, "Doctor Bryony Ellis, It's nice to meet you again, Max."
It takes a second for his hand to respond as he wants it to, but he manages to grab it and give it a clumsy shake, "Max Verstappen."
"Very good!" She grabs a pen from her coat pocket and clicks it. "We met at the beginning of this week, do you remember?"
He really can't. Even if he tries to stretch his memory to the most basic of things, everything seems weirdly grey and blurry— out of his reach. The last thing he can remember is his cockpit closing in around him. He clears his throat, pushing the memory away, "No. 'M sorry."
"That's okay. Just take it easy." She looks down and scribbles something on the notepad, "What about the year. Can you tell me what year we are in?"
That one is easier.
"We were in Silverstone." The doctor makes a motion, as if she is egging him to keep going and so he does, "Is this because of my crash?"
"You crashed in Silverstone, yes. But you didn't answer my question."
Oh, "2021."
She clicks her pen again and scribbles, "Close, but not quite. It's 2025."
Max straightens his spine. His head feeling hot and throat itchy. He can see some movement in his peripheral vision, and turns his head to look at Charles, who is biting his thumb. His eyes quickly flicker to Max before they settle on the doctor. Funnily enough, it's not what the doctor said that makes his head spin with nerves, but rather that he can't remember her name or how this conversation even started. He is usually pretty good with names.
"That's what he has been saying consistently."
She nods, "Every time you asked him the question?"
Charles shakes his head before turning to Max and settling a hand over his shoulder, "Not always, but we haven't been able to get an answer closer than that date."
"Remind me again, he had a big crash then, yeah?"
Charles gnaws at his lip as he nods, and the doctor also writes that down. Then her full attention is turned on to him once more. It goes on like that for a few minutes. They're asking him questions, and he's vaguely mumbling answers. Out of all the emotions he thought he would be feeling, embarrassment is not one of them. However, there are only so many times that one can forget the name of their sister, or the name of the person literally standing in front of them before nerves start to fry.
And finally, "Can you tell me who has been here at the hospital with you?"
They are throwing him a bone, he can feel that. Max looks at Charles, who just smiles gently, comfortingly. His dimples seem to have gotten deeper, which Max decides to focus on rather than the fact that Charles, and himself for that matter, are now 27. That's a big, big number.
"Charles, obviously."
"And who is Charles to you?"
Max purses his lips, hoping not to get it wrong. He hopes that at least in this life has been kind to him. "He is my boyfriend?"
Charles's smile brightens, and a knot in Max's chest unwinds. His boyfriend squeezes his shoulder lightly. "Who else?"
"There have been more?"
"Only one more. You know him."
It seems strange that only one other person has been with him. He wonders where they are, which means that his family hasn't come to visit him. There are only a few options he can think of.
"Is it your brother?"
That makes Charles laugh, though he can definitely feel the anxiousness behind it, "God no. That would be weird."
"It's Oscar," Doctor Ellis says, and for a second, he almost feels obliged to pretend that he knows who that is. But that is not what they are here for, "Can you tell me who Oscar is to you?"
"Oscar?"
Charles's hand on his shoulder tightens. The grip is painfully tight now, and in a matter of seconds he realises that, out of all possible answers, this is the one that hurts Charles the most. He opens his mouth, ready to ask them his first question. Ready to ask why Charles seems unfazed by everything but the prospect of him not knowing a singular person.
The timing is almost biblical.
Max can hear the doorknob turn, letting the light chatter from the hospital corridor into his room, as well as a very handsome man. His hair is honey brown, curling up in a satisfying wave, he is wearing a long black coat and a hoodie, which Max thinks is ridiculous, and is carrying a white plastic bag and a bouquet of Paper-mâché flowers. He looks tired. Considerably more tired than Charles.
And yet. He locks eyes with Max first and breaks out in a massive grin, "Hey, look at you! I haven't seen you this awake since—"
"Oscar," Charles rushes towards this man— Oscar— and lightly grabs his elbow, trying to steady them both.
Doctor Ellis, blind to the anxiety radiating off of Charles in tangible and sticky waves, smiles at him, "We were just talking about you."
Max doesn't need to know Oscar to see the fragile hope flickering in his eyes when she says, "You were?"
"We asked him who had been at the hospital with him these past few days."
Oscar smiles, he squeezes Charles's hand as he walks towards Max. He sets down what he is carrying on the reclining chair beside his bed before sitting next to his knees. The mattress sinks to one side, and Max has to readjust. This person apparently knows him well enough to grab his hand and gently kiss his knuckles before gesturing to the doctor with his head, "Don't let me interrupt."
Max, as he has always done, sees himself reflected in Charles's wide, anxious eyes. Charles seems rooted to the spot and, for the first time since Max came to it, looks completely out of his depth. Doctor Ellis taps his arm, and he has to use every muscle in his body to turn his head towards her.
"Max, can you answer the question for me? Who is Oscar to you?" There is a light squeeze to his hand, one he guesses is for encouragement, and Max hopes he never has to look at the two other people in the room again. There are a few seconds of silence before the doctor prompts him again, and Max has no choice but to respond.
"I don't know."
Oscar discovers quite a few things in an extremely short amount of time.
First, he learns that you can, in fact, be both heartbroken and elated at the same time. It makes every muscle in his body ache. He learns that as he watches Max, for the first time in a week, be able to hold a conversation, nearly crying in relief, even if the conversation is them having to explain who Oscar is in the first place.
Doctor Ellis tells them they are probably past the worst of it now. There might be a few regressions here and there, but for the time being, it's upwards, even if uphill, from here. She also tells them in no uncertain terms that things have changed. Forever. There is no magic wand, there is no trick. The brain is fickle and so, so delicate, and things would be missing. Lost to time. Memories would probably return, but not all, and not certainly.
The second thing that Oscar learns is that he actually hates change. It's funny, because for the longest of times change was all he thought he had. Change in countries, in categories, in teammates, in teams. Whichever way life spun him the one constant seemed to be change. He reveled in it. He enjoyed the process, the freedom to let change happen to him, to not attach himself to what he was leaving behind.
In retrospect, it now seems funny. It had been the same thing rehashed and rebranded. Now real change is here and he doesn't quite know what to do with it. Even the pink and white paper lilies that he and Charles had been working on for the past few days seem out of time, as they sit in the plastic vase that the nurses had conjured up, catching the rays of sun streaming through the balcony window in all their glorious deformity. Change is here to stay for good, and he is spiralling.
Max is conked out once again. Exhausted by whatever rollercoaster of emotions the past two hours have been, Charles sits on the corner of the sofa, speaking soft French into the phone. Oscar, however, can't seem to move.
The quiet routine and system they had developed over the past few days is also lost to time, which is a shame. Four o'clock should have been their time to go for a coffee at the shitty hospital cafeteria, their time to call for one of the people that Sophie had insisted they hire to look after Max for an hour or two while they stretched their legs and walked around. Their moment to feel a little bit more human, a little bit less like an extension of whatever catastrophe they found themselves in.
But now Charles is on the phone, Oscar is trying to thumb through a paperback novel he has read so many times he could recite it back to back, and they seem to be caught back in the orbit of things changing.
The last thing Oscar discovers is that he has never been left behind before. It's strange for this to be his first time, but it fills him with newfound empathy for those who have. It's a horrible glass box being lowered around him—an alien feeling of watching everything unfold around him, yet being unable to reach out.
He can't fault Charles. The thorny, envious, part of him knows deeply that if he was in his boyfriend's position he would also cling on to the scraps that they are getting. He knows that if he had been blessed enough to be the one remembered he would have breathed out a sigh of relief and basked in the knowledge that love had been enough for that one instance.
But Oscar is not in that situation. Instead Oscar has to watch as Max reverently looks at Charles for answers, for logic, for groundedness, even though that had stopped being Charles' role many, many, months ago.
He doesn't realise that he has been staring at Charles until the other tilts his head in question. Brows furrowed, chin tilted up. Oscar shakes his head, but it's too late. Once Charles has his mind set on something, there is little that can be done, "Maman, je peux te rappeler?"
"Mama, can I call you later?"
He stands up, his phone held between his ear and shoulder, his hands fiddling with the plastic cup of water he had been drinking from. Even to Oscar's envious eyes, Charles still looks like an angel. "Oui, je t'aime aussi. Bye."
"Yes, I love you too. Bye."
Oscar has to look up from the reclining chair to see Charles' face properly. Charles reaches out gently to hold his cheek, and Oscar, who has never been immune to his gravity, leans in.
"It's really shit." His thumb gently caresses his cheekbone, and Oscar closes his eyes, "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for? You didn't cause this."
"Oscar—"
He shakes his head, the tears threatening to spill feel like barbed wire wrapped around his throat, "Don't. Please."
Another soft caress which Oscar can't help but melt into, "Okay."
"Thank you."
"For you? Anything."
He lets out a huff of breath and tries to smile for Charles, "I know."
Chapter 2: The Calendar
Summary:
If his watch is correct, Spa is in twelve days. Thursday to Sunday are scribbled out with garish, gold marker. Right before that, the calendar has marked the days when Oscar is set to leave for Woking, for pre-race meetings, and when Charles has to go to Milan, for a brand shoot. There is a recurring event marked with peach-coloured highlighter for when they have to meal plan, followed by a green-coloured ‘shops’ day. There are reminders for Red Line events in red, and movie releases in blue, as well as vet visits, orange, doctors' appointments, bright yellow, and little notes and reminders.
