Me: Posts A Fic On Ao3 Also Me, 0.3 Seconds Later: Let Me Just Take A Totally Casual Peek At My Inbox

made me laugh and cry. 10/10 worst experience of my life. cant wait for this weekend.

ferrari will have to do FOUR pitstops im actually terrified for everyone involved 😭

Four pitstops because of two drivers right? So 2 and 2. We really gotta specify at this point because who the fuck knows what the next bizarre rule will be.

Fortunately, ferrari is extremely rapid with pitstops. Unfortunately, pitstops require a strategy.

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

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

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

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

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

science. ✨

LePlatypus, Mon Amour.

a phineas and ferb X f1 crackfic? si. i don't have much plot at the moment so I thought I would just post whatever I have.. so this is a snippet. if u wanna write the fic dm me! i have ideas but no ambition.

Maximilian Doofenshmirtz had a problem.

Well, he had several problems. His evil lair's espresso machine was on the fritz again, his latest inator had turned his favorite pair of shoes into sentient beings that now refused to be worn, and his daughter Lanessa was threatening to move out if he didn't stop using her room as a storage space for his "Evil Plans That Didn't Work" memorabilia.

But the most pressing issue at hand was the mysterious human who kept showing up and thwarting his evil schemes.

Max had first noticed the man during his attempt to replace all the city's pigeons with robotic versions that would deliver his manifesto instead of defecating on statues. Just as he was about to activate the Pigeonator 3000, the man had appeared out of nowhere, dismantled the machine with alarming efficiency, and disappeared without a trace.

"Who was that?" Max had wondered aloud, scratching his head. "Just some random human? How rude!"

This pattern continued. Every time Max was on the verge of executing a brilliant plan—be it the Mustache-Inator, designed to give everyone in the Tri-State Area a mustache (regardless of gender), or the Reverse-Vacuum-Inator, intended to suck all the air out of a room to make people appreciate oxygen more—the same man would appear, sabotage his efforts, and vanish.

Max was baffled. He had no idea who this person was. He didn't even have a name for him. He was just... that human.

Then, one day, during an attempt to turn all the city's fountains into chocolate fondue stations (because why not?), the man showed up again.

Max's eyes widened in zero recognition.

"A human?!" he exclaimed.

This time, however, he had put on a red fedora with a sigh.

"Charles the Human?!"

Charles, adjusting his fedora, gave Max a bemused look. "I've always been human, Max."

Max blinked. "No, no, no. You're Charles the Human. I recognise you now because of the hat."

Charles sighed. "We've been through this. I'm always me, hat or no hat."

Max waved him off. "Nonsense. Without the hat, you're just some random human. But with the hat, you're Charles the Human, my nemesis!"

From that day forward, Max was convinced that the red fedora was the key to Charles's identity. Whenever Charles appeared without it, Max would treat him as a stranger, even if they had just spoken the day before.

"Who are you?" Max would ask, squinting suspiciously.

"It's me, Charles," Charles would reply, exasperated.

"Charles who?"

"Charles the Human."

Max would shake his head. "Impossible. Charles the Human wears a red fedora. You're just a regular human."

Charles eventually gave up trying to convince Max otherwise. He started carrying the fedora with him at all times, putting it on whenever he needed Max to recognise him.

Their interactions became increasingly absurd. Max would invite Charles over for tea, only to forget who he was if he took off his hat to scratch his head.

"Stranger danger!" Max would yell, throwing a scone at Charles.

"It's me, Max!" Charles would protest, dodging the pastry.

"Prove it!"

Charles would sigh, put the fedora back on, and Max's face would light up.

"Charles the Human! There you are! I was wondering where you'd gone."

Despite the chaos, their relationship developed a strange rhythm. Max would devise elaborate schemes, Charles would thwart them, and they would share tea afterward—provided Charles kept his hat on.

One evening, as they sat on Max's balcony overlooking the city, Max turned to Charles.

"You know, Charles the Human, you're the best nemesis a villain could ask for."

Charles smiled. "Thanks, Max. You're not so bad yourself."

Max nodded, then frowned. "Wait a minute. Who are you?"

