Chapter Text
Intuition guides him more than rational thought or measured paces. It is not that he doesn’t know how to be calm. Of course not. How else would he be able to settle into a kart and let himself attune to what the kart needs, when to trust and when to rein it in? He listens to his engineers, hears their advice and spins it well for the race anew. He plans ahead, finds the lines along the track and breaks far later to coast around the corners and get in front where he should be.
There, perhaps, he can find home in the top steps above the rest. Where he can rest knowing that he did an amazing job, pulling off feats that would make him noticed, make him stand out in the ever shifting waves of boys who drench their dreams in childhood innocence.
Running. Gasps. Choked-calls for his name. Nothingness.
Honestly, this is no time for dreams.
When nothing becomes tangible, his dreams and soul clicking softly into the subsiding numbness, his eyes snap open.
Light stings, creases his eyes to water, an overwhelming white that surrounds on all sides. With the weightless feeling twisting his stomach, unsupported and disorienting, he realises that he is falling. And isn’t that just terrifying? He knows he could describe it better, wisps of effrayant stuck in his throat, but he finds the barest flash of something in front of him and it finally hits him.
Max.
He is stupid for following him. Really, really, stupid. Falling in a portal, where even Max’s own father didn’t even care to do anything at all, where—who the hell knows awaits them at the other side. But really, he's always been good at keeping up with Max when it seems that not even the others could touch them. Alex, George, Pierre, none of them could ever follow. The dust would’ve been settled before they could ever reach around the corner.
Apparently, it’s the same here too.
(Charles really tries not to think too much about that.)
Squinting his eyes, he sees Max falling right alongside him, eyes closed and open arms. Max is falling facing ‘up’—whatever up is in this place—while he gets to experience the sharp kisses of the wind on his face as it whips at his hair. He can’t feel the weight of his fall, just knows he’s falling, just knows enough that there is a concept of gravity and it’s leading them somewhere.
If there’s an end to this place at all.
What is this place?
Whispering it to the endless white does nothing for him, either.
So, he does what he does best. Reach out and grab the results for himself.
Tilting his body just right, he reaches out to the open, to the expanse of light and finds nothing but the dancing void. Nothing was tangible here, but he swears he sees skims of something just beneath the white. Reveals itself as he skims his fingers, like dragging ripples upon open waters. Black pinpricks, pulsated by colour, swirls of iridescence being the only nascent signs of disturbance. Were they stars? Were they memories?
(Where were they? What was this all made of?)
That won’t lead him anywhere. They were too far away, content to dance in the far-flung points of this endless white. Besides, they are not why he’s here.
Why they are here.
Teeth running between his lips, he reels in his shudder, where he could still feel the scorched sparks wrapped around bone, the ever-present fire of colère residing forever in the depths of his chest. Energy thrums inside him, makes a home with the rush of blood, a feeling similar to when he sits in his kart, helmet arresting his rampant thoughts, gloved fingers along plastic edges, all to sharpen into one singular desire.
Go.
So, he does. He forces past his disgust, the slick-oil texture that encased his skin, past his own anger and bitterness, past the howling winds that now threatens to blind his eyes with tears, cutting through the falling void to reach the only certain thing in this achromatic abyss.
And wraps one iron-determined hand around Max’s wrist.
Heat spreads up his palm, strikes through the shoulder to wrap its way down his spine. Charles refuses to let go, enamel biting deeper as he pulls Max closer to him, and crashes together at the down turn. Bodies entangled, lungs crushed from the collision, Charles tries to find some semblance of waking thought in the other’s body, an indication that he isn’t alone in hallucinating a dream world like this.
No gale would stir a stubborn heart. Max merely falls as if it was nothing and Charles hates him all the more for it. Blond hair whips across closed eyes, curved cheeks betraying nothing, a small opening between his lips, like he was snoring away.
His hands curl more, angles so fingernails bite smooth skin, digs in the same way he would rouse Arthur when he was annoying before his nap. Just on the wrong side of rough. Let’s see if he can’t wake up now, he sneers inwardly, because if he has to endure the consequences of living, then so does Max.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up!
He does not dare voice them outloud. He knows more than anything that the wind will rip away his words, that this void would reach down his throat and steal whatever is left of it. Max doesn’t even flinch.
He won’t be heard. Not now, not like this. Frustration builds as no matter how hard he digs, rakes hard enough to bring red to the surface, Max will not open his eyes.