Notes:
IMPORTANT NOTE: all translations for dialogue in a different language are available by clicking on them, even offline! Consider it like subtitles. (Except for pet names, I will leave that translation as a treat for you to look up.)
thank you so much for waiting for this chapter. It has been so hard to write, mainly because I have most of the rest of this story ready and this was one of the last things to write. Also because the author's curse bit my butt. I left my job, got ill, faced a heatwave (had to be by the river every day like a victorian woman with hysteria). I hope this is worth it!
Enjoy! And let me know what you think in the comments, they have fueled me in this long writing process.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His mother and sister don’t meet them in Oxford. He has a short conversation with them as they apologise for not being there, their tired faces pixelated by the unstable WiFi at the Jakarta airport, and their conversation occasionally interrupted by the cries of a very frazzled and upset baby who Max only later learns is Victoria's third child.
They promise him to be there in Monaco once they get back, but forget to tell him where they had gone in the first place, leaving him trying to piece together what little he can. He, in turn, tells them about his injuries. It's devastatingly embarrassing. Words escape him half of the time, and he will start a sentence only to realise midway through that he doesn't quite have the concentration to finish it. What's more, Charles and Oscar are huddled in the corner of the room, half hanging out of the open window, doing a terrible job at pretending that they are not listening. They had promised to give him space, only to immediately fail at the task.
He spends half of the call trying to reassure his mother and sister that he is okay. He talks them through what little he remembers of what the doctors told him, and what they had given him to deal with some of the symptoms, and it is only until he hangs up that he realises that the person who needed to be consoled was Max himself.
Physically, there are very few things wrong with him, except for some cracked ribs and a sprain on his left shoulder where the impact had been. The doctors had been very gentle in explaining that most of his troubles would not come from any physical injuries; none of his balance issues, or muscle spasms, or tiredness, or difficulty breathing. His case was one of multiple accumulations of trauma. Of years of mild concussions and not-so-mild contusions, which had landed Max here. In a secluded area of a private hospital in the middle of the English countryside.
Here, in a bed with a body that didn't quite feel like his own, and a life that seems indecipherable to him.
Charles and Oscar give him a few seconds between hanging up and acknowledging him again. They keep talking softly between themselves even if their bodies are angled towards him, letting the gentle summer breeze filter into the room and making the papier mache flowers rattle softly in their cup. He can barely make himself look at them once they turn towards him— and isn't able to meet their eyes once he does. Instead, he focuses on the sharp set of their shoulders, the lengths of their hair, the matching black and gray straps for their stupidly large Garmin watches.
He is getting released from hospital tomorrow, which is a relief in itself, but it also means that he won't have anyone else but them to rely on. No nurses to distract him from the looks that they keep sending each other. No doctors to look at instead of the way that they hold each other's hands. Nothing but a constant reminder that he doesn't know them, but they seem to know his soul.
A hand pushes his hair out of his face gently, and he looks up for a brief second to meet Charles's eyes. "They will be there when we get to Monaco."
"They said."
"They will be alright, Max. It's a Charter Jet, not the end of the world."
There isn't enough space in his chest for Max to accommodate another feeling other than the all-consuming dread of the next few days, which is why he doesn't feel at all bad to discover that Charles thought he was upset over his mother and sister rather than about himself.
It is better that way.
There is movement in front of him, a flash of dark green that shifts in front of the bed and settles somewhere on the armchair next to him. Max, like an idiot, looks towards it only to find Oscar already looking at him with much more knowing eyes.
How strange to be known by someone you had never met before.
Max walks into a flat that he doesn't recognise, followed by a mother and sister whom he doesn't recognise either. The floors are a warm wooden colour, the windows are floor to ceiling, the kitchen door is swaying on its hinges, and the place looks lived— loved in, really.
He can see things that clearly belong to him, things that he remembers buying, and Red Bull-branded items, scattered amongst a bizarre collection of pictures, trophies, and flower vases. It's odd. He knows that the cloth that he was cut from left little room for aesthetics, for thinking about his house as anything but practical. Impersonal in the way that a place you only spend a few weeks of the year in is.
This house is everything but.
He can tell by the way that his blurred vision weaves the colours together in its periphery. There is dust on the mantle piece and random piles of magazines sitting right next to crumpled-up blankets. He can tell just by the sheer amount of stuff cluttered on the couch and placed haphazardly on tables that they don't have a cleaner. They haven't hired a decorator for the space, either. He knows that because there is more of Max in this room than there has ever been anywhere. It is unbearable to look around and realise that his reflection, this version of him at least, is looking back through half-read books and the tangled mess of PS5 controllers. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck curl up uncomfortably.
He turns back to look at his mum and sister. Sophie is holding on to the handle of his suitcase with a white knuckle grip, while Victoria holds on to the crook of her elbow, not unlike how she used to when they were younger. Neither of them says anything, even though they had promised to help him in an attempt to make up for their guilt. Their faces are tanned, eyebags pronounced from long hours of travel, and faces completely unknown.
He had grown used to seeing them age in time skips. It had been their reality for such a long time of him existing in their periphery rather than with them, which is why this change slaps him square across the face. He turns back to the flat instead, vision swimming with the sudden movement.
"Je bent hier eerder geweest?"
"Have you been here before?"
"Een paar keer."
"A few times."
“Wanneer?”
"When?"
His mum starts speaking, only for Max to realise that he doesn’t actually want to know how many times they have been here. Doesn’t want to be faced with the amount of time that is missing.
He takes a tentative step forward, reaching out to touch the scratched surface of the dining room table, tentatively hoping for some support. He knows that there is an entire flat to explore, nooks and crannies that he has to relearn, months of accumulated mail, and a bin schedule that he is sure he had memorised. He doesn’t need to know about the dinner parties on top of that.
He walks along the table, tracing the edge with his fingers, pulling down the orange and yellow placement mats until they line up with the edge, pushing the chairs in with his hip. The kitchen door squeaks on its hinges again. It is a deep mahogany colour, with gold hinges and slight discolouration from the sun. He can see from where he is standing the black floor tiles, the bookshelf filled to the brim with trinkets, actually used cookbooks, and a long patch of sun. A kitchen, he realises then, is not just a kitchen. But it does seem to be the least menacing of any room. So he follows the sound of a squeaking hinge.
There is more control in that room, a standard set of things that he knows he will find— pans and pots, wooden chopping boards that are definitely too expensive for what they are. A hob, an oven, a microwave, a fridge, and freezer. There is a window in the back wall which is cracked open, letting in a soft breeze and the warm Mediterranean sun, and the gentle hum of the street down below.
However, much to his distaste, the kitchen, too, looks lived in. There are framed posters and pictures hanging from the wall, houseplants on the window ledge whose leaves are wilting, and a fridge door full of post it notes and a calendar.
He can feel his mum’s gaze on the back of his head. Ruffling his hair with its intensity as she tries to follow the movements of a person she hasn’t known in a long time. Max has never been particularly fidgety, but he can’t seem to keep his fingers from wandering. From tracing over the looping handwriting of each of the post-it notes, tracing the words in English (French, Dutch) which make up little reminders, shopping lists, and silly messages.
He can’t help but stare at the colour-coded calendar hanging from the fridge door, trying to dissect all of its secrets.
If his watch is correct, Spa is in twelve days. Thursday to Sunday are scribbled out with garish, gold marker. Right before that, the calendar has marked the days when Oscar is set to leave for Woking, for pre-race meetings, and when Charles has to go to Milan, for a brand shoot. There is a recurring event marked with peach-coloured highlighter for when they have to meal plan, followed by a green-coloured ‘shops’ day. There are reminders for Red Line events in red, and movie releases in blue, as well as vet visits, orange, doctors' appointments, bright yellow, and little notes and reminders.
In pink, however, are highlighted days in which there is nothing else going on. No race, no promotional events, or pre-scheduled appearances. Entire days wiped clean from their usually busy schedule, which stand out in the messy scrawl of the rest of their life. The date in Max’s watch reads July 12th, the next day highlighted in pink is set in two days, and right on it is a crude comment written in Dutch (translated into French by Charles, and English by Oscar) which makes his throat feel like it's closing up.
He can’t quite bring himself to touch it, can’t quite bring his eyes to focus on it through the mounting headache that has been building in his temples and the tightness in his chest.
He had asked the doctors if he could live with his mum while everything settled. If he could tend to the gashes in his memory in a sterile environment to prevent them from getting infected with something beyond their comprehension. But of course, the answer was never going to be yes— he needed to be exposed to things, to ground himself in this alternate reality, to be put in the world that he would have to inhabit even if he never got them back. He resents them for that now as he stands in front of their calendar, overwhelmed by the thought of being 27 years old and so irrevocably changed that he has started to schedule sex.
He is spiraling while grasping at the unrecognisable shape of his life when he feels his mum's gentle hands grab onto his arm. Long, manicured, fingers wrapping gently around the skin below his sleeve, and squeezing twice, “Laten we gaan zitten, Max.”
"Let's go sit down, Max."
One blink and he is sitting in the living room, a half-drunk glass of water in his hand, and unable to remember what the colour orange was dedicated to in the calendar. The world outside has gone dark, a stark comparison to the light afternoon of his last memory.
His doctor would later call it a memory lagoon. For now, Max doesn’t have any words for it that aren’t a derivative of panic , for the lost hours piled on top of lost months and years.
He tips forward, head hanging, not wanting to let his mum or Vic see the tears that are threatening to spill from his eyes. There are hands on the back of his neck almost immediately, running gentle fingers down his spine and back up through his hair. Then someone is grabbing the cup from his hand and gently settling it on the coffee table before crouching so that they can look him in the eye.
