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Of everyone to show up at Max’s bedside after a horrific crash, Charles Leclerc was one of the last people you’d expect. They’d had a long-time rivalry, ever since they were kids. Their relationship had never been the easiest to navigate, especially when going through the gruelling and heartless process of climbing the ranks to Formula 1. Alas, Charles was sitting there, refusing to fight the stray tears emerging from his eyes as he saw the unconscious man hooked up to a million different machines in front of him.
Charles had always admired Max, as a teen he thought it was just because of his undeniable talent. How he always placed highly, could always predict any fellow driver's next move. He was always one step ahead, and that may have been from the harsh coaching of his father, but having heard stories of the man Jos was, he liked to think it was just raw talent. The older he grew, the more he realised where that admiration stemmed from. He may have developed a slight crush on the other male, so never gave up trying to forge a friendship with him. It hurt more being pushed away from him, the butt of all his complaints than it did being an acquaintance. It had not come easy, but who said navigating this world ever was? As they progressed together, their rivalry grew into mutual respect, and eventually a friendship. A friendship that nobody had predicted. Yes, they weren't inseparable, but Charles had always adored Max. Adored his tender side, adored how passionate he was about his work, how he was brilliant with children and had a heart of gold. On one too many occasions, he had to stop his subconscious from dreaming scenarios where they were together, with a few children, living out their retired lives together. Charles was worried if they got any closer, he’d mess it all up. He couldn't run the risk of losing Max altogether, ironic considering the current circumstances. He noticed how the other man smiled so much more in his company, how talking to him became so easy, there were no boundaries left anymore. Apart from that one last wall Charles was hiding behind, was about to break any second.
Seeing Max, usually so strong and fierce lay there helpless and vulnerable, pulled at something in Charles’ heart that made it shatter into a million pieces, so small that no amount of reconstruction could fix it. He wanted to do more, he wanted to nurse him back to health and comfort him through his pain. He wanted to hold him as he cried, fighting all the battles he couldn't anymore. He wanted to scream, shout, cry and simultaneously say nothing. Max wouldn't suspect he was harbouring feelings, why would he? Charles had never given up on him and never stopped trying to break through the anti-smash glass around him implemented by Max’s father. After years of trying, years of reminding himself that what happened on track didn't matter off track, years of telling himself that Max deserved a friend, he’d done it. And yet here they are, appearing to the public and the rest of the grid as mere acquaintances. The only person who knew more was Pierre, of course, it was. They’d been best friends for as long as Charles could remember. He’d always told Charles to be honest, stop distancing himself every time he felt his heart beat that little bit faster when he was with Max, but that was far easier said than done. Max tended to push everyone away, and while they were friends, Charles didn’t want to get hurt. And Charles knew that eventually, everyone would leave him. It had happened with his dad, happened with Jules. His faith in God was wavering by the day, because how dare he do this to him! He wasn’t a sinner, he hadn’t been evil. He offered friendship to the one guy who needed it most. He was kind and invited him over to play games when they were both in Monaco. Sure, during the hustle and bustle of the season (and Charles' self-awareness of his overactive subconscious) they didn’t speak more than a few texts, but aside from that, they had each other. What had he done so wrong in a past life to deserve this?
He’d been sitting there for approaching five hours, refusing to move until he knew more. He needed to know more. No doctors would tell him anything, and that only worsened the burning anxiety in his chest. He couldn't do this again, he knew how hospitals worked. People went in but did not come out. It was unbearable, sitting there watching Max’s nearly lifeless body grow paler, not even the sound of his heart monitor provided comfort. He needed to shout, needed Max to wake up. Needed anything, anything but this. His cruel brain kept replaying the events, too clear to be a nightmare. He needed this to stop.
He remembers the rain, the spray on the track in front of him, and the wet tyres doing nothing to help shift the volume of water pouring from above. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Xavi kept telling him that the FIA had cleared the race, despite a unison complaint from the drivers. When he heard the news that the session had been red-flagged and would resume because Max had veered off at turn two, he felt his whole world turn upside-down.
“Non, non non non” was all he could manage down the radio as he slowed to a halt. “dis-moi qu'il va bien.”
Silence.
“Putain dis moi qu'il va bien.” He was frustrated. Every second felt like a lifetime. Why was nobody confirming it? Why could nobody reach him? Max had crashed out before, and he’d been okay. Why wasn’t he answering anyone now?
“Charles, he’s being taken to hospital, no response as of yet.” And with that, he abandoned his car, ran back to the pitlane with tears in his eyes and attempted to drive to the hospital, before being stopped by Fred. His voice was obnoxious and distorted, nothing was registering. Charles felt himself shaking. He didn’t know what was happening, because everything was too much. The lights, the voices. The sea of people rushing to get him a glass of water and get him seated. The fuzzy figure of Pierre approaching the garage and insisting on driving him there.
Nobody understood why this had bothered Charles this much. After all, to them, they were acquaintances. Pierre knew though. He wanted to give him space, so opted for sitting in the canteen whilst Charles was allowed to see Max. He kind of wished Pierre was in the room now. He could do with a hug. But one hug would unleash an avalanche of emotion and he needed to stay strong, for Max’s sake. His family were informed and frantically booked flights, but that would take hours. He needed to do this for Max, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
Usually, when this happened he would find the chapel and prey. But he didn't think he had any kind words to give to God right now. He didn't think he had any connection left.