Why was he not waking up? Why is he alone?
He dares not look to the black stars that twinkle in the invisible horizon. Something else might stare back.
The warmth between them was all he had to brace himself against the stinging air-lacerations and, despite all instincts to push Max away and leave him to the continuous canvas of this transient dream, he kept him close because losing the only other tangible being here would make him scream.
Why did he do this?
It would be the question that would haunt him when the world croons a lullaby and he finally closes his eyes—
And he dreams once more.
If he were hard-pressed to describe it, the only way it could be said is: sudden.
Sensations between the dream and the physical are not a gliding transition, a smooth surface where one can flow without worry. It’s sharp, instant. Disorienting. There was not a moment, perhaps not even the ticks between seconds, from when he closed his eyes to the sudden yank of gravity fixing itself. Eyes snap open, and the white void is gone, senses breached with colour and sound—
Thud.
A groan escapes between his teeth, the spiked pain rattling his ribs and pinging up to his shoulder from how he had fallen gracelessly onto the floor. Gingerly, he rolls onto his back, taking care of how his bones seem to hiss with agitation. Through bleary eyes, he finds himself staring up a black ceiling, harsh light radiating from unknown sources. Tentative hands push on polished floors, body mildly uncooperative.
He… stopped falling.
No longer was he suspended in that white emptiness but seemingly back in the world of colour.
This was the real world, right? Surely it must be, he could hear the murmurs of the people, a faint and distant cheer, the flickering screens of information—
Charles shakes his head and squints once again. What? Where was he?
Looking around only suffers through confusion and a horrible sense of loss.
Matte black surfaces loom over him, the walls foreboding as he realised that he definitely wasn’t back in Wackersdorf. Unmanned screens flash data he couldn’t understand, numbers, charts, and everything overwhelming. The scent—the powerful wash of petrol, sharp against his throat, mixed with acrid, burnt rubber and suffocating exhaust fumes—is familiar, but pushed to extremes he never had to endure before. Piercing lights shine overhead, lets him think of what he just saw, of endless white.
It makes his head spin.
An unassuming headache consumes his thoughts, and no gentle prodding of his fingers against his temple would soothe it. All of this is… He breathes, in and out, just like how Jules taught him when everything became just… too much. C’est écrasant.
When he opens his eyes again, nothing changes.
He is not back at the track where he finished his walk and trudging back to the small motorhome where his father awaits. There is no hot chocolate sitting on the table freshly made just for him, there is no comforting smile and a hug to be given, no warm blankets and words of advice. No hand to ruffle his hair, no tu les auras la prochaine fois.
None of it is here.
Charles leaves teeth marks on the edges of his lip. Sharp.
There is no time to think about this right now.
Okay. Fine.
So, he’s here. What now?
The room is the same, the push-pull of faint voices just on the edges of his hearing. Black glossy walls stand tall, teal highlights and silver shines, while piercing lights crowd around him on all sides.
Interesting.
Then his eyes land on Max.
Charles blinks. Nothing changes.
Oh. Oh—he completely forgot about him. The entire reason he was here in the first place, why he decided to become a idiotic fool, is laid out across polished floors, face completely blank in the throes of sleep. No reaction. Completely still.
Embittered sparks seeps against his chest, fingers tightening against his palm. A scowl fits against his lips, and Charles just wonders how long Max would be able to get away with things like this. It’s like he was the only one here, experiencing the aching feeling of loss and loneliness while his rival just lays around like a dead brick like nothing even mattered. In a foreign place, in another world.
Why is he alone?
(He does not acknowledge the spark that trembles down his spine, the idea of being cut away from everything he knew.)
Red entangles his hands—it’s why he surges forth, finally up from the cold, unforgiving floors, just to grip around fabric and denim and shake. Fear, anger, adrenaline, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Max needs to face the consequences and then maybe, he can pull himself together to actually find a way back home.
From wherever this is.
He doesn’t exactly realise he’s chanting something until a second too late.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up already!”
Maybe it should be embarrassing that he could be seen begging for someone he doesn’t even like to just move, but he finds that rationality to be tucked away in the darker corners of his mind, that the instinct in him is to get to a safe place, now.
For once, Max finally heeds his words.