Vic’s gaze, for as much older as it looks now, has not changed since they were kids. Even now, a mum of three, a wife, a much older woman trying to hold her brother together, her eyes are still lined with mirth and love, “It’s a lot.”
He doesn’t know why she is speaking English now, but he is not about to question it. He just nods, hoping she will continue to speak, to ground him in this moment, and she obliges. “ Snoepje , this is so much for you to do alone. You have to let us help.”
“What is there to help with?” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he doesn’t have it in him to control his tone either.
“I don’t know. You have to tell me.”
“Breng me naar huis, take me home,” he whispers, “I don’t want to be here.”
Victoria’s eyes flit to their left nervously, the hand on his back stilling, and Max turns to look. Sitting beside them on one of the sofas are Oscar and Charles, who have curled around each other, knees touching, cups of tea held loosely in their hands, and heartbreak on their faces. He hadn’t known they were there, not with his blurry vision, and a memory that refuses to stick even after everything.
He feels like choking, like there isn’t enough air in the world to ever take a proper breath again. Vic speaking English makes sense, he figures, if the two people who shouldn’t have heard that are sitting next to him.
Max looks back at her, jaw clenched shut and brow furrowed. Vic looks nothing if not sad. “This is your home, Max.”
There are papers strewn all over the dining table by the time Max walks out of his bedroom in the morning. Charles and Oscar are huddled together, elbows bumping as they methodically work through what seem like stacks of papers, pamphlets, and boxes of medication. There is soft music playing in the background, and two empty mugs of coffee next to a half-eaten plate of fruit.
They don’t notice him at first, which allows Max the chance to wonder if he should address them at all. If there is any space for him to walk past them into the kitchen, to avoid having to make conversation, to allow himself a moment of feeling normal and functional, rather than what he has been feeling for the past few days. But the moment passes when his legs start to tremble with the effort of holding him up, when he has to lean against one of the chairs until the painful muscle spasm has let up, and he can see straight again.
By the time his senses return to him, there is a hand wrapped around his bicep, and a chair being pulled out for him.
He only takes the chair because it allows him to get away from Charles, who had been holding on to him. And because it allows him to stare at the discoloured patch of ceiling instead of the reality in front of him for a few minutes.
“This is infuriating.”
It startles a laugh out of Oscar, and Max can’t do anything but tip his head forward to follow the sound. Oscar looks as surprised as Max feels that he had been laughing a second ago, it makes him feel infinitely lighter. Charles, on the other hand, is rolling his eyes.
“You are always like this.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
That doesn’t make them laugh, but it does earn him a glare from Charles, which feels somehow better.
“Are you reading about me?”
“There are a lot of things that need figuring out.”
“You could hire a nurse.”
Charles waves him off, mumbles something about figuring that out at a later date, and then takes out one of the chairs so that he is sitting in front of Max, their knees touching. He is wearing a stretched-out t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. His beard is even scragglier, clearly having not been shaved since before they left the hospital. Deep eyebags contrast against his fair skin.
“Your mum and sister are going to wake up soon.” He reaches over, laying a hand on his knee, “I don’t know that you can help us cook for them, but you can be in the kitchen with us.”
He still has to ask why his mum and sister had taken so long to get to him. Has to ask why they seem so reluctant to have anyone come into their flat when they clearly need the help. Has to ask about how they got this flat. Got together. How they met. But none of those things come tumbling out of his mouth. Instead, he makes a face, taken aback.
“Since when can you cook?”
Another soft laugh is startled out of Oscar, who doesn’t look surprised this time. Charles, on the other hand, looks indignant.
“I could cook, even back when we started dating.”
“Don’t lie to him, Charlie.” Max turns just in time to catch Oscar’s impish smirk, “It’s bad for his memory.”
Notes:
All my love (and gratitude) goes to the server that was with me through the agonising process of writing chapter 2. but a special shout out to Nova, who was my biggest cheerleader!
Chapter 3: The Flat
Summary:
Max picks up his coffee cup, if only to have something to fiddle with, “Why didn’t we just pay it off? All at once? Didn’t you say we have been living here for four months?”
Charles sighs, running his hands through his hair. He laughs nervously before meeting Max’s eyes, “Do you want the tax exempt answer or the gay answer to that question?”
Notes:
happy spa weekend everyone! the next update will be a while because I'm baby sitting my (not so) little sister and going on holiday with her! but I hope you enjoy the pain :)
it only gets worse before it gets even worse before it gets better!
(edited on 22.08.2025 as I realised there were a few mistakes I did not catch!)
Chapter Text
The door closes behind them with a soft snick, the lock latching into place as Oscar starts toeing off his shoes. Charles gently places Leo's carrier on the floor, which makes the dog whine in distress. Jimmy and Sassy look at him with tilted heads and curious eyes.
There is a dead silence in the flat, none of the usual rustling of Max moving around, none of the soft voices from the podcasts that Max had been listening to religiously since Sophie and Victoria had left a couple of days before, none of the soft snores that told them that Max might be taking a nap. Just silence.
Oscar reaches down and lets the cats run out of the kennel. They scurry through the corridors almost immediately, impatient to get out of sight. He grabs Charles’s hand as he goes to do the same, “You know how Leo gets. Let’s find Max first.”
The door to Max’s room is open, the bed made, everything tucked away in the correct place. The window is cracked open, the curtains closed, the fabric swaying softly in the breeze. It makes Oscar’s blood run cold. He turns just in time to catch Charles’s eyes widen. Max’s phone is on the charging port, screen flashing with notifications that keep rolling in, even though the doctor had made it clear to Max that he was nowhere near ready to start looking at screens for prolonged periods. There are house keys lying next to it, as well as a bottle of water and paracetamol, almost like Max had planned to leave the house.
Back at the doorway, Leo yaps in annoyance at still being left in the crate. It breaks both of them out of their stupor and sends them running to opposite ends of the flat. Their shared room is empty, as is their office and gym. He slams one of the guest bathroom doors open and winces as a bit of plaster falls from the wall, knocked off by the doorknob. It makes Oscar hesitate for just long enough that he sees the soft light coming in from their sim room— which they should have probably checked first.
The door opens with a light push.
Max is sat on the floor, legs crossed, in front of the Red Bull-branded fridge that has been housing Max’s championship trophy for the past few months. The Christmas cards and photos that had been balanced on the trophy are scattered around him as he reverently traces his name, etched on with sharp calligraphy right underneath his signature.
Max turns as soon as he realises that someone has come into the room. The red-rimmed eyes tell Oscar everything that he needs to know.
Oscar had never been in Formula 1 without Max being the reigning champion. It was the simple fact that coloured the past four years of their existence. Charles drives for Ferrari (and always will), Oscar is still learning the ropes (they seem endless in their complexity), and Max is the World Champion. A fact so true, Oscar has been worried about how changing it will rip apart the fabric of their shared reality.
Charles’s hand comes to wrap around his waist a few seconds later, squeezing once Max’s eyes meet his.
“You didn’t tell me.”
There is nothing to say. They didn’t. In their seeming omniscience, they had forgotten that there was a time before. Before the records, before the joy, before the championship. Now it was staring at them in the face, and they didn’t quite know what to do.
The morning has barely begun when Charles sits down in front of Max and lays down a paper and pen next to his coffee cup. The line Lasting Power of Attorney stares back up at Max in bold, black, letters while the rest of the words swim on the paper. He is getting better at being able to read, but not this early in the morning, and certainly not legal documents.
Charles is fidgeting with the hem of his shorts, trying to steel himself for whatever conversation is about to happen. Max can only raise his eyebrow, “And this is?”
“Power of Attorney," He points towards the title, “Gives Oscar and me the power to decide and pay things on your behalf while the doctor clears you.”
“I know what a power of attorney is,” he didn’t, “ I just want to know why you want me to sign it? What is there to pay off?”
“Our flat. This flat.”
Max picks up his coffee cup, if only to have something to fiddle with, “Why didn’t we just pay it off? All at once? Didn’t you say we have been living here for four months?”
Charles sighs, running his hands through his hair. He laughs nervously before meeting Max’s eyes, “Do you want the 'tax exemption' answer or the gay answer to that question?”
He knows, logically, that the pretence that he and Charles had had at the beginning of their relationship must have fallen away at some point, either in their years of dating or the moment that they stopped being a couple and became whatever the term is for what they have with Oscar. But Max is not there yet. Max can barely wrap his head around the fact that, apparently, he had finally chosen a label for himself along the way— never mind that things were more complicated now than back when the word gay still sent an uncomfortable spark down his back.
He clears his throat, “Whatever the real answer is.”
“We wanted to pay it off together, it was hard to get the bank to agree for— honestly, it's a stupid reason, and a long story. We were worried a three-way bank account would out us, and everything else was too much effort. So we split it. We are only missing you, and then it's fully ours.”
He looks down at the piece of paper. He can’t even read the title now, but he can see exactly where his signature would go if he were to sign, “And this won’t?”
“What?”
“This won’t— out? Is that the word?” He clears his throat, “This won’t out us?”
“Maybe not,” Charles shrugs, “But there is a chance. We still wanted it to be your choice to either do it the way we had agreed or have either Oscar or me pay.”
Max nods and doesn’t pick up the pen. He needs more time, needs more space. Needs for the words in the paper to stop swimming around and for him to stop forgetting Oscar’s last name every other day, “Can it wait?”