Charles groaned. "Not this again."

i will say, i was unsure about going into bearnelli territory because they're literally like my kids and i baby them horribly (in my head) (we hold people accountable according to their age don't worry), but i have to say. they are certainly. new dimensions. they add new dimensions to your fics. it's like seeing your neighbour's kid grow up in front of your eyes. like what do you mean the people that were previously idiots e.g. lando, oscar, etc. are the mature ones now??? WHY ARE THE BABIES SO TALL AND GROWN UP NOW?? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FOETUSES?

tldr: i really liked the soulmate fic 😭😭😭 the fact that ollie had to be told kimi's first name is andrea is just 😭😭😭😭

Thank you!!!! truly. I’m honoured my little chaos goblins could devastate you in new spiritual dimensions 🫡 They’ve been eating metaphorical growth hormones and trauma. It’s all character development, babyy.

ily I’m emotionally unstable now k byeee.

I just read your Landoscar serial killer vampire soulmates fic. Insanely good. The level of randomness along with Lando matching Oscar's freak is so awesome. What was your inspiration for it? Also, please write the meet-the-parents chapter!

first of all thank you so so much for reading. and the inspo was my braincells yelling at me to write something instead of studying for finals. and I also read a lestappen fanfic recently with vamp au and I was like HUH.

and yes! i will update the parents chap. at some point.

mate you’re a gift that keeps on giving, like i always wait for your updates or new 1633 fics. but holy shit i read the hanahaki fic and it literally changed my life, usually when i read hanahaki fics its always about romantic love but yours?!! mein gott. are you going to continue that universe? like story between 1633 and charles and oscar? but anyways, good luck on your finals!

im just a sucker for platonic/familial love tbh.. and YES! i was thinking abt maybe writing Oscar's experience with Hanahaki as well but like not now. i hope. i hope I don't get possessed by the ghost of Shakespeare before I am done with my finals.

anyway, thank you so so much for reading!!!

I literally just binge read your F1 demigod series on ao3 AND MY PJO OBSESSED HEART IS SCREAMING WITH JOY.

I literally couldn't find short one shots to read during class but then I saw a fic with two of my most hyperfixated fandoms till date and I binge read all 7( a symphony of sorrow has made me cry so hard)

Now I'm on my quest to look for PJO and a b99 cross over 🫡

AAAAHHHH IM DYING THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, BOSS!!

ps. i might need to write a b99Xpjo cross over now that you mentioned it. ahh.

franz hermann is the people’s champion. franz hermann is the last line of defense. franz hermann didn’t come to race. he came to destroy max verstappen with his own government-issued alias. the prophecy is real. trust.

how do you like franz hermann

Franz Hermann for second redbull seat. Trust. We will stop that evil orange car from winning the WCC and WDC one way or another.

lmao wrote a fic:

Nobody saw it coming. Nobody could have seen it coming. Not the fans. Not the FIA. Not even Zak Brown, who, on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday in March 2025, accidentally triggered the apocalypse by handing Oscar Piastri a "small performance bonus" that turned out to be an experimental nuclear engine.

Since Round 1 in Bahrain, Oscar hadn’t just been winning — he had been eradicating. Every race. Every quali. Every sprint. He wasn’t even sweating anymore. Sometimes he didn’t even pit. Sometimes he just stopped halfway, ate a sandwich on the main straight, and still lapped everyone twice.

The paddock was breaking. In every sense of the word.

Max started first. One day he was normal. The next, he was standing in front of the Red Bull motorhome, shirtless, smearing sunscreen on his face like war paint, muttering about "the radio signals" and "how Oscar knows what I’m thinking before I even think it." Christian tried to intervene but Max had already duct-taped six tinfoil hats to his head and was drawing pentagrams in the gravel traps at Imola.

Charles didn’t fare better. He just kind of... stopped. Every time someone said “Oscar wins again,” Charles would just stare into the middle distance and softly hum the Ferrari theme song. Carlos tried to cheer him up by baking a cake, but Charles took one bite, said “this tastes like defeat,” and flung it out the window. He spent most of the Miami GP lying face down on the asphalt during the drivers’ parade while Lando Norris tried to drag him along like a sad little kite.

Speaking of Lando, he was... not well. After losing twelve consecutive pole positions to Oscar by 0.420 seconds exactly every time (because Oscar "thought it would be funny"), Lando was found one night at the McLaren factory trying to launch himself into the sun using the car development simulator. He wrote "GOODBYE BITCHES" in tire rubber across the papaya floor before he was tackled by Andrea Stella, who has since started attending group therapy himself.