A small groan is torn between teeth, shut eyes squeezed further as some mumbles get lost in translation. Max doesn’t get up. Charles doesn’t care, he needs them both up and out of here before someone walks in and wonders where their parents were. He drags a rough thumb down Max’s chest, the same way Lorenzo had once woken him up with, and barely gets out of the way when Max jolts up right.
It would’ve been very unpleasant to smack heads with Max.
“What the hell?!” Max coughs, a hand cradling his sternum as he opens his eyes. Charles watches with great satisfaction curling along his veins—watching the confusion giving way to brilliantly, shining panic as his eyes flit across the place, stuck in a place he’s never been.
Charles stands, leaving Max down at the floor to reel in the rest of his brain, busy processing to even notice. There’s a slight anger set in his features now, even if it’s washed with the confusion. A sense of normalcy. “Where—what is this?” A quiet demand, even if there’s nobody to answer him.
“I dunno, you tell me.” Charles crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes at Max. It’s clear that Max hadn’t even noticed he was there, for the way his head snapped towards his direction was rather comical. Bright blue eyes, stricken with surprise. The anger disappears.
“Charles?” Whispered, disbelieving.
Charles, Max says, as if Charles hasn’t followed him to the depths of hell on a whim.
“Yes. It is me, Princess Aurora. Now,” He grounds out, teeth rough on his lip, eyes flicking out to the corners of the open room. Everything in his body is screaming at him to leave, and he can’t help but agree, “we should get moving. Leave. We aren’t supposed to be here, I don’t think.”
Max only looks more confused, keeps staring at him as if he was the main problem in all of this. Slowly, he stands on his own, eyes still tracking the rest of the room. His hands twist into the hem of his shirt, giving away all the anxiety without a single world. Soon, his eyebrows furrow, the words finally registering, surely. “What? Why are you…?”
Charles can only do so much before he gives into his frustration but he tries his best to hold back his tongue. Because no matter how much he absolutely wants to stalk away and never see Max again, he can’t bring himself to actually do it. That, and… Maman wouldn’t like it one bit.
He settles for channelling as much exasperation and irritation into one single look, one glance, a slight scream to make the other understand; where there is no time to talk and someone has to listen. The same look Lorenzo has given him and Arthur many a time where nobody was looking and the consequences were broken by their hands.
Max seems to understand the look. A flicker of satisfaction licks up inside him at seeing Max wince.
“We have no time,” Both their eyes flick towards the rumble of the distant crowds, which seems to come closer by the second. Incoming footsteps seem to echo in this space, even if it should have been drowned by the cacophony.
As if finally sensing the urgency, Max moves towards him, though still incredibly wary. Yet, Charles could tell that the other boy isn’t quite present, either. Perhaps he was still digesting the concept of what just happened, of waking not in the comforts of familiarity. He stumbles, steps unsure, and a far cry of the steady, infallible figure that stalked out of his kart as soon as the race was over.
This seems worse than the normal version of Max he has to deal with. Charles has no idea how to think about that notion.
So he doesn’t.
There’s mutterings, a faded conversation growing in strength as the seconds pass. Something about data, something about having to analyse new lines and tyre deg. It’s familiar but it’s so jarring to hear after what should’ve been a death experience, the long fall, the new environment.
He ignores the sudden wake of his instincts to stop and find authority and tell them what’s wrong. Nobody would believe them, anyway. But this—the data, the garage, because it surely must be a garage—it’s familiar in a distant way. A faint recognition. Something he saw on TV?
No.
No time.
Just go.
When he grabs Max’s wrist and outright drags him along, Charles expected a lot of things. What he wasn’t expecting was the—the, conformation—the compliancy. Max doesn’t immediately tug his wrists away, a snarl in his throat, a demand to know what Charles is doing. It’s what is expected. He’s seen many try to approach Max only to be turned away by aggression or indifference. He’d seen boys walk away with hissed complaints, fingers rubbing at tender skin.
Max doesn’t dig his heels.
He follows.
Whatever. Doesn’t matter. They just need to get out of here before someone accuses them of not belonging. They’d know, if they look upon these two confused and out-of-place teenagers, that it would be the case. They’d have to know.
Right?
Charles drags him through the open space, scrambling through the twisting hallways and confusing corners. He feels the wrist bones skew around underneath his touch, the maddening steps of people coming closer, and their own stomps through the unknown that much foreign. Take the left, then the right… too many doors to consider, don’t look at them, find the open exits.
Then he comes face to face with people he’s never seen before.