“It can wait a week; it needs to be done before Spa.” Charles reaches out, placing a hand over Max’s arm, trying to make him look up, and doesn’t speak until their eyes meet. “It is alright if you don’t do it. We understand.”
He tries to smile at Charles and fails.
Oscar comes back from his run to find Max and Charles chatting over breakfast. He drops his bumbag next to the ever-growing pile of shoes and drops his keys on the kitchen counter before padding over to the table. The Power of Attorney sits in the corner of the table, unsigned.
He squeezes Max’s shoulder, who doesn’t jump at the contact as Oscar has grown used to, then leans down to kiss Charles.
“Had a good run?”
He shrugs, “No run is ever a good run.”
Max snorts, “Not a fan of cardio?”
“Never have been,” Charles’s coffee cup is half drunk, which is practically an invitation for theft. It’s cold and way too sweet for Oscar’s taste, so he takes another sip. “Have you gotten up to anything interesting?”
“Just plans for the day. We were thinking of going to a restaurant.”
He looks at Max, his nails are uneven from where he keeps biting them, his jawline red from overshaving— but his hair is styled to the best of his abilities. Max, in his fierce independence, is refusing to let them help with anything he would let his mum and sister do for him, but he still doesn't quite have the coordination. The trophy incident hasn’t helped their case to get Max's trust back, either. He is sitting with his back straight as if to challenge them into making him change his mind. As if they have ever been able to deny him anything.
“Not in Monaco, please. I would like to get there in the same car.”
“We had already thought of that.”
He nods, looks at Max again, who is still tense, and decides that he is too tired to put himself through speaking to him just yet. With the pretense of showering, he scurries off to their shared bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaning on it for a few seconds before allowing himself to breathe. Leo is already there looking up at him with puppy eyes and whining, head half poking out of the tangled blankets on the bed. Oscar leans down and picks the dog up, carrying him around the bedroom and speaking to him softly as he gets ready.
Their room is a mess, as it has been for a few weeks now. Unwashed laundry is starting to pile up in the corner next to their basket; there are no new clean sheets, there are several pots of the horrendous protein yoghurt lying on Oscar's side of the bed, and their lounge chair has piles upon piles of clothes that need folding and putting away. It’s driving him crazy, but he also can’t bring himself clean— wouldn’t even know where to start. So he doesn’t, he just rummages around until he finds clean clothes, grabs a towel from underneath the sink, and notes how probably the laundry will have to get done whether they like it or not. Finally, he kicks the door closed behind him.
Leo is even more annoyed to be shut in their bathroom, but Oscar figures the dog can just deal with it for a few minutes.
By the time he is out, the mirrors have fogged up and his fingers are wrinkly from the shower. Leo keeps whining, and Oscar keeps talking to him. Unwilling to be alone as he showers, and unwilling to think about why he had stopped enjoying showering alone. He doesn’t wipe the mirror so that he can look at himself— he just grabs his stupid orange toothbrush from their cup and keeps chatting away to the dog.
When he comes out, Charles and Max have moved to the couch, talking lightly over the TV, which seems to be playing constantly in their house now. Leo wriggles in his grip violently until he finally puts him down on the couch, and then he is off, jumping on Max’s chest and licking his face.
“I’m ready to go.”
Charles gives him a knowing smile, “I sure hope you are.”
“Do you usually take this long to get ready?” Leo is still wiggling in his arms, but Max has managed to calm him down a little. “I thought Charles was slow.”
Oscar turns, his nice shoes are somewhere in the hallway, buried under the piles of other shoes that have been thrown around. He can feel Charles’s eyes stuck to the back of his neck, following his every move, so he crouches, hoping the sofa will hide him. “Charles is the fastest of all of us to get ready.”
Max laughs, and it sounds like nails on a chalkboard, “That’s impossible.”
Oscar tries not to throw the shoes.
Holding conversations is still endlessly tiring. Max discovers this thirty minutes into their lunch date while they huddle around three platters of cheeses and bread. It takes all the effort in the world to make sentences make sense. To recall the past week, to not get their names mixed up. He can’t read their expressions, their body language, brain dragging behind him as he tries to engage in any way that matters. Not to mention the swirl of emotions that he had been feeling for the past few days, making it even worse. And so he goes quiet.
The doctor herself had told him that this would continue happening until his brain's something or other was back to normal, and even past that, he might need to try his hardest for some of the more complicated things. He hadn’t wanted to ask about racing, then, and is still too jittery to even think about it now. It freaks him out more than anything. He doesn’t want to touch the dark blue box in his brain, only to find out that it is empty or missing parts. He dreads the day that he gets on the sim only to find muscles that react without him understanding why. The moment that he gets back in the car, only for everyone to see the damage done, his brain injury plastered over all the telemetry and time sheets.
He can imagine that it would feel something like this— like sitting on the terrace of a private chef’s restaurant, overlooking the Prealpes and finding himself lagging in a conversation with the two people he is supposed to love the most, yet having to keep quiet. It’s terrifying enough that he doesn’t hear the first few times that they call his name.
He only gets dragged back in when Charles lays a hand over his, “Are you okay?”
Oscar is looking at him with that strange look in his eyes that everyone’s faces seem to have these days.
“Just exhausted.”
It’s a miracle that he has been awake and walking around for so long, that he has managed to maintain coherent conversation for the past five hours, and a part of him knows that he should feel proud. But another part of him feels absolutely pathetic, the kind of pathetic that makes him want to claw at his skin and tear his rib cage open. The kind that makes it hard to breathe without wanting to hit his head against a wall until he can no longer see or hear anything.
He wants to be home. His home. But the place that he is yearning for now belongs to a completely stranger, and the flat that he is living in holds a version of himself that he doesn’t yet know, in a space that he now realises doesn’t even fully belong to him. It feels incredibly poetic, now that he thinks about it, that by the time he crashes in Silverstone, his part of the flat is still unpaid. He is left an outsider looking in on all aspects of a relationship that he doesn’t remember. He relationship that he doesn't even have the language to explain.
He is spiraling, he knows that, but by the time he tries to steady himself, the world has given out under him. And so he falls. He falls at an unfortunate time, as their main courses are coming out, and Charles and Oscar are about to continue their cross-examination. He keeps falling, tumbling, as they keep asking him questions, making him eat, making him drink water, and try to ground himself in the moment. He keeps falling into the seemingly endless void inside his chest at the same time that they remind him of breathing exercises.
It builds and builds and builds until there is nothing left to do but slam both of his fists on the table, “Will you two stop it? ”
The courtyard goes eerily silent. The birds, which had been obnoxiously chirping in the corner, are chased off by the loud crash as well as the waiter who was coming to check in on them. He breathes unsteadily through a few seconds of silence, trying to get his ears to stop ringing, trying to get his bearings before opening his eyes.
The feeling is almost insufferable, and Max just wants it to stop. Wants to open his eyes and see the Charles that he knows, not this older and more tired version. Wants Oscar to disappear into thin air. Wants to pick up his phone and scroll through social media for hours on end. Wants to stare at a TV without getting a headache. Wants to be alone. Wants the flow of time to ebb backwards, guiding him to places that he knows and feelings that he is used to, rather than the confusing jumble buzzing around his head.
Instead, “Max, you’re bleeding.”
He opens his eyes and looks at his hands. His right one has cracked the plate in front of him in two, splinters of ceramic cutting the edge of his palm in a jagged line, staining the pristine white tablecloth with his blood. He can’t really feel it just yet, his skin still numb with overwhelm.
He doesn’t look back as he gets up on unsteady feet and rushes out of the house. He can hear them calling after him, but he also knows that the shock of it has both of them grounded to their seats. He clutches his hand to his chest and storms into the cobbled streets of whatever town they had dragged him to and leaves. He doesn’t pay attention to where he is going; he just weaves through backstreets, climbs up whatever hills he can find until he is sure that they won’t find him. He can’t have gone too far, his legs are not what they used to be two weeks ago, and neither is his balance, but he finds a ledge with a view and enough privacy for him to finally be able to look down at his hand in peace.
It’s a scandalous wound, with more blood than he thinks it merits. The longer that he stares at it, the more he can feel its sting.
Everything hurts in a way that is not entirely physical, and not for the first time that week, Max cannot bring himself to cry. Instead, all that he can do is drown in the silence of a brain that has given up producing any tangible thoughts and instead has succumbed to the sea of feeling coursing through his veins. At least the view is lovely, or would be if his vision wasn’t blurry enough for the hills to flatten out into blobs of colour.
The street he sat in is quiet, with only a few people walking by during the time that he spends looking at the horizon and trying to get his heart rate to calm down. Which is why he is so surprised when he finally shifts, only to find that someone is already sitting next to him. He hadn’t heard when Oscar had snuck next to him, and had sat down patiently waiting for Max to come back for god knows how long.
Their eyes meet, and Oscar gives him a tentative smile, then holds up antiseptic wipes and a bandage. He doesn’t say anything, nor does Max. They just look at each other for a few seconds before Max uncurls his hand from where it has been bleeding into his shirt and extends it over to Oscar.
He makes quick work of it, wiping his forearm first to clean the blood that has dried there and then carefully cleaning his wound. Max only curses once, which he considers a victory, before Oscar is gently pulling the wound closed with the bandage. The tension bleeds out of both of their shoulders, like puppet strings being cut.
The silence lasts for a few more minutes, and he spends most of them cataloguing Oscar’s face. The way his brows relax as the seconds go on, or his nose twitches every time the wind picks up. By the time he finds his voice, Oscar’s face is no longer unknown. “How did you find me?”
