Chapter Text
Charles knows he’s dreaming almost immediately.
Not because the memory feels unreal.
Because it feels too real.
Dreams are usually blurred at the edges, strange and fragmented and soft around the details. This isn’t. This is sharp.
Every sound, every movement lands with horrible clarity.
Rainwater splashes beneath small racing shoes.
Petrol hangs thick in the cold air.
A kart engine ticks as it cools.
And Charles is eleven years old.
No—
Max is eleven years old.
Charles can feel it instantly in the shape of the body he inhabits. Taller than Charles had been at that age. All sharp elbows and tense shoulders and adrenaline still crackling painfully through his chest.
His hands are shaking.
The kart sits crooked near the paddock barrier with damage along one side.
Crash.
Right.
The crash.
Memory settles into him with terrifying certainty.
Max had gone for a gap too late. Clipped another kart. Spun hard.
Out.
Now comes the worst part.
Jos Verstappen is standing near the van.
Waiting.
Even before he speaks, fear floods Max’s body so intensely Charles almost wakes from it.
Not nervousness.
Not ordinary fear.
Animal terror.
Max doesn’t remove his helmet.
Time passes strangely in dreams. Charles doesn’t know how long they stand there exactly, but the paddock empties slowly around them. Mechanics leave. Families leave. The sky darkens.
Still Max doesn’t take the helmet off.
Because if the helmet stays on, maybe his father won’t hit him.
The thought arrives so naturally that Charles nearly chokes on it.
Finally:
“Waarom sta je daar nog?” Jos snaps.
(Why are you still standing there?)
Charles feels Max flinch instinctively.
Slowly, trembling slightly, Max removes the helmet.
Cold air hits damp skin.
Jos’s eyes rake over him with disgust.
“Kijk me aan.”
(Look at me.)
Max obeys immediately.
“Ik zei toch dat je niet zo dom moest verdedigen.”
(I told you not to defend that stupidly.)
“Ik probeerde-”
(I tried-)
“Niet praten.”
(Don’t talk.)
Silence.
Jos jerks his head toward the kart.
“Ruim alles op. Alleen.”
(Pack everything up. Alone.)
Max swallows.
“Ja, papa.”
(Yes, papa.)
And then he moves.
Charles feels every second of it.
The weight of the kart trolley against aching arms.
The sting in Max’s palms.
The humiliation of dragging equipment bigger than he is while Jos watches without helping.
The terror humming constantly underneath everything.
Max keeps glancing toward his father like prey watching something dangerous.
He’s so small.
That’s what horrifies Charles most.
Max at twenty-six is intimidating. Sharp-edged. Controlled. Hard to shake.
This Max is just a child.
It takes forever to load everything.
At one point Max realizes something is missing.
A tool kit.
His stomach drops instantly.
No no no—
He scrambles back through the paddock searching frantically until he finds it near the barriers.
When he returns to the van, slightly out of breath, Jos’s expression darkens immediately.
“Hoe moeilijk kan het zijn?” Jos says coldly.
(How hard can it be?)
“Sorry.”
Too slow.
The slap comes so fast Charles barely processes it.
One second passes before the impact explodes across his face hard enough to knock him sideways.
Pain rings through his skull.
Max bites his tongue accidentally.
Blood floods his mouth instantly.
Charles feels the metallic taste so vividly he gags.
For a second everything goes silent except ringing ears.
Then:
“Stap in.”
(Get in.)
Max climbs into the passenger seat wordlessly.
His cheek throbs.
Blood stains the inside of his mouth.
He keeps his head turned toward the window the entire drive.
But he still tries.
That’s the worst part.
He still tries.
“Papa…” Max says quietly after nearly 20 minutes of silence.
No response.
“Ik dacht dat hij ruimte zou laten.”
(I thought he would leave space.)
Nothing.
“Ik had hem bijna gered.”
(I almost saved it.)
Jos stares straight ahead.
Max’s voice gets smaller.
“Ik kan morgen beter rijden.”
(I can drive better tomorrow.)
Nothing.
Charles feels the panic rising inside him now.
Because Max needs forgiveness desperately and he isn’t getting it.
