#temporary amnesia

When you wake up, nothing makes sense.

Not in a scary way, exactly.

Just…in a deeply what the hell is happening way.

Your eyelids feel ten pounds each. Your mouth is dry. The room is all soft beeping and pale curtains and fluorescent light that somehow feels both too bright and too far away. Your thoughts are swimming in syrup, bumping into each other like sleepy bumper cars.

You blink once. Twice.

There’s a man sitting in the chair beside your bed.

A very handsome man.

A ridiculously handsome man.

Dark shirt stretched over broad shoulders, skin covered in tattoos, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it too much. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at you with this look on his face that is way too soft and way too intense for a stranger.

You squint at him.

He immediately perks up, relief washing over his face.

“Hey, baby. There you are.”

You stare. Because, okay…?

One, he is very pretty. Two, he is definitely not a nurse. Three, why is he talking to you like that?

Your brows pinch together.

“Who…are you?”

He freezes. Actually freezes.

The relief on his face gets replaced by a very specific kind of panic.

“…what?”

Your eyes drift over him again, suspicious and a little impressed despite yourself.

“Why are you in my room?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again.

“I’m—”

He glances at the nurse by the monitor like maybe she’s going to jump in and explain this better than he can.

She does not.

In fact, she very obviously bites back a smile and busies herself with the blood pressure machine.

The man looks back at you, now fully thrown.

“I’m Bucky,” he says carefully. “Your boyfriend.”

You stare at him for a long, long second. Then glance around the room like there might be hidden cameras.

“My boyfriend,” you repeat.

“Yeah.”

You look at him again. Really look.

At the tattoos. The jawline. The shoulders. The concerned blue eyes.

Then, very seriously, you whisper, “…why?”

The nurse makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh covered by a cough.

Bucky looks like you’ve just shot him.

“Why?” he echoes.

You blink at him, still drugged to hell and trying to work this out with the two functioning brain cells currently available.

“You’re very…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “That.”

He lets out one startled, helpless laugh. “That?”

“Handsome,” you say, like you’re doing him a favour by clarifying. “And tattooed. Like…a suspicious amount.”

He puts a hand over his mouth. The nurse fully turns away at that point, shoulders shaking.

You narrow your eyes at him and continue, “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?”

“That you’re my boyfriend.”

He drags a hand down his face and looks at the ceiling for strength.

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m sure.”

You consider this.

Then, with total sincerity, “So I really pulled you?”

He just stares at you. The nurse loses it entirely and has to walk out of the room for “supplies.”

Bucky looks back at you, somewhere between offended and wildly amused.

“Yes,” he says finally. “You ‘pulled’ me.”

You nod slowly, deeply impressed with yourself.

“Good for me.”

That gets him.

He laughs, head dropping, one hand scrubbing over the back of his neck as he tries to recover.

“Oh my God.”

You’re still studying him, though, because this is a lot to take in while your brain is full of anesthesia fog and hospital ceiling tiles.

“You seem sad,” you say.

His head snaps up.

“What?”

“You looked sad when I woke up.” You frown. “Did I die?”

His entire expression softens so fast it almost hurts.

“No, baby,” he says quietly. “You didn’t die.”

“Oh.” You relax a little. “That's good. Dying sounds inconvenient.”

He leans closer, forearms resting on the bed rail now, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You scared me a little, though.”

You squint at him.

“Because I forgot your face?”

He huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. Little bit.”

You look at him again, really trying this time. The voice is familiar in a way the face still isn’t. Warm. Grounding. Like hearing a song you know through a bad speaker.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be.” His hand comes close to yours on the blanket, then pauses. “Can I?”

You look at his hand.

Big. Veined. Rings glinting in the stark hospital light. Familiar in a way that makes something in your chest tug even through the fog.

You nod.

He takes your hand so gently it’s almost ridiculous, thumb brushing once over your knuckles.

There it is.

That feeling.