Oscar shrugs in the way that Max is becoming familiar with, his head bowed to one side and eyes closed theatrically, “Spent two hours walking around.”
“Two hours?”
“It’s not unlike looking for a lost cat.”
He huffs out a small laugh, “Not as exciting a reward.”
He can tell almost immediately that Oscar is not used to this side of himself, the one that had haunted him for years, screaming insecurities that he masqueraded with boyish bravado to the press and everyone who isn’t close enough to see the cracks. Another thing he has to learn about himself, then. Another piece of the puzzle to fit into this new version of himself that haunts the walls of his flat and the glimmer in Oscar’s eyes whenever he looks at Max.
“Where is Charles?”
Oscar looks at his smartwatch, then turns back to Max, “Still with the restaurant, trying to charm them into signing an NDA.”
“He didn’t help look?”
“You don’t want Charles helping right now. He is much less patient than you remember.”
Another thing to add to the list. Another bout of silence.
“What happened back there, Max?”
He can’t be looking at Oscar for this, so he doesn’t. His senses are a bit sharper after two hours of silence. This time, he can make out the clumps of trees that litter the mountain and the roads snaking through the hills and down to Monte Carlo. “I can’t stand it when you both look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m someone I don't know.”
Maybe he is able to cry, after all. Not quite yet, but he can feel the pressure building in the back of his eyes. Oscar doesn’t interrupt him, instead letting the words hang in the air until Max is okay with picking them back up.
“I don’t know the version of Max that you fell in love with. I don’t know the version of myself that has won four championships, who is okay with a long term relationship, who feels okay with calling myself—” he stumbles over the words, feeling too big in his mouth and too scary to say out in public, “I don’t know the version of myself that decided to buy an apartment with you. Even if I look like him, I don’t feel like him.”
“You’re not him.”
And doesn’t that hurt? He has to press down on his wound to cauterise the pain, “I’m sorry.”
He hears Oscar’s shoes scuff the pavement as he gets down from the ledge and comes around to be looking directly into Max’s eyes. The sun has started to set on the horizon, painting the sky a blushing pink and orange, casting a warm light on Oscar’s hair and face as he extends his hand towards Max. There is a golden bracelet wrapped around his wrist, which glitters in the light of dusk, the sapphire and ruby catching in the light and making something ugly twist in his gut.
“It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Oscar Piastri.”
Max looks up, “What?”
“We have to start somewhere, and I don’t think I introduced myself back at the hospital.”
“Oscar—”
“Humor me.”
He only hesitates for a second before shaking his hand. He still feels silly, even if Oscar is smiling, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Surely the third time has to be the charm.”
The statement is so ridiculous that Max has no other choice but to laugh. He throws his head back and only really realises that he is crying when the tears roll down his cheeks and down his neck. Oscar is also laughing when he looks back at him, gripping his hand tightly as he covers his mouth.
The next morning, when Oscar wakes up for his usual run, he finds a piece of paper with Max's signature practiced over and over until there is no room on the paper. Beside it, there is a signed copy of the Lasting Power of Attorney.
Chapter 4: The Team
Summary:
“Do you want to keep watching?”
He doesn’t know, really. Doesn’t know if he has it in him to keep looking at the graphics on the side of the screen, painfully displaying 19 HAD +1:12.411 in the car that is supposed to be his. He doesn’t know if he wants to continue watching a grid that he doesn’t recognise, where the name Hamilton is not preceded by the Mercedes logo, or where Lando is fighting for a championship and looking more aged up than any other person in this alternate world he has popped into
Notes:
hello, hello, hello!
First, a massive, massive, thank you to my Beta @PapayaSkye!!!! You helped me so much in getting the flow right and making me feel good about the chapter. You rock! Without them, this would not have been posted, so a massive round of applause, please!
I hope this chapter was worth the wait.
We had a lovely holiday, I rode more trains than recommended for a human being, and we rested so much. Now I'm back into the real world and trying to build a routine of writing, reading, and going to the gym so if this chapter feels different, it's because I'm processing my emotions by deadlifting and bouldering!
last thing, AO3 is being annoying with the translations thing, but i'm not too worried cause you can understand without translations from the vibe of the line. However, let me know if I need to dig deep and make it work if the flow is not flowing.
I hope you enjoy! Very excited for your comments :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The replay of his crash is spectacular. The shower of sparks and gravel that propel themselves into the sky, the sick crunch of mental against the barriers, the awed screams from the audience. In a fraction of a second, Max understands why they had insisted on bringing Daniel in as his glorified babysitter– in all of his retired glory.
Another angle pops onto the screen, the banking in Copse glittering in the sunlight, the live feed from the race relegated to a small corner on the screen as the cars make their way into the pit lane. He can feel Daniel’s eye flitting over the side of his face as the McLarens try to run each other off from the track. As they fight for every inch, every point in a championship Max is but a side character in.
And then. Lando’s car snaps at the contact with Oscar’s front wheel. He reins it back in, tyres screaming with the effort to stay on the track, the second of hesitation enough for Max to slither through— only for Max to clip Lando’s back wheel. He hasn’t watched the 2021 crash, but Croft remarks on the similarity of it. The car spins at a high speed corner, gravel trap slowing him down only marginally, and in this case, creating enough friction for the car to flip on its side. The halo is the first thing to make contact.
It’s unusual for them to show crashes from previous races, or it would have been if it hadn’t been Max. If the Red Bulls weren’t currently at the back of the grid, a few seconds behind the nearest car while Max had been running third in the championship. If the pundits weren’t foaming at the mouth to dissect every second of the accident, to revel in the metal carcass that had consumed Max whole.
The scene changes into Yuki slowing the car to a stop in front of his garage. Max can’t quite picture what the other man looks like, but he doesn’t need to. The tension in his shoulders and the hesitation to let go of the steering wheel are more than enough to tell Max all that he needs to know.
Daniel is already looking at him by the time that Max turns his head, his eyes trailing all over his face, trying to gauge Max’s reaction, trying to anticipate needs that Max doesn’t even know he has.
“Do you want to keep watching?”
He doesn’t know, really. Doesn’t know if he has it in him to keep looking at the graphics on the side of the screen, painfully displaying 19 HAD +1:12.411 in the car that is supposed to be his. He doesn’t know if he wants to continue watching a grid that he doesn’t recognise, where the name Hamilton is not preceded by the Mercedes logo, or where Lando is fighting for a championship and looking more aged up than any other person in this alternate world he has popped into. He doesn’t know if he wants to see Charles and Oscar climbing on a podium while he has to watch from the leather couch in their living room rather than the track itself.
But he also can’t not watch.
To not watch would be to miss out on something that is supposed to be his. In a car that he is supposed to drive. On points that he should be earning. To not watch would be to have to speak with Daniel, who reveals some terribly uncomfortable things about himself at the worst of times, and who is more than anyone the epitome of what his life has become. Sitting on a couch watching a race, fingers itching to drive even as his Red Bull tumbles down to a disgraceful 20th.
The change in Daniel, as opposed to his sister’s seriousness or his dad’s absence, is comforting. In the stark time jump that he is living through, no one makes as much sense as him. In the frizziness of his beard and the sadness in his smile, Daniel shines with a kind of peace that Max can’t seem to understand.
“Max?”
He had never answered, which is on par for the course.
“It’s only like 20 laps left.”
“At least take a break while there is a red flag, yeah? It will be a while.”
His chest itches with annoyance, “Okay, mum. You are worse than all of them combined.”
Daniel tilts his head back and laughs loudly, deflating all tension in the room, and when he offers Max a hand to stand up, he takes it with no hesitation. His eyesight still blurs at the edges, and he has to breathe for a few seconds to make sure that he can stand without swaying. Daniel says nothing; he just waits for him to open his eyes again and then gives him a brilliant smile once he does.
The TV in the corner is going on and on about the fight for P1 between Charles and Oscar. About Lando’s tenuous grip on the championship lead after his— their— crash last race. About Max’s absence and the collapse of the Red Bull team. But Daniel, his Daniel, is here right now, squeezing his hand and feeling more real than anyone else.
There are memories there, of a rookie season so violent it feels like a dream, and of a parting of ways that fills him with questions about what could have been. And throughout all of that, there is Daniel, who now stands solid as the rest of the world spins endlessly around him. As it has always been.
“Come on, Champ. We can have a bite before the end of the race. You don’t want to miss your boys’ podium.”
They don’t. Not that Max would ever dare to. They just walk around the flat and grab a cup of water, opening up windows as they go to let the summer air in. However, as soon as the lap counter is in the single digits, Max is there, glued to the screen, legs cramping from his pathetic attempts to bolt over to the couch. When Croft’s voice picks up in pace, when Oscar and Charles start to twirl around each other, swapping positions, breaking in tandem, and tethering on the edge of another spectacular crash, only to pull back; Max is there, watching with single-minded focus.
They cross the finish line with only three tenths of a second separating them. They are both elated in a way that Max can feel through the screen. In the same way that he has felt about Charles fighting him before, and maybe Oscar as well. Charles is laughing over the radio, Oscar is thanking him for the good fight, and the commentators are praising god for allowing them to be present for their dance.
But both his and Daniel’s eyes are trained on cars 22 and 6 , who take a full two minutes to cross the line after them. He expects the feelings of disappointment and yearning to be the one in that car, solely because he knows he would not have crossed the line on the 20th. He even expects the small amounts of vindication Daniel is trying to fight off. But what he doesn’t expect is the feeling of sadness. It sits down on the couch, in the bit of space that they have left between them, which now is filled with the deep-seated disappointment of knowing that the team is crumbling without them. He hates how it curls up and whispers softly about how it would have been different if it had been them.
