Chapter Text
Coming to it is not like in the movies. Max doesn't wake up from his traumatic head injury by blinking awake into a sterile, sun-lit room. He doesn't turn to find his loved ones sprawled on the couch beside his bed, hair messy and clothes unkempt. He doesn't even wake up in a way that makes sense. He just blinks, and things suddenly melt into confusing clarity. Thankfully, at least his head hurts.
In reality, the first time Max can say that he is fully conscious of what is going on around him is when he sees a well put-together Charles leaning against a wall, speaking to one of his doctors while she fiddles with a clipboard. She is stout, with round, rosy cheeks, and dark wine-coloured hair. She makes Charles throw back his head in laughter, which she seems particularly pleased with. It's a strange sight, partially because he knows that Charles hates hospitals, partially because he can feel that something is violently wrong.
He looks down at his hands, lying beside his body, left thumb trembling slightly, his forearms are covered in small bruises leading down to where his IV line is connected. They look strange, unnaturally pale, with his nails well-kept. They are still callused, more than he can ever remember them being, but there is a definite softness to them that he never thought he would get while staring at his hands.
He looks up again at just the right time to see the doctor gesture towards him, and then Charles turns.
His face has a lot more stubble than he usually likes, and his hair is a lot longer than Pascale allows it to be. It sticks out in looser waves, which goes against everything he knows about him. Max quickly finds out that frowning is deeply painful at the moment, but he can't seem to wipe the expression off his face, "Your hair is longer."
Charles lets out a huff of laughter. "Do you like it?"
"What about your mum?"
Charles's face does a funny dance, between perplexed and surprised that Max would ever say that. Before he can question it further, the doctor sits by his side and extends a hand, "Doctor Bryony Ellis, It's nice to meet you again, Max."
It takes a second for his hand to respond as he wants it to, but he manages to grab it and give it a clumsy shake, "Max Verstappen."
"Very good!" She grabs a pen from her coat pocket and clicks it. "We met at the beginning of this week, do you remember?"
He really can't. Even if he tries to stretch his memory to the most basic of things, everything seems weirdly grey and blurry— out of his reach. The last thing he can remember is his cockpit closing in around him. He clears his throat, pushing the memory away, "No. 'M sorry."
"That's okay. Just take it easy." She looks down and scribbles something on the notepad, "What about the year. Can you tell me what year we are in?"
That one is easier.
"We were in Silverstone." The doctor makes a motion, as if she is egging him to keep going and so he does, "Is this because of my crash?"
"You crashed in Silverstone, yes. But you didn't answer my question."
Oh, "2021."
She clicks her pen again and scribbles, "Close, but not quite. It's 2025."
Max straightens his spine. His head feeling hot and throat itchy. He can see some movement in his peripheral vision, and turns his head to look at Charles, who is biting his thumb. His eyes quickly flicker to Max before they settle on the doctor. Funnily enough, it's not what the doctor said that makes his head spin with nerves, but rather that he can't remember her name or how this conversation even started. He is usually pretty good with names.
"That's what he has been saying consistently."
She nods, "Every time you asked him the question?"
Charles shakes his head before turning to Max and settling a hand over his shoulder, "Not always, but we haven't been able to get an answer closer than that date."
"Remind me again, he had a big crash then, yeah?"
Charles gnaws at his lip as he nods, and the doctor also writes that down. Then her full attention is turned on to him once more. It goes on like that for a few minutes. They're asking him questions, and he's vaguely mumbling answers. Out of all the emotions he thought he would be feeling, embarrassment is not one of them. However, there are only so many times that one can forget the name of their sister, or the name of the person literally standing in front of them before nerves start to fry.
And finally, "Can you tell me who has been here at the hospital with you?"
They are throwing him a bone, he can feel that. Max looks at Charles, who just smiles gently, comfortingly. His dimples seem to have gotten deeper, which Max decides to focus on rather than the fact that Charles, and himself for that matter, are now 27. That's a big, big number.
"Charles, obviously."
"And who is Charles to you?"
Max purses his lips, hoping not to get it wrong. He hopes that at least in this life has been kind to him. "He is my boyfriend?"
Charles's smile brightens, and a knot in Max's chest unwinds. His boyfriend squeezes his shoulder lightly. "Who else?"
"There have been more?"
"Only one more. You know him."
It seems strange that only one other person has been with him. He wonders where they are, which means that his family hasn't come to visit him. There are only a few options he can think of.
"Is it your brother?"
That makes Charles laugh, though he can definitely feel the anxiousness behind it, "God no. That would be weird."
"It's Oscar," Doctor Ellis says, and for a second, he almost feels obliged to pretend that he knows who that is. But that is not what they are here for, "Can you tell me who Oscar is to you?"
"Oscar?"
Charles's hand on his shoulder tightens. The grip is painfully tight now, and in a matter of seconds he realises that, out of all possible answers, this is the one that hurts Charles the most. He opens his mouth, ready to ask them his first question. Ready to ask why Charles seems unfazed by everything but the prospect of him not knowing a singular person.
The timing is almost biblical.
Max can hear the doorknob turn, letting the light chatter from the hospital corridor into his room, as well as a very handsome man. His hair is honey brown, curling up in a satisfying wave, he is wearing a long black coat and a hoodie, which Max thinks is ridiculous, and is carrying a white plastic bag and a bouquet of Paper-mâché flowers. He looks tired. Considerably more tired than Charles.