Something in you settles. Your eyes flick back up to his face.

“Ohhh.”

He lifts a brow.

“Ohhh?”

“I know you.”

That smile he gives you then is so soft and relieved it makes you want to cry for reasons your medicated brain cannot currently process.

“Yeah,” he says. “You do.”

You squeeze his hand weakly.

“Still weird that I’ve got such a hot boyfriend.”

He chokes on his own breath. From the hallway, you hear a nurse laugh again. He points at you with his free hand.

“You are never living this down.”

You blink slowly.

“That sounds like a future me problem.”

“Absolutely is.”

You sink deeper into the pillows, still holding his hand.

“Are you famous?”

He stares.

“What?”

“You look a little famous.”

He barks out a laugh.

“A little?”

You nod, then immediately regret the motion because the room gets floaty again.

“Like if a tattoo convention and a cologne ad had a baby.”

He covers his face with his hand.

“Jesus Christ.”

You smile dreamily.

“I’m hilarious.”

“You are on so many drugs.”

“And yet.” You lift his hand slightly. “Still got you.”

He looks at you over his fingers, completely gone now. Amused. Wrecked. A little helpless.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You do.”

There’s a quiet moment after that.

The monitors hum. The curtain shifts. His thumb keeps moving slowly over your hand like he’s reassuring himself you’re really okay.

You squint at him again.

“Do you have snacks?”

That makes him laugh again.

“I do, actually.”

“You really are my boyfriend.”

He nods solemnly.

“Emergency crackers in my jacket pocket.”

You gasp, scandalized and impressed.

“That’s husband behavior.”

He goes very still.

Then very, very carefully says, “You wanna maybe remember my last name before we discuss that?”

You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.

“Too late,” you mumble. “I’m in love with Hospital Boy.”

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, smiling into it.

“Tough break for Bucky, then.”

Your fingers tighten around his one last sleepy time.

“No,” you murmur. “He can stay, too.”

And if he sits there grinning like an idiot for the next twenty minutes while you doze off holding his hand?

Well.

You took your work at the palace kitchens very seriously. You had practically been raised in these halls, and had learned from the best over the years, so you were quite liked among the other servants and palace staff. You couldn't complain, things were comfortable for you, you had managed to save enough money to buy a small humble home for yourself, near the palace, no less, so you had your privacy to return to after the long days of preparing meals for the royals. You loved your life, and enjoyed your work. The lack of a life partner sometimes would get you down, especially when other maids, and, sometimes, the princess, would tease you about your lack of a love life, all in good faith of course, but you never let it bother you too much! You had your beautiful cat, Coco, to return home to, and that was enough for you! 

That was until he was invited as an esteemed guest of the king. Your life got turned around so fast. 

It was a normal autumn night, you were returning back to your house, when you saw him, in a dimly lit alleyway, feasting on a woman. No, on her blood. He hadn't noticed you, probably was too busy drinking the woman's blood to do so, but you had been captivated by the oddly elegant sight. You were no fool, you knew vampires were real, and very much existing amidst you all. But seeing one in person was still… peculiar. 

You didn't stay long to see what would become of the woman, choosing to just mind your business instead, and kept walking home. No big deal, you hoped the woman would just have the typical memory issues that came after a vampire fed from you and chose not to end your life, erasing your memories of the encounter instead, leaving you with a simple scar to guess.

The next day would be a big one for the palace. A guest of the king would be arriving, so there was a lot of hustle and bustle amidst the palace's halls, as staff scrambled to get everything ready for his arrival. The king chose to personally give him a tour of the palace, so when the stranger, the same one you had caught a glimpse of feeding from a woman in an alley, was shown to the kitchens whilst you and a few other servants were working on supper, you had to stifle your reaction. So, Leon (apparently a big deal amongst royals), as the king introduced him, gave you all a polite greeting, you ignored it in favor of focusing on the dish you were tasked to make. 