“They’ve been falling apart for the past season.” Daniel’s voice is carefully neutral, “Really, the only thing that had kept them afloat was you.”
“I don’t understand how.”
Daniel shrugs, “They forgot it was a team sport, I think.”
There is an odd pressure in Max’s throat, “So you said. When you left.”
“It was hard enough then to keep it sustainable. Even more now that you are gone.”
“I can’t remember it just being a one-man team.”
“You wouldn’t have. Even if you weren’t–” he points at his head and twirls his finger around, “But no one blames you for it.”
“You still left.”
He smiles, and like every other smile Daniel has ever given him, it feels tangible in its sincerity, “Then that just makes me an expert on the matter, don’t it?”
There is a cheer from the TV, the camera is panning over the podium as Charles lifts his trophy over his head, and the tifosi in the audience lose their minds. Oscar is staring up at him in a way that the rest of the world will see as admiration, but Max can tell it's love.
Suddenly, he doesn’t want Daniel in his house at all.
The apartment is silent when Max finally gets around to watching the post-race interviews. Daniel had been hard to send home, both of them reaching for each other's company in a way that Max knew could end with them hanging out for days on end if he allowed it. But he needs quiet. He needs the ghostly groaning of the windows as the wind batters them from the harbour, and for the house to be empty.
All of the lights are turned off, doors locked, and curtains drawn by the time that he manages to work the YouTube function on the TV.
Charles’ face is pure ecstasy, lashes still clumped together from the champagne and race. He shifts from one foot to the other, smiling softly at the camera before jumping straight into talking about the race.
The editing is jarring. There is no introductory question. Nothing but a bout of silence before he starts talking. Max has to go back and replay the first few seconds, having missed them in his surprise.
“Yes, races like this are always exciting. Especially in Spa, very special track. It means a lot to have won again today. Especially with a fight like with Oscar.”
He lets Charles’ voice wash over him, lets him talk about the grip of the tyres and the slight mistake in the pit stop. Allowing it to soothe his anxiety like water pouring from the overpronounced L’s and Charles’ improper grammar over his tender skin. It makes him want to watch previous interviews from three, five, eight years ago to hear how his voice has changed in that time. As expected, he can hear bits of himself in the way that Charles speaks, and bits of Oscar in the way his accent has not quite mellowed but transformed.
The cut away from Charles is fast, leaving him with Oscar smiling from his screen.
He is in his Nomex, cap pulled low over his eyes as he leans against the railing in the press pen.
“Yeah, the race was good.” He pulls on the top of the shirt, rearranging his collar and flashing his watch in a show that will make his PR manager very happy. “Close. Very close. With Charles and me trading positions throughout, and that final stint being— you know. But that final half a second I needed just wasn’t there by the end.”
Oscar goes to leave, there is another cut in the video in which Max assumes he was asked another question. His demeanor has changed.
“Yeah, it’s a real shame that Max can’t be here. I wish him a speedy recovery. But I can’t comment much else on the crash than what the stewards have already declared.”
The video continues, and Max remains frozen.
It makes him unbelievably angry. Toe curlingly, throat closingly, angry; the monster that lives inside him stepping carelessly on his heart as it tries to claw its way up his throat. The phone, his phone, sits inconspicuously on the coffee table, notifications turned off to avoid him getting a headache from the flashing lights. The video continues playing on the TV, and in the reflection from the screen, Max catches Lando scrunching his nose and shaking his head.
In the end, it wasn’t really a choice for Max.
“Are you actually stupid?”
Max doesn’t appreciate the tone of Charles’ voice, nor does he appreciate that it is essentially the first thing that he says after they come back, but he can see why Charles would be annoyed. However, Max is not going to let him feel bad about what he has done.
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Max–”
“Not that big of a deal?” Charles slams his trophy on their dining table. From his vantage point on the sofa, Max sees the candles wobble precariously, “Only thing you or your team has said since Silverstone is not— putain, tu es insupportable .”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t act like it.”
“Charles–”
“Stay out of it, Oscar.”
Oscar doesn’t flinch, but Max can’t tell that he is not happy about being shut out. “I don’t see why he has to stay out of it. The Tweet was about him.”
Charles doesn’t notice, “It’s not about that.”
The beast rears its ugly head, gnawing at Max’s lungs as he realises that, once again, there is context that he is missing. There are fights he doesn’t know the resolution to, agreements he hasn’t yet reached. It only makes him angrier.
“I don’t see why I’m not allowed to say things about stupid reporters.”
Behind Charles, Oscar rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest, biting the inside of his cheek in a way that Max has come to know as annoyance. He can’t quite tell at who, but he does know Oscar doesn’t look happy to be here.
“You’re picking fights again.” Charles spits out, “Why?”
“What do you mean again. I always pick fights like this.”
“I can’t believe you’d be this irresponsible. I can’t believe you’d risk outing us like that.”
“Charles!”
Oscar gets ignored in favour of Charles taking another step towards Max. For the first time in the fight, Max feels out of kilter, like he is a few steps behind Charles in a way he is not quite used to, “Is that what this is about?”
“Don’t play dumb! What do you think it is about?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” The statement seems to freeze time. Max tilts his head up, giving himself a second to breathe when no one else seems to be able to, “What the fuck happened to you?”
“Okay,” Oscar snaps, “That's enough . Both of you.”
Charles finally, finally, turns to look at their third, guilt lining his anger, “Oscar, I’m–”
“No. Sorry. You don’t get to shut me out then grovel once you’ve realised you’ve done wrong.”
Max didn’t even realise Oscar was still carrying his bag until he lays it down on the table, shoving the trophy aside.
“Thank you, Oscar.”
Oscar’s eyes flicker briefly towards him, “You’re also in the dog house, don’t play coy.”
“He came in here screaming at me. I don’t know why I’m in the wrong.”
“I just don’t understand why both of you have to come horns first into everything that you do. Does it make you feel more manly? Do you feel more in control?” Oscar glares at him, before turning around to Charles and giving him the same look, “Cool off. Go take a walk or something. We can talk about it when you are ready to be adults.”
Max can see the way the muscles in Charles’s neck tense, the way his bite tightens as if he is trying to avoid opening his mouth. He turns on his heels and walks towards his room, slamming the door as he goes in. He will have to come back out when he realises that there are no sheets or towels in there, all of them neatly folded in their laundry room as Max had promised before the GP weekend. But Charles is too prideful to walk back out, too prideful to not sit down in an unmade bed until he feels he has made his point.
Oscar is watching him by the time he turns around. He is looking at Max with hurt, either from the tweet, or the fight, or both. Either way, the hurt morphs into anger as their eyes meet, and he seems unable to stop the scoff and eye roll, “And you? Erase that fuckass tweet. I don’t need you to defend me.”
Oscar is gone a few seconds later, the tension in the flat only increasing with the silence that follows. Logically, he knows that he should go to his room as well, cool off in private before having to face the other two later, give everyone breathing space. But Max is already deleting the tweet; he doesn’t need to back down on all fronts.
There is a knock on the balcony door before it slides open, letting in a freshly showered Charles— his hair frizzy from lack of products, his eyes red-rimmed— wearing thin-looking gray sweatpants and a shirt that looks three sizes too big. He gives Max a tentative smile before grabbing a chair to sit opposite him at their table. All of the energy, the anger, which had been sprouting out of him at the smallest touch has dissipated, leaving behind a bone-deep tiredness that Max is not used to.
“Oscar is right.” Only the second most surprising thing that could have come out of Charles’ mouth, apart from his next line, “I’m sorry I screamed.”
Max leans back into his chair, brows furrowed, “The more time I spend with you, the less I understand you.”
Charles snorts, looking down at his hands as he fiddles with a bracelet he is wearing, a gold chain with blue and amber stones that he keeps clasping and unclasping, “You know how to say the most hurtful things.”
“I wasn’t being mean.”
“I didn’t say that.”
They lapse into another bout of silence, as Max tries to make sense of what Charles is trying to say. He can’t help but feel angry again, at the fact that he can’t understand, at the world for making things complicated, at the thought of knowing that everything that he says digs him deeper into this hole he has been digging since the restaurant. He is angry in a way that he doesn’t know how to deal with. So he doesn’t, he just keeps quiet until Charles speaks again.
“We broke up in the middle of 2022.”
He clenches his fists, “I didn’t know that.”
Charles gives him a smile before continuing, “We were fighting a lot. At home and on the track. We kept making each other angry like that. And we couldn’t do it. So we broke up.”
He can only imagine the way that it blew up, in a shower of sparks and vile words thrown at each other in the particular way that they have been doing since they were little kids.
“And then we got back together. Obviously. But you changed, and I changed, and where I grew hard, you softened, less angry, less snappy. More level-headed and nice. I thought I had done it too, but I’m scared that it was all you. And now that you is not here and–”
“Oscar doesn’t seem to think that.”
“Oscar was not here when it was bad,” Charles turns towards the flat, and Max follows to see Oscar arranging some kind of platter. They watch in silence for a few seconds as he fiddles with the food he is lovingly trying to display. Max is entranced by the soft smile on Charles’s face, “We wouldn’t have allowed it. He did not deserve that.”
Max purses his lips and turns around to watch the Monaco skyline, “I think you have changed. If that makes you feel any better.”
Charles reaches over, grabbing his hand. He turns it over, running a calloused thumb down his palm before he brings it up to his face, and lays two soft kisses on it, “I love you, Max.”