They’re older, men with team branded shirts and long pants, names and logos printed all over. Black—and a familiar logo crested on their chest. It takes Charles one too many seconds to realise they were staring at this garage’s mechanics. It takes even longer to realise what exactly is wrong here. Because Max breathes it first.
“Mercedes?”
Three silver arrows enclosed around a circle, to stand out against the black night, a star in its own right. He’s watched their cars race across many tracks, something bright and graceful, even if his own eyes strays towards red. There was simply no denying who Mercedes is and what they’ve accomplished, their achievements something to appreciate.
Even when they, all the boys, huddled together to watch the races on a tiny screen of a cracked phone, nestled in one of the tents, they all knew how heavy their wins had been.
And now they’re… looking at them with confusion and irritation.
“What are you two doing in the garage?!”
Merde.
Charles doesn’t need to turn around to know that Max is probably going to open his mouth to try and explain them—himself. And considering how their strides were long and hurried, set expressions and never-changing, they're in no mood to talk at all. And it's not like Max has a possible explanation either. Who would ever believe that they fell out of the sky? That they just arrived here with no clue as to how? Hell, Max hasn't seen any of it. (Connard.)
So, he does the best next thing. Run.
Max doesn't even get one syllable out before he's yanked to the side, dashing after Charles, who’s leading them to who-knows-where. Charles could already feel the indignant confusion behind him, but there’s no time. He runs and Max matches his speed. Instinct. Charles’ grip is unrelenting. And considering the barks of confusion and the yells to stop echoing behind him, well.
It’s a good thing he’s had experience running away from unwanted adults.
Mostly in the form of dodging Lorenzo and his friends when they have that look in their eyes before he inadvertently gets dragged into rather embarrassing situations, but it still counts for something, yes?
He doesn’t know where he’s going, but his footsteps speed up and Max is forced to comply.
(He’s surprised Max hasn’t learnt to dig in his heels.)
They duck through too many passageways, all darkened colours and minimal, before they’re spit out in the harsh afternoon sun. The surrounding sound is so much louder and—everything crashes down at him. They’re exposed, people are chasing him and when Charles looks behind him to check if they’re nearby, all he sees is Max’s utter confusion and a distant gaze.
Like this, Max looks pathetic. Lost, alone. He is still processing everything but remaining on his feet. What does it say about him if he simply lets his rival do all the work and follow the lead?
Charles looks away and runs again before he could even think about it too deeply.
It really doesn’t take too long before he crashes into somebody.
Muttered curses spill from his lips, and one look up makes him take a step back in surprise. A contemplation. Because this, this person in front of him, is familiar. Despite the black racing suit, the way it bears the same logo as all the other mechanics, Charles doesn’t find the same instinct to run.
Adult, young. The strong jaw, big piercing blue eyes, coiffed hair that spills over their forehead—where has he seen this before? A name wells from under his tongue and it’s only a tenth later that recognition sparks up his spine.
“George?” It’s a whispered thing, half-clouded by the sun streaming down his back, the way his lungs heave against his ribs in retaliation for such an absurd thought. Because the George he knows is boy-ish, cropped hair, all smirks and wide smiles with an all-too-polite disposition. He’s shorter than this, not this tall, lanky, and standing like a man with too much to give.
Eyes widen.
Charles doesn’t know if that means he’s right or not, the situation slams down once again. Footsteps—running. The people are catching up, they’re closer, the sounds are louder, no distractions.
He violently twists away, not letting Max recuperate as he dodges to the left, to the shadows where he doesn’t see glimpses of the crowd. He doesn’t catch the way George has a name too, caught off-guard to vocalise it fully. Charles wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway, disappearing around the corner before anyone has the chance to react.
He makes sure of it after stopping and starting whenever important looking people walk their way, making sure they don’t get noticed too badly. He’s not sure he succeeded but they don’t approach him if they look. Fine.
After a few more turns, he stops. This part, whatever this is, is far less walked upon. The colours doesn’t shine as bright, cloaked in afternoon shade. More real, less like a dream. Charles unceremoniously shoves Max into the far corner, tucked between boxes, away from the first few hiding spots that he subconsciously noted on the way here. If anyone were to find them, it would be on purpose, no bygone accidents.
Hopefully, he’d be able to spot their pursuers before they found them first. Heaving a breath, he finally has a chance to calm the hell down.