The silence becomes unbearable.
Streetlights blur past outside.
Finally the van pulls into a gas station.
Relief flickers briefly through Max.
Maybe food.
Maybe his father calmed down.
Instead Jos kills the engine and says flatly:
“Stap uit.”
(Get out.)
Max blinks.
“…wat?”
(What?)
“Nu.”
(Now.)
Fear spikes instantly.
Max climbs out automatically because disobedience is worse.
The cold night air bites through his race suit.
Jos reaches over and tosses his backpack onto the pavement pulling the door shut with a slam.
Then he drives away.
Just drives away.
Charles feels Max’s entire body freeze.
No.
No no no—
The van disappears down the road.
Max waits.
Surely he’ll come back.
This is punishment.
A lesson.
A joke.
Something.
He waits beside the gas station curb clutching his backpack.
Cars come and go.
An hour passes.
The sky darkens fully.
The station lights buzz overhead.
Every set of headlights makes hope surge painfully through Max’s chest.
Every time it isn’t the van, the hope dies again.
Charles feels all of it.
The confusion turning slowly into realization.
Then realization into terror.
Then terror into grief.
By ten o’clock, Max is shivering.
His swollen cheek aches in the cold.
He finally pulls a phone from his bag with shaking hands.
Calls home.
His mother answers almost immediately.
“Max?”
The second he hears her voice, he breaks.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just one awful, strangled sound.
“Mama…”
“Lieverd? Wat is er?”
(Sweetheart? What’s wrong?)
Charles has never heard Max cry before.
Not once.
Even in the dream it feels wrong. Impossible.
“Papa heeft me hier achtergelaten.”
(Papa left me here.)
Silence.
Then immediate panic.
“Wat bedoel je? Waar ben je?”
(What do you mean? Where are you?)
Max tries speaking but he can barely breathe properly.
“At… at een tankstation… ik weet niet waar…”
(At a gas station… I don’t know where…)
“Oh god.” Her voice cracks instantly. “Ben je alleen?”
(Are you alone?)
“Ja.”
(Yes.)
Small.
Terrified.
Charles feels tears sliding down Max’s face and cannot stop them.
“Ik dacht dat hij terug zou komen.”
(I thought he would come back.)
“Oh, Maxie…”
She’s crying now too.
“Luister naar mij, okay? Ik kom eraan. Blijf waar je bent.”
(Listen to me, okay? I’m coming. Stay where you are.)
Max curls tighter on the curb.
“Sorry.”
The word comes automatically.
For crashing.
For crying.
For existing inconveniently.
“Niet sorry zeggen,” his mother says fiercely.
(Don’t say sorry.)
But Max already believes he should.
The dream stretches horribly after that.
Cold.
Waiting.
Fear every time unfamiliar men walk past.
Exhaustion.
Humiliation.
Charles feels every minute of those seven hours like they’re carved into bone.
And finally:
Headlights.
A familiar red car.
His mother rushing out before the engine even stops.
“Max!”
She grabs him immediately.
Max breaks apart the second she touches him.
He clings to her desperately, crying against her coat while she cups his bruised face in horrified hands.
“Oh mijn god…”
Her thumb brushes the swelling on his cheek.
“Heeft hij dit gedaan?”
(Did he do this?)
Max doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t need to.
And then Charles wakes up.
Violently.
He jerks upright in bed with a gasp sharp enough to hurt.
Darkness.
Monaco.
His apartment.
His own body.
But his face still burns phantom-hot where Jos hit Max.
Charles presses a shaking hand over his mouth.
His entire chest hurts.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
Soulmates are rare enough already. Most people never meet theirs. And when they do…
The dreams only happen once.
One shared trauma.
One irreversible knowing.
Charles stares at the dark wall breathing hard.
Max.
Max.
Max.
He remembers that race weekend now. Barely. They’d been kids. Rivals already. Charles remembers Max being unusually quiet afterward.
He remembers thinking Jos looked angry.
He did not know.
God, he didn’t know.
And now…
He’d felt it.
Not watched it.
Felt it.
The fear.
The shame.
The desperate hope every time headlights appeared.
Charles has never felt loneliness like that in his life.