Now, if you were some better person, you wouldn't have done what you did next. But then again, you were a little starstruck and you also loved teasing people. So when he called for someone to bring him wine, and you got chosen to be the one to do it by your supervisor, who didn't want to send any of the other girls that were eagerly begging to be the chosen ones up to Leon's chambers and accidentally offend him, your silly little plan was set in motion. 

You diligently prepared the snacking platter to take up to the room the king had given sir Leon, but when you poured him the cup of wine, you also decided to cut your wrist and mix some blood in with it. No one would suspect it, and hey, maybe he wouldn't have to go out at night to feed again, so that'd mean someone's neck would be safe. How selfless! You bandaged your wrist up before you put everything on a tray, and made your way up to his chambers. You cheerfully greeted the guards along the way, they seemed all too eager to keep you for a chat, but you had to refrain from delaying longer, lest he get impatient.

You knocked on his door with your free hand and curtsied the best you could when he opened the door.

“Hello, sir, I've brought the things you requested,” you smiled.

He nodded and let you in, directing you on where to place the tray. You shut the door behind you. His expression seemed off, he had smelt the blood, perhaps. Nevermind that, you set the tray in its spot. 

“Anything else you need, sir?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you,” he trailed off, waiting for you to reply with your name.

You did not. Instead you smiled again as you walked towards the door and spoke in a hushed tone, probably a little smug, from all of your excitement, “your secret is safe with me, sir.”

You didn't stick around to see his mortified expression, feeling way too giddy about it. Your day was over, so after helping clean up the kitchens and prepare for the next morning, you set off back home once more. You had the next week off, a reward for your hard work, which you planned to make the most of. 

In retrospect, as you lay here dying, you think that maybe this was the beginning of your end.

Leon had been in shock since the night that mysterious servant had so casually let him know that she knew what he was. He was on edge, but had managed to keep his facade up perfectly in front of the vultures that were the royal family. But on the side, he would casually ask about servants' names, trying to find you again, just so he could ask how in the seven hells you knew. His search for his mystery girl continued the longer he stayed at the palace, but you were ever so elusive. And to add to that, every servant kept talking about one person, and how her cheerfulness lit up the rooms, but that she was away this week. His interest was piqued, to say the least, but so far his search had come up empty. And he had to be subtle about it, lest he alert anyone about his predicament.

Over the course of that week, he kept thinking about this mystery girl, who had so boldly laced his wine with blood. Her blood, maybe? He had been thrown for a loop, but he narrowed his search down to someone from the kitchens, which was a good start. He hadn't requested another cup of wine be brought to his chambers, choosing instead to randomly pop into the kitchen, his excuses varying from decent ones, to downright stupid, but he muses, that none of the staff would point out his lying, lest they anger him and in turn, the king. 

Meanwhile, you had chosen to spend your week of rest researching more about vampires. You always loved reading, and were thankful they had given you an education at the palace and taught you how to read. Most girls, that weren't royalty or kitchen staff, never had that fortune, so you were extremely lucky in life. You read and read and read, myths, short stories, poems, whatever had been available at the book shop you frequented, you had bought, or traded food for with its owner, an older man who you had been close with since childhood. He had also aided you in learning to read.

Some of the myths you had studied over, also spoke of one of the Goddess some folks worshipped, a kind deity that every few hundred years would resurrect souls that had died an unfair death. Her kindness from the myths had touched your heart greatly, not having really been religious before, besides a few prayers out of desperation that always went unanswered, so you decided to pray to Her, offer some of your humble crafts to one of Her shrines that was in the church of gods at the square of the town. It wouldn't hurt, and She had given you a great amount of comfort from the few stories you read of Her actions. You hoped this Goddess would enjoy your offerings.

That same day, you went to the market to buy some fruits and trade some goods you had made with one of the older ladies there. She always loved when you visited her, as her now grown up children never did, so she often got lonely. She was a sweet, talkative old lady, so you enjoyed her company as well. She often spoke of her long life, and the adventures she had gotten up to when she was your age. Seeing her eyes light up as she reminisced with you always made you happy.