Max seems to have the same thought, since he is quiet as well, the only sound being their strained gasps of air.
The silence settles. Too many questions dance in his mind.
“What was that?” Charles is the first to say something, the first to finally look up and pace, trying to find some semblance of logic. He’s unsure if he could even find it, and despite running through his thoughts when he first arrived here, merely interacting with the others in this new place has only made him more confused. “Where the hell are we?”
George? Is he blind? No way that could be George, he had to be mistaken. It’s such a stupid thought, but they look so similar. As if he finally saw the older brother George had always told him about. But he already knows that's not what he looks like. Was it just a projection of his want, the desire to come back home rewriting any sense he once had?
Something tells him it’s more than that. But what?
Charles furrows his eyebrows, looking up. There was no response, no added thoughts, no cut-offs. What he sees is Max, slumped against the wall, eyes seemingly… What's the word—Déprimé? Abattu? Despondent. Yes.
“Max?”
Charles doesn’t step closer, finds it hard to do so. It’s not his place to do so. It’s not even a norm, Max should’ve been all fierce and angry and strong. Like by the trackside, like when their helmets conceal their expressions but never its intent. This, is none of that. It reminds Charles that he looks this way earlier too, back in the garage, back when he stood in front of his father.
It takes a while for Max to raise his head. The confusion from before is still present, throwing icy shadows across his expression. Now, though, there’s one more emotion, something that doesn’t fit Max as a whole. Vulnerability.
“I don’t…” Max trails off, hesitant. He curls inward on himself, arms cradled against his chest. “I don’t understand. Why are we here, where are we, even. But why did… Why did he do that? Why did he just watch?”
It takes Charles far too long to understand Max’s question. He wasn’t expecting it, really. After all, why would anyone question what Jos Verstappen does to his son?
(He has. Almost all the time. The others told him not to.)
Charles wills himself to swallow through the question, trying not to wince at the discomfort that sinks at his chest at such a thought. He prods through it nonetheless, unsure how to answer. Does he want sweetened lies, or a truth that he cannot give? Should he even answer at all?
If he’s honest, he is repulsed by the thought of answering. It’s not his place, it’s not even his right—but Max had asked. He, the person that barely speaks to anyone else on track, has asked him a question. Max does not look at him for reassurance, no, he is far more content to stare at his shoes and twist the fabric of his sleeves. However, he is waiting. For something. Once more, Charles cannot find it in himself to actually say nothing. This moment is too raw, too vulnerable.
The roil of disgust sweeps through him and Charles shoves the first answer out of his mouth to make it stop. “I don’t know.”
It’s not enough. He knows it, Max knows it too. It’s the only thing he can offer without Max growing dissatisfied and funnel his emotions at him, especially one of frustration.
Max’s shoulders slump. Not the answer he was looking for, then. Lost in his thoughts, Charles deigns to look away first.
In the end, it doesn’t quite matter—not when footsteps echoed in the distance seem to grow louder and louder with every step. Someone’s walking their way. Not wanting to take chances, Charles turns around, a hand wrapped around Max’s wrist once more in case they need to bolt.
He tenses further when he realises who exactly is walking towards him.
George. Well, he doesn’t quite know if it’s George or not, but it’s the same person as before. Mercedes suit. Tall in a way that cuts through any crowd with ease. There’s a self-determined glint in his eye that made him wary. It’s a driver, Charles belatedly realises, because of course it is, it’s the same kind of look his version of George and Alex has before clawing their way up the leaderboard.
Unconsciously, Charles backs up until he’s sure Max is directly behind him, never really looking away from the approaching figure, always trying to find a way out. He doesn’t get far as he wants, every entry point potentially blocked simply because this man is an adult, limbs longer and stamina undoubtedly longer than both of their own.
If they were to get out of this without being thrown into more unknowns, they would need to talk it out.
That is why Charles is more content in staring down George, even if he is almost pressed against Max. That is why he does not take notice of the way Max’s hand soon wraps around his own wrist, nor the way Max trembles just a little. He wouldn’t know if it was fear, adrenaline, or the lingering notion of their previous topic. He doesn’t know the space he takes up as well, how he seemingly tries to hide Max from view despite their slight height differences.
Soon enough, it’s the Mercedes driver that stops, just a few metres away and just… talks.
“What are you guys doing here? Do you even realise where you are?”