The words get stuck in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe.
“You don’t have to say it back just yet. I just needed you to know.”
Four knocks on the glass again, the door slides open just as Max is laying his hand back on his lap, cheeks reddened. Oscar lays down the platter in the middle of the table, fruit, cheese, bread, and ham hastily assembled in what Max thinks is supposed to be a flower or a very wonky circle, then goes boneless as he sits down. “I am genuinely too tired to fight both of you, so can we please keep it civil?”
Charles reaches for a piece of bread, “Oh, we have made up.”
Oscar blinks, “You have?”
“Eh,” Charles holds up his hand in a so-so gesture, “Couci-couça,”
“Charles said sorry .” Max blurts out, “I don’t think Charles has ever said sorry to me.”
Oscar throws his head back in laughter, “Yeah, we are working on that one.”
It makes all three of them laugh, and makes Max wonder what else they have been ‘ working’ on . It makes him wonder how many times they have fought like this, only to come together later to lick each other’s wounds. How many times has Oscar had to broker peace, and how many times has he been the inciting factor? Max is suddenly, in a way that he hasn’t felt since waking up, ravenous for information. Hungry to know how Oscar got drawn into their mix, where he fits in their arguments, how he balances them out, or tips them out of orbit. He wants to know about their first kiss, their first date, the first time that they drove each other off track and into a wall.
He wants to know if Oscar, like Charles, holds a whip that he turns on himself whenever anything goes wrong. He wants to know if he has been told, like Max had gone and told the entire internet and the world, that he didn’t think his accident had been Oscar’s fault. He wonders if the younger man knows that. If he believes anyone when they say it.
“I should probably say I’m sorry too.”
Oscar shrugs, “Probably.”
“I should have watched the video before today,” He forces himself to look Oscar in the eye, even if every instinct is yelling for him to hide away, “I should have known that you had been involved in the accident. I was too emotional.”
“I don’t need you to defend my mistakes, Max.” Oscar, unlike him, can’t hold his stare, “I wanted it too much, I swerved, I crashed you out. I won’t grovel for a penalty, but it was my mistake.”
“And that’s why you’re upset at me. You think I’m wrong.”
“I don’t think you are wrong. I know you are. I’m reminded of it every day.”
Max leans back, eyes flitting over Oscar’s face as he reaches for a cube of cheese in the platter, eyes never leaving the table, never meeting Charles or Max. So Max does what he knows best. He grabs the cube from between Oscar’s fingers, popping it in his mouth and giving him an obnoxious smile as he looks at him, bewildered, “I take back my apology then. I shouldn’t have deleted that tweet.”
Charles groans and covers his face, Oscar scrunches his nose in a way that reminds Max too much of Lando, and Max holds his grin.
“How is that comment helpful?”
“You’re the only one here who blames you for that.” He grabs another cube from the platter and squeezes it a bit before popping it in his mouth, “It’s our main rule. We don’t apologise for racing incidents, and don’t apologise for defending them.”
Oscar is looking at him weirdly, his face an indecipherable mix of emotions, before he relents, “Okay.”
“Mint.”
That makes both of them laugh again, leaving Max oddly smug.
“And you say I’m the one hanging around Lando too much.”
Max shrugs and leans back on old habits, hoping the joke will land, “I don’t remember saying that.”
“That can’t be your retort forever.”
“It’s the perfect excuse. Of course it will be.”
The sun has set and the platter has been eaten by the time they go back into the house, tension relaxed. Oscar and Charles are exhausted in the way that only a race weekend ever makes them, and Max feels only slightly bad at rejecting their invitation to sleep in their shared bedroom— not quite yet feeling like there is a space for him there.
Sleep takes a long time to come for him that night, which he mostly spends trying to remember in vivid detail the things he can remember from the start of his and Charles’s relationship. There are crashes and fights and late nights in hotel rooms, working out the kinks in their memories from years of bloody kart fights. It’s violent and uncontrolled, raw with tension and the immaturity of people who have not done anything like that before.
In his dreams, the memories keep coming untethered. Some of late mornings in sheets that smell of stale sex, others of busy nightclubs and the joys of face coverings. But one in particular comes to mind, of soft fingers tracing ribs and light kisses being pressed to the corner of Charles’ mouth. Of whispered apologies for a race gone badly, for the pain of loss and hurt at the hands of each other.
It wakes him up in cold sweat, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to get his ears to stop ringing. Max doesn’t go back to sleep, worried that if he does, he will forget that in 2021 their rule, the rule , didn’t yet exist.
Notes:
fight fight fight fight!
But also, as Oscar said, fighting in any way that is not constructive is actually not that sexy. Sorry to burst everyone's bubble hahaha.
That fight scene was one of the first that i though about when i started writing this fic, and one of the first ones I wrote. But the version that you got is maybe version 10 as I kept being incredibly unhappy with it and just rewriting all of it to fit what I wanted. This is the closest, but emotionally most grounded i could get it. Hope you enjoyed!
Chapter 5: Charles
Summary:
It's peaceful to watch Charles methodically approach cooking in the same way that he does everything else. Checking and re-checking the cookbook, his phone chiming with timers every couple of minutes, his movements precise and controlled.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Charles finally looks over his shoulder, flashing him a teasing smile. “Have you had your fill of staring?”
Oscar tips his head forward and chuckles, “Maybe.”
Notes:
update in quick succession to make up for the month wait!
Also!!! Second-to-last chapter. 5/6 chapters. I cant believe it. I can't believe we finally got here!!!!!!!!!!!
massive thank you to my beta @papayaskye who caught my prolific use of the word 'carefully' which i had used a grand total of 12 'carefully's in like 1000 words. so yeah. this chapter is readable thanks to them!
This is, and i kid you not, on my my favourite chapters i have ever written. something about it makes me so soft and gooey inside.
enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Oscar walks into their apartment to find the place completely changed. Gone are the endless piles of books and laundry, the stains of their muddy shoes on the dark hardwood floor, and the smell of old cooking. He doesn’t realise how much their life had spiraled out of control until the moment that orange scented candles and fresh linen open his eyes.
There are no overhead lights turned on, just the soft glow of Charles’ carefully curated lamp collection and their mismatched candles, softened by the buttery notes of Sam Cooke playing from their sound system. He lines up his shoes on their shoe rack rather than just toeing them off, and hangs his tote bag rather than throwing it on the floor as he had been doing for the past few weeks.
The table is set for two, the candleholder he and Charles had found at an antique store proudly displaying some tastefully matched red and orange candles next to what he knows is a bottle of expensive Australian white wine. In the corner of the room, the Max table has been organised. Pills and sheets of paper neatly arranged and, if his eyes don’t fail him, colour-coded with bright sticky notes. He pads into the space, not wanting to disturb anything, and sees the kitchen door half open.
Charles is there, kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder, cutting shallots into paper-thin slices. Something is sizzling in a pan, and what's definitely a pot of pasta steaming in the far corner of their hob. Oscar doesn’t really want to interrupt, at least not yet, so he just leans against the door frame, watching as his partner cooks dinner for two.
It's peaceful to watch Charles methodically approach cooking in the same way that he does everything else. Checking and re-checking the cookbook, his phone chiming with timers every couple of minutes, his movements precise and controlled.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Charles finally looks over his shoulder, flashing him a teasing smile. “Have you had your fill of staring?”
Oscar tips his head forward and chuckles, “Maybe.”
“I would like a hello hug. Maybe even a kiss.”
Oscar carefully steps into the space, tiptoeing over the cold tile, until he can wrap his arms around Charles’s waist as he tips the shallots into a pan with melted butter. They watch them sizzle for a while, wordlessly, before Oscar squeezes Charles’ hand, “Where is Max?”
“Sophie and Victoria wanted to take him away for the evening,” he grabs a wooden spoon from their organiser and starts moving the shallots around, “they should be back by midnight, or something like that. I thought we could take the time.”
“I didn’t know they had planned that.”
Charles hums, “It was a nice surprise.”
Oscar decides not to prod, and instead, he looks around the counter. There is perfectly cooked linguine in the pot, covered in a lovely-smelling sauce, a pack of fresh burrata, and chopped parsley. “You made my favourite.”
“I thought it would be good to have a nice night for ourselves,” he gently butts his head against Oscar’s cheek before pushing him off so that he can finish plating the food, “just us, enjoying dinner and wine and music. Maybe even a cigarette, time willing.”
“A cigarette,” there is a mixture of wistfulness and anxiety that settles into his chest, “did you buy a new pack?”
Their old one had been stuffed at the bottom of their shared sock drawer, away from everyone’s, including Max’s, prying eyes. They are, as with anything Charles buys, the expensive ones that leave Oscar’s head too heavy for his shoulders. He has never craved something more.
Charles finishes the last flourishing touches, sprinkling the Parsley over Oscar’s, and picking out the few that flutter over to his plate, before gesturing for them to get out of the kitchen. He lets Charles lead, hovering beside him as he lays down the table, allowing him to theatrically pull the chair out for Oscar to sit in. He allows all of it with a smile and by offering to serve Charles’s wine with equal flair.
Oscar can’t even find it in himself to force guilt over Max’s absence. Their flat feels like theirs for the first time since they came back from Oxford, every new book having found a place in their stands, their floors immaculately clean as Max has always insisted on having them, and none of the big lights turned on. He even allows himself to pretend that their third is just off in Milton Keynes, checking the time constantly to see when he can come back home.
He can’t feel bad about living in that reality, just for tonight.