When you eventually returned to your home, you greeted your feline companion, who had decided to pay you no mind at all as you gushed about your day. Before bed, you read some more about vampires and various other mystical beings. You had romanticized those things in your head, you have to admit, but you didn't care, not one bit.

When you eventually had to get back to your normal routine, you were well rested and ready to take on the world. On your first morning back, several of your friends had greeted you warmly, happy to have you back to work. You think it was mostly because you always ended up doing most of the work, but cooking made you happy, so you didn't complain. You hadn't really thought much about your first one-on-one interaction with Leon, having been too absorbed with reading, and now too focused on work. Things were hectic, but you always managed. 

Leon was still very much in search of his mystery girl, but it was one of the few days where he hadn't popped into the kitchen with one of his excuses, seeing as he was too busy entertaining the king and the charade of royal fools that had also visited the palace since they learned he was there too. 

That night, by sheer chance, he asked for wine once more. Your supervisor, once again, sent you up, and you, once more laced the wine with your blood. Your wrist hadn't given you much trouble, and you had ointments that would help it heal, so it was no big deal to you. Once you got to his chambers, you knocked.

“It’s open,” came his voice from the other side, so you took the invitation and entered quietly. He was standing near the window, looking deep in thought, hadn't even turned around to face you. You set the tray on the same spot he had asked you to last time.

“Anything else I can be of assistance with, sir?”

He quickly turned around at the sound of your voice. The voice that had been taunting him for a week, you had finally shown yourself again, “you!” He said, eyes wide as he pointed at you with an accusatory finger.

You tilted your head to the side in confusion. “Yes, me?”

He laughed sardonically and combed a hand through his hair, a move he did when he was anxious, "I have been looking for you for a week! How do you… know? And close that door.”

You did as he asked and looked at him once more, ohhh. So he hadn't seen you back then. “I saw you, um, feeding, the night before you were supposed to arrive, on my way home.”

Fuck. He should’ve known that that alley, despite it being private, wouldn't do its job in keeping him concealed, but it was night, and he thought the place to be deserted. He had been desperate, and if he fed them, he wouldn't have to feed again for a while, and seeing as he would be surrounded by palace people after, he took his chances that night. “I see. Is that… special too?”

You nod. “Just a little, sir. Thought it might help your ailment,” you smiled.

He huffed again and nodded, taking the wine goblet and bringing it to his lips. He took a long sip, seemingly satisfied from it, he set it back down. “Thanks… you don't have to do it, though.”

“Oh, it's no trouble at all! Just glad to be of service!”

He nodded again and took a few steps closer to you. “Does anyone else know?”

You shook your head, “your secret is safe with me, I told you. No one saw me prepare the wine, and I was by myself that night,” you reassure.

He didn't fully trust you, but so far you hadn't done anything to contradict your actions, so he decided to take your word for it. “Thats all, then.”

You turned to leave once more, but as you went to turn the door handle, he cleared his throat.

“One more thing, actually.. What is your name?”

You turned around and smiled as you told him your name. If you went by his expression, something had clicked in his brain. “Why sir?” 

“You didn't tell me last time. And, you can call me Leon, it's just the two of us here, afterall.”

“Alright, Leon. Have a good night!”

You left, closing the door behind you gently, and went back to the kitchens to finish your usual preparations for the next day.

After that night, you and Leon had grown quite close. He often called for you to bring him wine, which was the ‘signal’ and you would end up spending time together, getting to know each other. It had been a few months of this song and dance, and you have to confess, you had fallen for him. He had told you of how he had been turned and how he had ended up as the king's esteemed guest. You had shared your (boring) life story, too. 