And yet. He locks eyes with Max first and breaks out in a massive grin, "Hey, look at you! I haven't seen you this awake since—"
"Oscar," Charles rushes towards this man— Oscar— and lightly grabs his elbow, trying to steady them both.
Doctor Ellis, blind to the anxiety radiating off of Charles in tangible and sticky waves, smiles at him, "We were just talking about you."
Max doesn't need to know Oscar to see the fragile hope flickering in his eyes when she says, "You were?"
"We asked him who had been at the hospital with him these past few days."
Oscar smiles, he squeezes Charles's hand as he walks towards Max. He sets down what he is carrying on the reclining chair beside his bed before sitting next to his knees. The mattress sinks to one side, and Max has to readjust. This person apparently knows him well enough to grab his hand and gently kiss his knuckles before gesturing to the doctor with his head, "Don't let me interrupt."
Max, as he has always done, sees himself reflected in Charles's wide, anxious eyes. Charles seems rooted to the spot and, for the first time since Max came to it, looks completely out of his depth. Doctor Ellis taps his arm, and he has to use every muscle in his body to turn his head towards her.
"Max, can you answer the question for me? Who is Oscar to you?" There is a light squeeze to his hand, one he guesses is for encouragement, and Max hopes he never has to look at the two other people in the room again. There are a few seconds of silence before the doctor prompts him again, and Max has no choice but to respond.
"I don't know."
Oscar discovers quite a few things in an extremely short amount of time.
First, he learns that you can, in fact, be both heartbroken and elated at the same time. It makes every muscle in his body ache. He learns that as he watches Max, for the first time in a week, be able to hold a conversation, nearly crying in relief, even if the conversation is them having to explain who Oscar is in the first place.
Doctor Ellis tells them they are probably past the worst of it now. There might be a few regressions here and there, but for the time being, it's upwards, even if uphill, from here. She also tells them in no uncertain terms that things have changed. Forever. There is no magic wand, there is no trick. The brain is fickle and so, so delicate, and things would be missing. Lost to time. Memories would probably return, but not all, and not certainly.
The second thing that Oscar learns is that he actually hates change. It's funny, because for the longest of times change was all he thought he had. Change in countries, in categories, in teammates, in teams. Whichever way life spun him the one constant seemed to be change. He reveled in it. He enjoyed the process, the freedom to let change happen to him, to not attach himself to what he was leaving behind.
In retrospect, it now seems funny. It had been the same thing rehashed and rebranded. Now real change is here and he doesn't quite know what to do with it. Even the pink and white paper lilies that he and Charles had been working on for the past few days seem out of time, as they sit in the plastic vase that the nurses had conjured up, catching the rays of sun streaming through the balcony window in all their glorious deformity. Change is here to stay for good, and he is spiralling.
Max is conked out once again. Exhausted by whatever rollercoaster of emotions the past two hours have been, Charles sits on the corner of the sofa, speaking soft French into the phone. Oscar, however, can't seem to move.
The quiet routine and system they had developed over the past few days is also lost to time, which is a shame. Four o'clock should have been their time to go for a coffee at the shitty hospital cafeteria, their time to call for one of the people that Sophie had insisted they hire to look after Max for an hour or two while they stretched their legs and walked around. Their moment to feel a little bit more human, a little bit less like an extension of whatever catastrophe they found themselves in.
But now Charles is on the phone, Oscar is trying to thumb through a paperback novel he has read so many times he could recite it back to back, and they seem to be caught back in the orbit of things changing.
The last thing Oscar discovers is that he has never been left behind before. It's strange for this to be his first time, but it fills him with newfound empathy for those who have. It's a horrible glass box being lowered around him—an alien feeling of watching everything unfold around him, yet being unable to reach out.
He can't fault Charles. The thorny, envious, part of him knows deeply that if he was in his boyfriend's position he would also cling on to the scraps that they are getting. He knows that if he had been blessed enough to be the one remembered he would have breathed out a sigh of relief and basked in the knowledge that love had been enough for that one instance.
But Oscar is not in that situation. Instead Oscar has to watch as Max reverently looks at Charles for answers, for logic, for groundedness, even though that had stopped being Charles' role many, many, months ago.
He doesn't realise that he has been staring at Charles until the other tilts his head in question. Brows furrowed, chin tilted up. Oscar shakes his head, but it's too late. Once Charles has his mind set on something, there is little that can be done, "Maman, je peux te rappeler?"
"Mama, can I call you later?"
He stands up, his phone held between his ear and shoulder, his hands fiddling with the plastic cup of water he had been drinking from. Even to Oscar's envious eyes, Charles still looks like an angel. "Oui, je t'aime aussi. Bye."
"Yes, I love you too. Bye."
Oscar has to look up from the reclining chair to see Charles' face properly. Charles reaches out gently to hold his cheek, and Oscar, who has never been immune to his gravity, leans in.
"It's really shit." His thumb gently caresses his cheekbone, and Oscar closes his eyes, "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for? You didn't cause this."
"Oscar—"
He shakes his head, the tears threatening to spill feel like barbed wire wrapped around his throat, "Don't. Please."
Another soft caress which Oscar can't help but melt into, "Okay."
"Thank you."
"For you? Anything."
He lets out a huff of breath and tries to smile for Charles, "I know."