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Still nothing. Seven hours in. Charles sat with his thoughts, and with every passing minute, he realised just how much Max meant to him. He’d do anything to hear Max cuss him out, do anything to see his eyes open and just say anything, even a measly “fuck off” was better than this eerie silence.
Fuck it.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, mon cheri, but I need to tell you this. I think I like you. No, I know I do. And I know you won’t feel the same, but this has been eating at me for half my life. “J'ai besoin que tu saches à quel point tu comptes pour moi.”
Nothing.
“Please just give me a sign, Max. Anything. I can’t do this again. I adore you. Your stupid smile and your eyes. The way you let me in when everyone and everything in you told you not to. “s'il te plaît fais moi juste un signe.”
He reached out shakily, taking Max’s limp hand into his own, gently stroking his thumb across the back of it with his own. Nothing.
Charles left his hand there, needing comfort but not wanting to bother Pierre. And let's be honest, Max needed it too, whether he knew it himself or not.
Over the next few hours, the tiredness from the day's events had caught up to him, and he allowed himself to be overtaken by sleep. A chance to escape his brain, his guilt, betrayal and heartache.
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Alarms. So many of them. All sounding far too loudly to be a good sign. As Charles' eyes snapped open, he wished he was oblivious. A swarm of doctors and nurses filled the room, desperately ushering him away so they could do something. Charles didn't know what, but he did know he was crying. Hysterically. Letting out noises he's not heard himself make since... Well, he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the last time. Covering his ears and clamping his eyes shut, he wished he was dreaming, wished this was a terrible, awful joke and Max would emerge from the room in fits of laughter. Wished the machines were faulty, and everything was fine. When he’d fallen asleep, Max was stable, peaceful. How could this have happened? How could God have done this to him? He had nothing more to give. He was tired. Make. It. Stop.
He doesn't remember when Pierre appeared next to him, gently rubbing his shoulder until Charles shrugged it off. The touch was too much. The darkness provided by his eyelids was too much, but so was the beam of the hospital lights. The chemical stench of the corridors was offensive and poisonous, attacking his lungs and making him feel ill. He was going to be sick. But he couldn't move. He was sure Pierre was muttering soft reassurances to him, but the thrum of his eardrums made it inaudible.
Then the doctors came. Clad in their blue scrubs, defeated looks painted across their faces. Some of them had tears in their eyes. Did they know who Max was?
Charles dared to open his eyes at the sound of feet scuffling across the floor, not trusting himself to stand up and meet their eye line. He was too weak, the slightest movement would make him throw up.
“We are so sorry Mr Leclerc. We did everything we could, but the injuries he sustained were too much to survive. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Non. non non non. tu mens, tu peux faire quelque chose, non?” His voice was barely a whisper. God had done it again. Not again. He never got to hear Max’s response, or say goodbye. He should've listened to Pierre, shouldn't have pushed himself away when he felt the butterflies stampede in his stomach. He should have allowed himself to feel and allowed himself to share that with Max. Now he’d never know.
He wished they’d stayed rivals. Why does everyone he cares for have to be snatched away from him? How long before Pierre was next?
The doctors shook their heads, uttered a cheeky apology and walked away, giving him some space. He fell to his knees. Silence, the world crumbled. The noise he let out, the scream, was animalistic. Hysterical tears fell, gut-wrenching sobs that were painful for Pierre to listen to. His eyes were throbbing, Pierre letting his silent sobs slip out, disguised by the howls of his best friend. He dropped to Charles’ level and pulled him in for a hug, this time the other man accepted. The touch still felt wrong, too much, but he didn't trust himself to hold himself up anymore. He didn't know how he would ever hold himself up again.
Nothing would comfort Charles, so he didn't even try. He just rocked them slowly, rubbing gentle circles into the small of his back. Letting Charles know he was there, he was real, and he was safe. But none of that mattered when he existed in a world that Charles couldn't imagine without Max in it.
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Nothing was ever the same after that day. Charles never returned to racing and was replaced by Alex. The number 33 was retired in honour of the two-time world champion, and the rest of the season was cancelled as a mark of respect.
Charles didn't go to the funeral. In all honesty, Charles didn’t do anything these days. He couldn't smile, couldn't laugh. He’d moved in with Pierre to get some support, but nothing eased the heart-wrenching pain he felt every minute he was awake. The only thing he looked forward to was the end of the day, so sleep could take him in. But even then it was littered with nightmares that woke him up screaming, crying and exhausted. He was always exhausted. Nothing comforted him. Nothing felt worth it anymore. The world did not turn anymore. It stood still, silent and colourless.
He’d taken pills, and undergone therapy. But it turns out, there's no cure for a broken heart. In therapy, he’d personified death as a wolf, an animal with a vendetta against him, hunting down all his victims based on how much they meant to Charles. God would’ve said it was a test, and Charles had failed. Because he couldn't take it anymore. The betrayal was too much.
What was the point anymore? When all that lay ahead was darkness, pain and suffering. Charles concluded that the sun would never shine again.