He had also fallen for you, too. Your kind and caring nature had truly captivated him. In all his years of living in this world, he had met few people who were so gentle and caring, whilst also assertive when they needed to be. You teased him back when he teased you, bantered with him, hells, you had even been feeding him your blood so he wouldn't be exposed, hunted and killed. He sometimes had you accompany him on walks through the palace gardens at nights, a nice change of pace of how you two usually saw each other in his chambers. 

Eventually, the time for him to depart once more, had come. You had been upset by the news. Tonight was his last night in the palace grounds, after so many months of living there. You ultimately had known that this time would come, but you wished he could stay here forever. He had called you up to his chambers once more, but tonight you two had gone on one of your long walks, and you ended up taking him to your house, to show him around. He had told you, on the way, how he would be making the journey back to his own manor (palaces were too big and he despised them greatly, you had been the only thing he loved about living here), and you had shyly shared how you wished he could stay a little longer.

Much to your surprise, he divulged the information that the king had requested he visit again soon, and that he was going to oblige so he could see you again. Your heart had done a somersault at that.

He had been impressed by your small house, and found it homey, unlike his manor. You decided then and there to hand him a bunch of your crafts, a few paintings of scenery that had captivated you and some discarded trinkets you had found, kept and restored amongst other things. That was the night you shared your first kiss with him. It was perfect. He had been so gentle with it, cradling your head in his, like you were something precious. That night felt like a fairytale, a dream come true. You two had gotten lost in each other's arms all the way to sunrise. 

You laughed off his worry as you two walked back to the palace, hand in hand, up to one point before separating so you wouldn't be seen like that and offend any of the court people. 

(Leon couldn't care less about what any of them would think, but you did, so it was enough for him.)

The time of his departure came soon after, and you were sad to see him go. But he did promise he would come back, so you would patiently wait for him, always.

His next visit had been one a month later, but this one in secret, just so he could see you. He spent the moments of you being away working in the kitchens either taking a stroll through town or going to one of the taverns if he knew you would be extra busy that day. He had made a few friends there, mainly the barkeep, who he found out also knew you and had shared stories about silly things you got up to. That fact only cemented his love for you in Leon's heart, and brain. He wanted to take you with him, but he was reluctant to bring it up, because you had a life of your own here, and he didn't want to take that away from you. But, oh, how he wishes you would go with him.

He spent a few weeks with you, you two sharing quiet moments under the moonlight, talking about life and anything and everything you found interesting or amusing. He yearned for you to choose to leave the palace and your old life behind, and wanted you to see how beautiful the world could be outside of this little space you had carved for yourself. Maybe if he had asked, he wouldn't have lost you, he now thinks bitterly.

After the days he spent with you, he would head back to his manor. He had his own people to take care of, before he lost you. It had become your routine, he had grown accustomed to it, had also let you teach him how to cook, which had been the highlight of some of his visits. He hadn't officially visited the palace in a while, which he didn't mind, because then you two would have to be restrained with your interactions and he despised that. He loved holding you in his arms, kissing you.

You had also surprisingly kept up your praying to the Goddess that had captivated you, much to Leon's amusement.

That little routine had gone for well over a year, he couldn't be away from you for too long. And you couldn't exactly up and abandon your job whenever you wished to, so he was the one traveling. He hadn't really given it much thought, wanting to accommodate you the best he could. He would also often bring you gifts like jewelry, clothes and new paints. You would in turn give him more paintings and whatever new craft you had made with him in mind. 

The first time he made love to you, it had been after he surprised you with a romantic dinner he had made himself. He had been putting in effort to learn and improve by himself on what you had already taught him. That night had been one of the best of your life. Things had been perfect, slow and passionate, he had wanted, no, needed, to show you just how much he loved you on your first time. He had prioritized your needs over his, taken his time to prepare you, and he would have kept going had you not begged him to just get in you already. It had made him laugh, your blunt nature ruining the romantic moment slightly, but he adored that about you.