Lewis Hamilton — bless him — tried to keep it together. But even he cracked after the Canadian Grand Prix, when Oscar lapped him three times and then had the audacity to wink in his mirrors. Lewis, a man who survived the 2016 Nico Rosberg wars, the 2021 Abu Dhabi massacre, and the 2022 porpoising plague, was last seen setting up booby traps around the Mercedes motorhome (despite not working there now) and whispering "no one’s taking my ankles this time." Toto Wolff had to issue an official press release that simply said: "Lewis is currently fighting in the trenches. Please respect his privacy at this difficult time."

And Carlos? Carlos was not okay. Carlos started seeing demons. Literal, actual demons. He claimed Oscar wasn’t a man anymore but "a creature born from the void between qualifying sessions." At one point, he tried to perform an exorcism on Oscar’s car during parc fermé using holy water he stole from the Ferrari hospitality centre. Ferrari fined him €50,000 for "bringing shame upon our ancestors." He paid in coins he found in the Monza fountains while whispering, "it’s worth it."

Meanwhile, George Russell was convinced someone was jamming his systems. ("They’ve hacked my brain," he said tearfully on the team radio after locking up for the seventh consecutive race start.) Mercedes ran diagnostics. Found nothing. Ran them again. Still nothing. The conclusion? George’s brain had entered permanent "blue screen of death" mode because Oscar kept stealing P1 and smiling politely during cooldown rooms. (George later demanded the FIA test Oscar for "supernatural interference." They said no.)

Nico Hülkenberg was just straight up disqualified from life. He said "fuck this" after Melbourne, went into the garage, punched the telemetry screens, and was never seen again. Rumours say he’s somewhere in the Austrian Alps, living off goats and rage.

And Kimi Antonelli? Kimi Antonelli had a math test on Monday. And frankly, that was the most relatable problem in the entire paddock. As he crammed trigonometry formulas into his head at the back of the Williams garage, he also had to endure Logan Sargeant screaming "YOU CAN DO INTEGRALS, KIMI, YOU CAN'T DO QUALI???" at random intervals. (It didn’t help that Oscar lapped Kimi twice at Monaco on foot.)

Which is to say that even the rookies were suffering. Ollie Bearman made it as far as Round 5 before he just started showing up to races with a Starbucks cup full of Baileys and a look of hollow despair. Gabriel Bortoleto tried to fight Oscar at Silverstone but was gently lifted off the ground by Oscar’s terrifying, eldritch aura of invincibility and set down like a disobedient Sims character. Andrea Kimi challenged Oscar to a karting rematch. Oscar lapped him backwards while waving a McLaren flag and singing the Australian national anthem out of key.

Alex Albon and Lily tried hosting a nice paddock barbecue to boost morale. Oscar showed up uninvited, helped himself to half the ribs, then won the barbecue games too. After the egg toss, Alex sat down in a lawn chair, stared at the stars, and said, "Maybe it’s time to pick up badminton." Lily agreed. They both started shopping for rackets by the end of the night.

F1 Academy wasn’t spared either. Léna Bühler challenged Oscar to a Mario Kart race to "restore honor to motorsport." He three-starred Rainbow Road blindfolded. Abbi Pulling organized a mutiny. It lasted 6 minutes before Oscar politely asked if she needed a napkin, and everyone folded like paper dolls.

Even the MotoGP riders were affected. Pecco Bagnaia and Marc Márquez tried to race Oscar on bikes during the Dutch GP weekend. Oscar ran beside them on foot and still beat them to the finish line. Afterward, Marc simply handed over his helmet and said, "You're the captain now." Oscar now owns Ducati, apparently.

Meanwhile, the FIA was scrambling. First they banned McLaren’s floor. Then the diffuser. Then Oscar’s water bottle. Then Oscar’s left shoe. Nothing worked. He still won.

One time they tried adding 40kg ballast to his car. Oscar just shrugged, smiled a little, and said, "Good cardio." Won by 30 seconds. Did a cartwheel onto the podium. Took Lando’s number for 'flirting purposes' despite already having his number.

By the Belgian GP, the paddock was in full societal collapse. The Red Bull Energy Station was on fire. The Alpine garage was hosting a séance. The Aston Martin hospitality unit had been converted into a low-security psychiatric ward where Lance Stroll was the chief counselor, wearing a "therapist in training" sticker. Fernando Alonso led nightly prayer circles to “whatever gods might be listening.”