And so, conversation flows lightly, with Charles gossiping to him about something or other that Lewis has been doing, and in exchange, Oscar tells him about the gruelling media schedule that he and Lando have been handed for the weeks after the summer break. It takes the blink of an eye for the last of the wine to be poured, and for Charles to bring out la scarpetta to mop up the remaining sauce on their plates.
It’s only then that he sees Charles hesitate— muscles tensing as if he is revving up for a race. Oscar knows better than to interrupt or try to speed up the process, so he just waits, tracing Charles’s fingers with his eyes as he wipes his plate clean with small pieces of bread. Marveling at the tendons in his hands, the dozen or so rings, the neatly trimmed nails that still have smudges from the black nail polish that Charles has been experimenting with.
“I’m sorry for ignoring you on Tuesday.”
Oscar swallows a smile, not wanting to spook Charles. Instead, his gaze remains steadily on Charles’ face, even if he won’t look at Oscar. They can only win so many fights.
A few more seconds go by before Charles speaks again, “I get so caught up in it sometimes, and I simply don’t want you to be at the other end of the fight if you don’t have to be.”
It seems they are revisiting an age-old argument, then. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“I don’t want you getting hurt.” He finally, devastatingly, looks up, “More hurt.”
Oscar leans over, grabbing Charles’s hand and lacing their fingers together, “You will just end up hurting me more if you do that.”
Charles squeezes back, “I know.”
And then, Charles gives him a look. The fresh pack of Gauloises Blondes comes out of the pocket of his hoodie, and Oscar’s breath catches in his throat.
They had made a pact in Oxford, nothing until everything was over. Their private monthly rituals were too risky, especially with how high their stress was, how long their days seemed, and how far away driving was from their minds. But now, as the warm Monaco breeze flutters their gossamer curtains, it seems impossible to deny themselves the pleasure. And so he follows Charles as he scurries across the flat, their footsteps making Leo tilt his head in curiosity as they patter past his bed.
Oscar is a bit sad about the loss of music as soon as the balcony door is shut, but that is quickly forgotten when Charles tears the plastic covering off and gingerly takes two cigarettes out, handing one to Oscar, then flicking their lighter open.
The first inhale makes him dizzy, his lungs having forgotten what it felt like to feel the release.
Monaco glitters gold from their vantage point, with pettering lights covering the bay and mixing the city with the glittering water. He can hear laughter and music coming faintly from one of the bars down the street, can smell the sea salt and hot asphalt in the summer air, can feel the light ocean breeze ruffling his messy hair, and in that instant, everything seems to come crashing down on him.
The weight of the past weeks settles heavily on his shoulders, making them ache, making it hard to breathe. He leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the railing, too tired to hold himself up. Too tired to stop the words from escaping his mouth, “Did you two mean it?”
He can feel Charles shift until their hips are touching, arms brushing as he takes another drag, “Mean what?”
“When you said that there is no us without me anymore? Do you still mean it, even now?”
“Oscar.” He doesn’t really want to look up, which prompts Charles to bump their hips together until he does. If Charles’s eyes are watering, his must be rimmed red, “I asked Victoria and Sophie to take Max.”
“How is that any better? Isn’t that an us without Max?”
Charles shrugs, “There isn’t an us without him either. But that is all that we have been recently. Us because of Max, rather than just us because of us. Us regardless of what Max remembers at all.”
And that is the crux of it, is it not? Somewhere, halfway across Monaco in a restaurant of Victoria’s picking, Max sits with his family, with the only memories of Oscar being those that he has made in the past few weeks. Nothing more. None of the fights, or the push and pull, of the pain and exhilaration of the past year and a half, of things clicking into place for all three of them. There are no memories of them realising that it feels more natural, less stressful, more balanced, to share a life of three than to try to hold the weight of the world between the two of them. Of their falling together, and even more painfully of their coming apart.
“I don’t know how to love Max without loving you anymore, and I refuse to let another accident take everything away from me. So I will keep reminding you that you’re here to stay.”
“I think—” Oscar takes another drag from his cigarette, trying to give himself some time to think, then wipes his tears with the palm of his hand, “I think the thing that hurts the most is that he remembers you but not me. It’s like a sick joke.”
Smoke puffs out as Charles speaks, “He will remember you again. One way or another.”
“ Charles —”
“If not that way, then the harder and more painful way,” he turns his entire body to face Oscar, who feels his full attention like a heavy weight on his chest, “but my Max, our Max, will learn to love us again.”
“He still loves you.”
Charles shakes his head, “Not this version, no. He keeps expecting me to be him, but I’m not. I’m older, I’m less nice, more kind, more me. In his version, there is no you, and that is not how this works. This version of me involves you. So he will have to learn.”
They let that sit in the air, floating silently along with the curling smoke from their cigarettes as they light a second one. Something new and possibly stupid, but they can’t stop themselves even if they wanted to. He thinks back to the conversation he had with Max overlooking Luceram, and wonders how stupid it is for them to be in this situation— chasing versions of themselves that no longer exist. Oscar finally finds the courage to speak again when he has smoked half of his cigarette. His voice is hoarse and limbs uncoordinated, but he will definitely light a third cigarette, Charles willing. “So, what then?”
“We fall in love again.”
“And if that fails?”
“We try a third, and a fourth, maybe even a fifth time. But we will fall in love again.”
Max walks in on Oscar and Charles wrapped around each other, swaying to the beat of soft jazz. The door closes behind him with a soft snick, trapping him in the corridor between a flat he doesn’t recognise and an outside world that seems impossibly big.
He had gotten used to the lived-in nature of their shared space, to the strewn papers on the coffee table and the mismatched shoes. He had gotten used to not being able to quite see the colour of the sofa, or having to kick things out of his way on the path to the kitchen. He is suddenly confronted with what he knows is the way that this apartment is meant to be seen. The tapestry of mismatched items brought together by sheer power of will to make a home, a rather nice one at that. One with earth-toned furniture, bright coloured cushions, and more pictures on the wall than he can count. One with tastefully mismatched candles and flower vases. One with two lovers swaying to soft music after what seems like a lovely date.
He doesn’t have the luxury of appreciating the scene, however, as Leo comes running towards the door, barking and whimpering loudly as he barrels into Max’s legs. The moment crumbles away, chased off by the scratch of nails on their hardwood floors and Oscar’s laughter ringing after him.
Max can’t blame the dog, so instead he picks him up and allows him to wriggle and lick his face in greeting. Once both of them have sufficiently calmed down, he turns towards Oscar and Charles, who are looking at him with unreadable expressions. It’s tense and slightly uncomfortable. Max holds Leo closer to his chest and gives them a small smile, “Had a nice dinner?”
Charles smiles brightly, grabbing Oscar’s hand and kissing it loudly, “Very nice dinner. Just thought Oscar deserved to be wine and dined.”
Jealousy is not an easy emotion to temper, especially not with Charles, who is now looking at the younger man as if he had hung the stars. “Any gossip I’m not allowed to know?”
Oscar sighs, “Max.”
“What? I’m just curious.”
“Max.”
“I think I’m allowed to let in on the gossip, no?”
“Max,” He finally looks at Oscar, who is now only a few steps away from him and offering him his hand, “Just come dance with us.”
He stares at his outstretched palm, biting his lips and fiddling with Leo’s hair as he tries to decipher what is being offered to him. He looks back up at Oscar, who is giving him a gentle smile, then at Charles, who doesn’t seem to be extending him any sympathy— and hasn’t since their fight— but who is reaching out for the dog that Max is currently holding on to as a lifeline.
Leo only wriggles a tiny bit as Charles grabs him, and in lieu of not having anything to hold on to anymore, Max gives in. He gently takes Oscar’s hand, a heavy breath getting stuck in his throat, “I don’t know how to dance.”
“ Yet,” Oscar guides his hand to rest on his upper back, right below his neck, before placing a hand over Max’s waist, “You made us go to a formal social dancing thing a few months ago.”
Max throws his head back in laughter, “ Me? ”
Oscar shrugs, “You sometimes get weird ideas stuck in your head.”
“Like wanting to be able to slow dance?” Max shakes his head, “I can’t imagine what made me want to learn that.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
Max, oddly, appreciates that. He has been stuck, for so long, trying to learn who he was, being told of the things that he wanted, and thought about, and not being given any space to exist in the in between. It’s silly, but that is probably the first time that an answer hadn’t been readily available for him, but not expected either. He lets Oscar sway them around for a few bars, which Max spends trying to let himself relax into the hold. He can’t quite get there, but it feels less stiff than the first few times Oscar had tried to hold him at all.
Then Charles is there, lightly arranging his hands so that he is holding on to Oscar properly, so that he stops holding him like he has never touched him before. Charles even leans forward at one point and presses a kiss to both of their cheeks, which both of them melt into.
“Okay,” Charles fiddles with his phone, and the song changes to something slower, longing clinging to every note like syrup, "We'll re-teach you how to dance.”
“You will?”
“Oscar is good at leading. Once you’ve got the hang of it, we can change, and you can try and lead me.”
Max frowns and looks at Charles, “You don’t know how to lead?”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugs, “Don’t really want to. It’s nicer not to have to think and let myself just feel the music.”
It seems that Oscar can feel him spiraling, trying to file this piece away into the endless puzzle of the past few years, because he squeezes his waist, “Don’t deep it.”
Max hesitates before nodding, eyes locking with Oscar’s, “Okay. Teach me how to dance.”
The smile he gets in return is blindingly bright.
Notes:
EEEEEP!
on to the last chapter then!