The next morning, you woke up tangled in each other, the gentle rays of sun helping you stir awake. He hadn't slept much, didn't really have a need for sleep, he was a vampire afterall, so he had been watching you sleep. 

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” you mumbled sleepily, nuzzling into his chest.

“We could,” he pressed a kiss atop your head and adjusted the covers over you a little better. “I could turn you, if you wanted. You could come live with me in my manor.”

You sighed. That was wishful thinking… you wish you had taken his offer then and there, everyone else be damned. “People rely on me here, I can't just… abandon them. Not yet.”

“Alright. Whenever you're ready, then.”

But life had other plans for you both. Some more time passed, and he had been officially invited back to the palace by the king. He had not visited you that month, having been busy with the preparations for his official visit, but it was okay. You two would make up for the lost time. 

When he arrived at the palace, the atmosphere felt… oppressive. Last time he had visited, everyone had been in high spirits, but this time, things felt wrong. He also hadn't run into you when he took a stroll down in the kitchens. They felt eerily still, despite the hustle and bustle there. Everyone there had been oddly silent. No cracking jokes, no nothing. And to add to that, when he inquired about your whereabouts, everyone looked… haunted.

What he didn't know was that just two days ago, you had been apprehended by the guards and dragged to the dungeons. They accused you of being a ‘leech’ and a ‘bloodsucker’ and wouldn't listen to anything you said in your defense. You had begged and pleaded until your voice had gone hoarse, to no avail. The next day, they carted you off to your execution. They had made it a public spectacle. It pained you greatly to see some of the people you had once called friends cheer and holler in excitement and anticipation of your execution. Leon would come the next day. You hope he wouldl be okay… You wish you could've said goodbye to him and your sweet little Coco for one last time.

But back to the present, Leon managed to sneak off to the tavern he frequented, hoping to find you there. Maybe you had stopped by to buy wine as you often did, and had gotten distracted chatting with the barkeep. The tavern was as lively as usual, people chatting about in groups, the town drunkard grumbling in the corner and the bard singing a melancholic melody. How weird. He sat down for a drink, since he hadn't seen you there. He figured, maybe you'd show. 

“Lookin’ for someone?” the barkeep eventually inquired as he wiped the counter clean.

Leon hummed in affirmation, asking if he'd seen you anywhere. The barkeep stilled. 

“That foul girl?” the barkeep spat out. “She was exposed as a vampire, they staked her yesterday at noon. Never liked that one much, she gave me the creeps,” he grumbled.

“What?” Leon felt instantly dizzy and sick to his stomach. They had… what? He couldn't believe his ears. And to add to that, this barkeep, the one that had, in the past sang high praises of you, had now switched up his tune? 

“Yeah, foul leech, got what she deserved,” the barkeep leered.

That made Leon snap. He grabbed the barkeep by the hair and slammed his face into the counter, hard. He doesn't know how he managed to compose himself after that, but he paid for whatever drink he had ordered and quickly left. He stopped at the back alley of the establishment to empty his stomach, feeling too sick to handle the bile rising and rising and rising-

After that, he rushed to your home, surely this was an elaborately orchestrated prank and he would find you there waiting for him, only to find it cold and empty and… wrong. Your cat, the one you had raised since she was a meek kitten, looked sad. She perked up, but meowed pathetically when she saw it wasn't you at the door. Leon approached Coco to pet her, noticed that the poor thing had been napping on top of one of your discarded shirts, you had probably started your day, gotten changed and then… nothing. He couldn't hold back anymore, he broke down then and there, crying on his knees, holding onto Coco for comfort. How… How could this happen? You had been fine the day before, apparently. Why, why, why? 

He spent a long time quietly crying on that floor. After that, the numbness set in. He's not sure just how he kept his wits about him long enough to find out who had dared accuse you of being a vampire, and in one of his least proud moments, killed them. He didn't regret it. Hadn't given them a reason to explain, didn't care for it. They had taken you away from him. He asked around and found where those monsters had just… dumped your body, left to rot like a petty criminal and took you in his arms. The coldness he was met with was unsettling. You were always so warm, so full of life… To see you like this with his own two eyes, it broke him. Well and truly. 