His stomach twists violently.
Either Max Verstappen is his soulmate…
…or Charles is losing his mind.
—————————————————————
Max wakes up choking on the sound of screaming.
Not metaphorically.
Actual screaming.
Raw.
Animal.
A woman’s voice breaking itself apart.
He bolts upright instinctively.
The room around him is unfamiliar but suddenly known.
Monaco.
The Leclerc apartment.
Charles’s childhood bedroom.
Max feels it instantly:
This is not observation.
This is inhabitation.
He is seventeen years old and exhausted and sleeping badly because his father is dying in the next room.
Then:
“HERVÉ!”
The scream tears through the apartment again.
Max feels Charles’s entire body jolt with terror before conscious thought even catches up.
His mother.
Something’s wrong.
Charles runs.
Max feels every step.
Bare feet slamming against hardwood floors.
Adrenaline flooding instantly.
The hallway lights blur.
Another scream.
Desperate.
Horrified.
By the time Charles reaches the bedroom door, Max already knows something irreversible has happened.
The room is chaos.
Pascale Leclerc is bent over her husband on the bed, shaking him violently.
“Non non non non—!”
(No no no no—!)
Hervé Leclerc’s body lies limp beneath her hands.
Pale.
Mouth slightly open.
Eyes unfocused.
Dead.
The realization hits Charles all at once.
Max feels it happen physically.
Like the world splitting down the middle.
For one impossible second Charles simply stands there staring.
Not processing.
Not breathing.
His mother sobs harder.
“Réveille-toi!”
(Wake up!)
She shakes Hervé again desperately.
Charles moves automatically then, stumbling toward the bed.
“Maman…”
His voice sounds thin. Young.
Pascale looks at him with complete devastation.
“Fais quelque chose!”
(Do something!)
Charles reaches for her shoulders instinctively.
“Maman, arrête-”
(Mom, stop-)
She shoves him away violently.
“NON!”
The force of it sends Charles stumbling backward slightly.
She keeps shaking Hervé’s body.
Begging now.
Crying so hard she can barely form words.
“S’il te plaît, mon amour- s’il te plaît-!”
(Please, my love- please- !)
Max feels Charles looking properly at the body then.
At his father.
And horror crashes through him.
The unnatural stillness.
The open mouth.
The grey pallor creeping into skin.
Dead.
Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead.
Charles makes a broken sound and barely reaches the trash bin beside the bed before vomiting violently into it.
His whole body shakes.
His mother is screaming behind him.
The room smells sickeningly human. sweat, sickness, vomit, grief.
Max feels every second of Charles’s nervous system failing under the shock.
When Charles finally collapses onto the floor beside the bed, he curls inward tightly, sobbing now.
Not graceful tears.
Full-body grief.
His mother is still begging Hervé to wake up.
Still clutching him.
Still refusing reality.
“Charles!” she suddenly cries hysterically. “Appelle une ambulance!”
(Call an ambulance!)
Charles can’t move.
Max feels him desperately trying.
Trying to force his limbs to work.
Nothing responds properly.
His ears ring violently.
His hands won’t stop shaking.
He can barely breathe.
“Maman…”
“Ils doivent aider ton père!”
(They have to help your father!)
But somewhere deep down Charles already knows.
There is no helping.
Hervé is gone.
And Max…
Max feels all of it.
Every horrifying piece.
The helplessness.
The disbelief.
The unbearable knowledge that childhood just ended in one single moment.
By the time Max wakes, his own face is wet.
He doesn’t realize immediately that he’s crying.
He never cries.
Not really.
But the grief inside the dream was so enormous it followed him out of sleep like something alive.
Darkness fills his apartment.
His chest hurts.
His breathing feels wrong.
Charles.
The thought lands instantly.
Charles Charles Charles.
Max presses both hands hard against his face.
Soulmates.
It has to be.
Because no ordinary dream could feel like that.
No ordinary dream could leave grief lodged this deep beneath his ribs.
And suddenly the memory of their fight after the race yesterday feels grotesquely small compared to the image of seventeen-year-old Charles curled on the floor beside his dead father, crying so hard he couldn’t stand.