And then. The worst thing happened.

Oscar? Oscar started... smiling more. Laughing. Being friendly. Not in the normal, Aussie-bloke way. In the "I know exactly when and how you will perish" way.

At Monza, he hugged Charles after beating him by 50 seconds. Charles simply collapsed into the gravel and started reciting Ferrari’s entire corporate mission statement in broken Italian.

At Suzuka, he patted Max on the back. Max immediately sprinted into the woods and wasn’t seen until three days later, covered in moss and talking about "the birds speaking Dutch."

By Qatar, Lando wasn’t even racing anymore. He was just painting angry murals of Oscar on pit lane walls while sobbing into Oscar’s leftover champagne.

At the Austin GP, Daniel Ricciardo — a beacon of sunshine himself — tried to save the day with an impromptu shoey party. Oscar drank his shoey, took P1, and still somehow managed to organize Daniel’s birthday party mid-race over team radio. (He sang "Happy Birthday" while overtaking Sergio Pérez at 310 kph.)

The world was ending. The fans were rioting. The stewards gave up and started playing Uno during races. Sky Sports commentators gave up and switched to narrating races like they were National Geographic documentaries. (“Here we see the wild Piastri, merciless and efficient, dismantling yet another record with a gentle purr.”)

And Oscar? Oscar just smiled.

He wasn’t a man anymore. He was a concept. He was an idea. He was the Australian Dream gone nuclear.

The 2025 season ended not with a final race, but with a public surrender ceremony at Abu Dhabi. Toto Wolff, Fred Vasseur, Christian Horner, Andrea Stella, and Laurent Rossi knelt before Oscar and presented him with a ceremonial key to Formula 1. Oscar said, "Cheers mate," tucked it into his overalls, and then casually drove off into the sunset at 400 kph with two seagulls drafting him for good measure.

Nobody knows where he is now. Some say he’s somewhere in the outback, racing kangaroos for fun. Others say he’s transcended motorsport entirely and is preparing for his next challenge: the Tour de France... on foot.

One thing is certain: No one. No one... is ever safe again.

max is schizophrenic charles is depressed lando is suicidal lewis has ptsd carlos is fighting demons and rookies nico is disqualified oscar is australian george has someone jamming his systems and kimi has a math test on monday

this is what mclaren domination does they literally brought mercury back into retrograde

The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

chap2 draft kings????

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

Max keeps discovering Charles in pieces.

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

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

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

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

And none of it is in his notes app.

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

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

Max doesn’t know when it started.

Because Max wasn’t there.

Max had left.

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

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

He wonders—when did it start?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max keeps collecting the puzzle pieces.

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

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

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

Max stares at it until the screen burns his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never stopped.

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

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

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

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

Max feels it like a slap.

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

He swallows. “I think you were trying.”

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

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

Charles tilts his head. “Why?”

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

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

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

Max wants to cry.

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

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

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

And Max? He’s staying.

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

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

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

Max blinks.

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

Max doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

Charles groans. “That’s blackmail.”

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

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

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

Only then does Max hand over the keys.

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

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

Of course.

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

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

“Slow,” Max says through gritted teeth.

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

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

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

Max’s entire body stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max: did charles used to have a bike

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

Max: what happened

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

Max stares at the message. Blinks.

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

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

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

Charles blinks. “I did?”

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

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

Max wants to scream.

Not at Charles. Not even at Fred.

At himself.

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

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

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

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

But it always does.

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

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

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

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

“Charles,” Max says softly.

Charles turns.

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

And Max knows that look. Max knows that stare.

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

Max swallows.

“Where are you going?”

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

“At three in the morning?”

Charles shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

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

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

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

“You’re not bothering me.”

Charles hesitates, fidgeting with the seam of his top.

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

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

Max stops breathing.

It’s the third time this week.

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

Max doesn’t correct him.

Can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

But then—

Charles speeds up.

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

Max frowns. Picks up his own pace to match.

“Charles,” he calls. “Slow down.”

Charles doesn’t answer.

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

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

Charles breathes hard. “I’m fine.”

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

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

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

They slow. Just a bit.

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

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

“I don’t know,” Charles admits.

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

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

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

Charles glances at him.

“You remember that?”

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

Because the truth is: Max remembers everything.

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

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

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

He’s here.

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

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

Charles nods, not looking up.

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

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

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

Max lets himself believe in it for one breath.

Then another.

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