British. This person is so terribly British with that accent that just hits Charles with familiarity, a knife-sharp nostalgia, perhaps? It doesn’t make sense. It sounds exactly like George, but older. Warmer.
Charles tries to ignore the sharp something lodged inside his chest at that realisation. “None of your business.” He says, something that the other boys have said when somebody is coming too close to their truth. It doesn’t always work, hell, he but he really has no idea what to do next. He hopes it sounds intimidating in some ways, words accented, voice rough.
A pause. “I don’t know, I think it kinda is my business.” George—the adult sighs, a hand coming up to rub at his temple. He seems overwhelmed. “When do you even say those things? It doesn’t even sound like you.”
Charles is very sure the last part was not meant to be heard. Yet, he still did anyway. What does that even mean?
He doesn’t ask.
“How is it your business?”
That seems to set something off. “First of all, you were in the Mercedes garage without being seen by anyone else, somehow,” They were quick to say, as if it was all building up inside to be let go in an instant, “Then you just run away while being chased by the mechanics and nobody has the gall to say that you two are just kids who are confused more than anything, and they’re too wrapped up in security measures than trying to figure out how or why you’re here.”
Charles blinks.
That’s… a lot.
“Then what do you want to do about it?” He asks, because the man’s breathing worsens, as if distressed, and he feels bad about it. Somewhat.
It seems to offer something of strength, because he could visibly see how the man pulls himself together with a few simple breaths and a subtle squaring of the shoulders. It is not what he intended but perhaps this will make them more likeable? Enough to get them on their side, if something goes wrong.
“I want to take both of you, don’t think I can’t see him behind you, both of you back to my motorhome and then figure out what to do from there. Because god knows what happens if something like this gets to the media.”
Yes, maybe having two teenagers running around the Mercedes garage probably isn’t a good thing for them either. Charles furrows his eyebrows, running over the last thought again. Something had pressed against his side, a demand to be known and realised.
Mercedes… garage…?
They were in the F1 paddock.
Maybe it is a late realisation, something that Pierre would tease him relentlessly for, but he was drowning in the situation that the one time he gets a break, it finally dawns on him. The noises, the crowds, the familiar scents—they were at a racetrack on a race weekend.
They really were far away from home.
There is no point in running away here, not when there’s too many things going around at once. All these unknowns, they deserve to be looked over and broken through to find the answer. And if Charles still doesn’t like the truth, well, he still has the option to run.
This is just… something to take advantage of, is all.
Besides, the man doesn’t seem to have ill-intentions. Those eyes speak volumes.
“Okay,” He breathes. He needs to get air back in his lungs but the way it squeaks against his voice offers nothing but embarrassment. He hopes, uh, George, doesn’t see the way his cheeks burn. Why is he calling him George—you know what, it’s probably best to give him a name in his head because not having one is probably rude.
(He looks the most like George so… George it is.)
“Okay?” George looks relieved, his arms dropping from his crossed position against his chest. “Oh thank goodness, I thought I had to resort to some cheap tactics or something.”
“... like what?”
“I have no idea, probably bribe you with ice cream?”
Charles stands up straighter, tilting his head to the side. “You have ice cream?”
There’s a scoff and roll of their eyes. “Of course that makes you interested. Also, do you have any concept of stranger danger?”
One small smile plays at the edges of his lips. “If you wanted to, how you say… kidnap us? You would’ve done so already. But with much difficulty.”
There is no way he’ll do something if he doesn’t like it. Max wouldn’t either.
A wary look flickers across George’s face. Charles does not know what to make of it. He senses that there’s something more to the conversation in the beckoning silence, an almost careful consideration of words, and waits patiently. Most people tend to tell him their thoughts. This will be no exception.
“Just… trust me, alright? I promise I’m not selling you out, I really want to help and you probably have nowhere to go.”
Hm. Why does this person want to help them so badly? It could be the kidnapping intention but that is not likely—it could also be due to the way they seem to be familiar with them in the first place. He can’t keep that one whisper out of his mind, suggesting that they seem to know his mannerisms. So, it’s not just Charles then, who seems to think that this is an adult version of George walking around.
Something is going on here.
“Fine. We’ll come. Max?” Charles turns around, just to gauge Max’s intent. The other boy had not been present throughout the entire conversation and he had noticed. Max nods, eyes trained to the ground and not with that steeled stare that he constantly reserves for everyone else. Charles narrows his eyes at that.
