Chapter Text
One: Curses Really Do Come Out of Nowhere
Charles Leclerc was now one hundred percent convinced that he had, without a shadow of a doubt, stepped out of his hotel room at a cosmically ill-advised moment.
It all started a few hours earlier.
He had been wandering around Baku's Old City. Originally, he'd only meant to pop downstairs to grab something to drink, but he had – yet again – got hopelessly lost.
He had the distinct feeling he was passing the same old woman's stall for the third time. To be precise, an old woman in a purple velvet robe, wearing a pointy hat and clutching a gnarled wooden staff. She sat behind a roadside stall crammed with all manner of bizarre bottles and jars, looking as though she'd just walked straight out of Macbeth. If Shakespeare had known Formula 1 drivers could fall victim to this sort of nonsense, he probably would have hauled himself out of the grave to scribble a few extra scenes.
Charles hadn't planned on stopping, but the old woman spoke, her raspy voice like sandpaper scraping against glass. 'Young man, you look very anxious.'
Charles froze for a second. Not because he wanted to do a crystal ball reading, but because his brain, a messy tangle of French, Italian and English, had auto-translated the sentence and realised: it was a language he'd never heard before, yet he could understand it perfectly.
'I'm alright,' he said with a polite smile, fully intending to keep walking.
'You are worried about marriage,' the old woman added.
Charles stopped dead.
Alright, fine. He really was worried about marriage.
Once upon a time, what he wanted most was a fairy-tale wedding. He wanted to be the happiest groom in the world, to hold the love of his life right there in church and just kiss them while everyone looked on, smiling and blessing them.
The origins of this dream went all the way back to his blissful childhood. His parents were deeply in love, he and his brothers got on beautifully, and there was always a piping-hot plate of pasta and a warm hug waiting at home. Growing up in that kind of environment, Charles had quite naturally assumed: you grow up, you get married, and marriage makes you happy.
Then he actually grew up, and found himself drifting further and further away from that picture.
The reason was very simple: his boyfriend, Max Verstappen, did not want to get married.
Over the course of three years, they'd gone from rivals to lovers, from crashing into each other to dropping by each other's flats. They'd raised cats and walked the dogs together, played FIFA, and posted photos on social media that sent each team's PR blood pressure through the roof.
Charles had browsed wedding rings online, secretly bookmarked a bunch of jewelry designers, and even decided on the songs for the ceremony. But every time he dropped the M-word, Max would either stare at him like he'd just spoken ancient Sumerian, or avoid eye contact and pivot the conversation. Once he literally said he was busy with his sim rig.
'I need to think about it more,' Max always said.
Charles could understand. He knew Max's childhood memories probably didn't contain many warm and fuzzy scenes – they were likely closer to a horror film. Growing up in a family like that, having PTSD about marriage was completely natural.
Charles tried hard to reason with himself. He was an understanding boyfriend. Marriage was just a piece of paper; what mattered was that they were together. He'd even gone to see a therapist, asking if he was simply too traditional.
The therapist had said, 'You just want a home. That's perfectly normal.'
Charles had said, 'But he's afraid of the marital relationship. He's afraid of making that commitment.'
The therapist had said, 'Then you need to consider whether this relationship is truly fulfilling you.'
Charles had thought about it, and decided to give Max a bit more time. He loved him, so he was willing to wait.
He thought he was being very patient – right up until the old woman in front of him thrust a banana, so yellow it looked like a plastic prop, into his hands.
'Why are you giving me a banana?' Charles stared blankly at the fruit in his hands.
'Not a banana,' the old woman said with a mysterious smile, revealing a set of not-very-straight teeth. 'It's a marriage curse.'
'Monegasque, you must be wed before the day is out,' the old woman intoned slowly. 'Or else you will lose the thing you treasure most.'
'And what is it I treasure most?'
'Your Ferrari driver contract.'
Charles: ???
'Listen, young man,' she rapped her walking stick on the ground. 'If you don't believe me, you can try it and see whether or not you turn into a – no, you're too pretty to be a frog. But you will receive an official termination email from Ferrari. You'll be totally booted out of Ferrari, won't even qualify for a pass to the canteen in Maranello.'
Charles opened his mouth, fully ready to say how utterly ridiculous this was. But he glanced down at the banana in his hand – er, well, the curse vessel – and suddenly realised it had begun to glow.
In an ambiguous pink glow, a line of text shimmered faintly on the banana's peel:
【Curse Countdown: 5:58:47】
He held the banana further away, then brought it closer, just to confirm he wasn't hallucinating.
'…Fuck,' Charles said, and then repeated the sentiment in every language he knew.
The old woman nodded with satisfaction, fished out a crumpled piece of paper from beneath the stall and handed it to him. 'These are the additional terms. If you can't get married today, there is a way to buy yourself a time extension.'
Charles took it and, on reflex, pressed the paper against the banana. Rows of ornate script rose to the surface:
【Grace Clause】
Should matrimony prove impossible to achieve within the day, the deadline may be extended by 24 hours via the method of 'engaging in intimate relations with a different person each time.'
Note: The issuing party reserves the final right of interpretation for all curse-related clauses.
Below that was another line of text, in extremely, extremely, extremely tiny print: All magical products in this establishment have passed quality inspection. Once sold, no returns or exchanges.
'But I haven't paid anything,' Charles stammered.
'That's right, so this one's a gift from me.' The old woman pointed at the banana. 'You're welcome.'
And then she vanished, stall and all.
A puff of purple smoke rose, and everything disappeared completely, leaving behind a totally dumbfounded Charles Leclerc, clutching a pink-glowing banana with a countdown ticking away second by second.
He stood there on the cobbled streets of Baku's Old City, a breeze drifting past, a little chilly.
He looked down at the banana again, only to find the pink light growing brighter and brighter, now spreading onto his own hand. When the glare faded enough for him to see clearly, he noticed a dark cluster had appeared in the centre of his palm.
Hesitantly, he flexed his middle finger.
Inside his palm, a set of flashing digits appeared, like a digital watch embedded in his skin. Charles stared at the “5:50:32” for a solid ten seconds, unsure if he'd lost his mind, then took a photo with his phone and sent it to his physio.
'Is that your new tattoo?' the physio asked.
'I don't know,' Charles said, 'but I think it's counting down.'
The physio suggested he see a doctor. The doctor suggested he have an MRI. He rushed to a nearby hospital, and the MRI results showed his brain was perfectly good, yet the countdown was still ticking away.
'You might need to find a witch doctor,' the medic said, with an utterly serious expression.
Charles felt his entire worldview crumbling. He considered himself something of an atheist. He believed in science, he believed in aerodynamics, he believed in Ferrari strategy most of the time – anyway, he'd never believed in magic. Except for Harry Potter. But the countdown on his hand didn't lie, and it had already ticked down to “2:36:07”.
OH MY GOD.
Since magic was real, then he had to find a way to fix this.
His first thought was – go marry Max.
He did want to marry Max. That thought hadn't changed for three years. But now he had a far more urgent reason: if he didn't get married, he was going to lose his Ferrari seat.
Charles touched his red team suit.
No, impossible. He loved this suit. He still had dreams. He wanted to fight for all the Tifosi and lead Ferrari back to its glory. He could not lose his job over a glowing banana from an old lady.