“Good.” George nods. There is no smile on his face, only a difficult expression that says of concern and caution. “Follow me.”
While they walk, making sure to stay away from prying eyes, Charles finally realises that a persistent warmth is tightly curled up against his wrist, a weight that never left. It's the seconds in between that he finally understands. Max had never once let go of him during the minutes that they talked.
He… ignores it.
Unceremoniously, they were left behind at a motorhome. It was rather deserted, despite the spacious rooms. They instructed them to do whatever they want—rest, eat, talk—but to only remain inside. Before Charles could press for questions, they were gone, saying something or the other about handling things outside.
He snorts, crossing his arms. “And he leaves without giving us our answers.”
Silence greets him soon after. No response. Nothing to continue with, nothing to take out any sort of stress on. He sighs, closing his eyes. The shadows whisper reprieve. Lay down your arms and rest, it croons along his ear, to simply ignore what reality has given him to be handled by someone else. It wouldn’t be your fault.
But that wouldn’t be like him. As someone who bites and bleeds and breathes red, as someone who curls along the edges of his bed in his sleep, wrapped in cordura, just to be ready for the next day filled with racing fervour. Hands still painted in oil and grease, notes spilled with ink. Always striving for perfection.
What he wants to do is to sit and wait. They will come back soon. Answers will be given to him. He’ll make sure of it.
But, he supposes, I’m even thrown more off-guard by the fact Max still hasn’t said anything.
Because, really, Max always has an opinion to say whether people like it or not. The fact that for the entire time, that Charles had to be the one instigating every single point and the other just stands there is already unnerving.
He turns, finding Max standing there right there in the middle of the empty dining room, and asks, “What is your problem?”
“What?” All vestiges of the dream-like trance, the distant looks, the way Max’s skin remains pale and ashen, it seems to vanish when life finally snaps him away from wherever he’s been. He looks shocked. As if he had just been slapped.
(Well. Perhaps he shouldn’t use that metaphor.)
“‘What’, you say, as if you cannot understand what is happening around us,” Bitterness spreads across his tongue, enough to make him want to recoil but he keeps himself together. Sharpening his will, he breathes in all the frustration that has settled at the bottom of his lungs and hisses out. “What is wrong with you?”
Finally—finally, he thinks, because Max's demeanour goes from soft to sheer annoyance that he's so used to. Red colours his eyes, his cheeks, and Charles finally feels that something is normal.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Perhaps, if he had been more careful, observant, he'd picked up the soft bleeds of hurt hidden just underneath. Unfortunately, it's covered with indignation, the same tones he uses whenever his competitors become more than annoyances.
Charles could only huff at that.
“You know exactly what I mean. Where were you? You weren't even here half the time!”
“I was right beside you, idiot, what does that mean?” Max snaps back.
“No, you weren't! You were gone and I had to follow you and drag you all over the place just to be safe! Now, we're here, far away from home, and now we have to deal with the consequences.” Charles bites. Frustration pools at his fingertips, enough to reap red when it digs at his palms. How was he supposed to stay cool when he was shoved into this strange world and he had to make all the decisions by himself?
“You make no sense. And besides, ‘we?’ Consequences? You're the one who trusted that weird guy! Don't blame me for your decisions, you dragged us both into this.”
Charles wants to laugh because that is so not what he was referring to at all.
“Me?” He mocks, “I'm not the one who decided to do nothing for the entire time we're here!”
“It wasn't my decision either, sukkel, I didn't want to come here!” Max stomps forward, getting closer, larger. His shoulders are bunched up, a fierce scowl on his face accompanying a burdening glare. The shadows finally cut through his skin, enough to make his blue eyes gleam hellfire; it paints him a rather imposing figure, standing tall and ready to fight, if Charles were anyone else.
Alright, this is getting nowhere. Max clearly is misinterpreting what he's saying on purpose, not wanting to admit that he is the reason that they were here in the first place. The red-hot bubbling anger coaxes him to say more, pooling until it burrows under his jaw, into his gums. But even he has the decency to realise that this argument is going in circles, the heat of it burrowing into the ground, rendering it soft enough to make them sink and stay.
But—
“Then don't blame me for trying to save us when that white portal took us.” Charles mutters, still stinging from the heat. He spins around and marches off from the living room, forcing lead-filled legs to walk. He doesn't care where he goes, just as long it's not next to Max.
(He does not get to witness the confusion that replaces the anger, nor the flicker of regret drawn across his eyes.
He does not get to see the way Max's fingers flex against his thigh, before curling in once more. The slumped shoulders, a sign of exhaustion, the splotchy red cheeks that come with the aftermath.
He never will either, if Max has anything to say about it.)
Charles stays in the bedroom.
It's not the most polite thing to do to someone who offers to host you. Especially when they're not even here, especially since this is their most private portion of their life in one single room.
But it's the furthest spot he could find where he doesn't have to directly interact with Max. No sight, no sound, no chance for another argument. Right now, he'll take all the solace he can find, grasping it close with reddened fingers and bleach-white knuckles.
He presses into the sharp corner of the wall, sliding down just to gather his legs under his chin. There's no space for his ribs, no matter how strained muscles try. It makes him want to gasp for air, but the dull ache between his being makes him feel normal, that yes, there is a limit to how much he could do. And he reached it just fine.
He feels so weightless; there’s no boundaries set, no rules given to him. Only an instinct for survival and get out of here as soon as possible.
Something collapses and his bones shudder.
It takes some seconds for him to realise that he was breathing too fast.
Too shallow.
There’s no space for anything else. Not oxygen. Not this mess, not even his own emotions.
Charles was in no mood to uncurl himself from the corner. He could only force himself to breathe slower, to inhale as much as he could in this tiny little space and hold it in his lungs, no matter how slow the needles sink into flesh. There was a rhythm in the back of his mind, one built by his family to use whenever he got overwhelmed.
It helps.
Slightly.
The prodding feel of familiarity comes over him when he finally opens his eyes.
(How long had he closed them?)
Staring blankly, he feels like he should recognise this place. That this is more than just a motorhome with a bunch of personal items scattered about. Out of place, something skittering around his senses. There’s something here, and in a fit to get out of his own mind, he tries to unravel it.
This was Mercedes’ place, right?
If so, then which grand prix are they in? And since when did Mercedes ever brandish themselves in black? Were they not the Silver Arrows for a reason?
Where are they, is a question that incessantly makes itself known. Yes, they're in the paddock, this is F1 — the technological level in that garage should've really tipped him off. Yet it feels alien to him, that he feels this kind of technology wasn’t something he’s used to seeing at all. Distant.
Teeth dig into his lip again. This has the same feeling as when he tries to associate that man from earlier with George… it feels right but it’s wholly unfamiliar.
So what is the common link?
Knock, knock.
Snapping out of his reverie, Charles wearily glances at the closed door. He really does not want to talk to anyone but if he must…
He does not acknowledge the way he trips over his own feet two steps after getting up. The weight in his bones is normal and does not feel like an anchor coaxing him back down to the corner again. Trembles that run up his legs don't exist either. It’s fine.
Opening the door, Charles wonders why he even bothers.
Max stands at the other side of the door, expression clean and terribly blank.
Honestly, if Charles had the energy and willpower, he would’ve let the silence linger. Force them to choke on the tension, to wait and wonder, until someone shifts and gives. There was no way in hell he would’ve let Max have the first taste of victory, in watching them crumble easily. Va te faire foutre avec tes jeux, would lay on his tongue, left there to rot.
But this is not their norm, and as always, Charles is willing to break those norms first.
“What do you want,” Charles finally grouses, after five seconds too long.
Max blinks. It’s passive. Charles doesn’t buy it.
“Have you finally calmed down enough to actually talk about what just happened?”
Have I—?
“Are you serious?” It’s not a growl, but on the edge of it, packed tightly with frustration and annoyance. “Are you asking me this to annoy me more?”
“You clearly have not.” Max says, almost off-handedly, entirely to himself.
“I can have this conversation with you if you would just stop insulting me every time we talk.” Charles scowls, hand straining on the door handle out of Max’s sight. He forces himself to let go, unless he wants Max to know how far he crawled on his skin.
“Then don’t let your emotions get to your head.” Charles could see blue eyes flicker, rolled in exasperation. Dismissive. He wants nothing more than to scoff and lash out… but that would be proving Max’s point—he bites down on his own tongue instead.
If Max wants to play this kind of game, then fine. He’ll play.
“So are we going to debrief or…?” Insipid tones, yet the words are between gritted teeth.
Max smiles, shallow and condescending. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Finally. Let's go.”