He carried you and buried you under a large willow tree that faced the sunset. You had always loved sunsets. He found it fitting. He carved your name on it and spent a long while just sitting there, the grief in his chest consuming him whole. How could this… this wasn't possible. Fuck these people. He made a quick stop by your home, one last time. Took all the things he knew you held dear, along with Coco, and left. Went back to his manor. He spent the days sleeping the pain away, the hollowness your absence had left behind in his chest. The nights were the hardest, so he drank until he would pass out, rarely leaving the mansion to feed, or to visit your grave. He found great comfort in Coco. He thinks that the feline deep down also knew you died and found comfort in him, too. She would cuddle him when he slept and would follow him around everywhere. He often took her along with him when he went to visit your grave. The two would spend a lot of time there. He brought you flowers every so often. He once encountered a small little deer napping right where he had…burried you. It seemed your gentleness radiated from you, even in death. He still couldn't believe you were gone. He hadn't felt grief this deep, in all his years as an immortal creature. And to think those foul people accused you of being a vampire, when you had been sheltering him… it was too much to think about.

His bitterness was also aimed at the Goddess you kept praying to, before you… How could She allow someone so kind as you to be taken from this shitty, cruel world so easily? Wasn’t She supposed to, fuck, he doesn’t even know. 

The years passed by slowly, so, so, slowly, and for an immortal creature, that was the worst possible thing. Coco had passed, too. He was heartbroken to lose her. She was the last thing he had of you. Besides your art, that lined the walls of his manor. What a joke. Such a big house, so many riches he had accumulated over the centuries of being alive, and the one person he wanted to show it all to, to share it all with, had been taken from him so cruelly. He buried Coco next to you. He knew you wouldn't want to be separated from her. You had loved her so dearly, like your own flesh and blood. It only seemed fair. 

Everything after that settled into cold, lonely nights, where he would reminisce on all the moments he had spent with you, wrapped up in your scent and warmth. It was so at odds with the last time he held you. Cold, dead, much like him, but you were well and truly gone. He never really properly dealt with the grief. He would often daydream of how it would feel to hold you in his arms once more. A few centuries of constant numbness and isolation had passed by that point. His heart had been taken from him so suddenly, how could he possibly move on? He remembers how he often would joke with you about how he was a ‘one lady type of man’ and how you would tease him about how he chose you of all people. He missed you so much, some nights it felt like he would die from heartbreak.

How he would give everything up just to have one more moment with you. None of his materialistic things mattered when you weren't there to share it with. What was the point of him even clinging onto hope? The Gods were cruel, it was a known fact of this world. Why would this so-called ‘kind Goddess’ ever grace you with Her blessings? You were just one of the many people that had died unjust deaths. He stopped visiting your grave. 

You woke up gasping for air amidst dirt. You're unsure of how you clawed your way out of the ground, some force within you driving you to do so, before you were even fully coherent. No one was around. It was deep into the night, the moon high up in the sky, shining brightly down at you. Your breaths were labored, deep and heavy as you tried to recall… well, anything. Who were you? You gazed behind you, at the large tree. There was a name carved into it. Your name? You're unsure. Shakily, you stood up and dusted the dirt off your clothes. 

You remembered how to read, that was a good start. You tried to remember anything about yourself, to no avail. Why were you in the dirt? You looked down at your clothes. They were tattered. Could you have been… dead? The thought terrified you. Why would you be buried here? Could you be someone unwanted and uncared for? The ground around where you rose from seemed luscious with life. You looked down once more, your chest glowing bright with light. Suddenly, your clothes were restored. How could this be? Odd. Could you be some sort of witch, maybe? No, no, surely not. The warm light faded soon after.

You noticed lights in the horizon, so you decided to go towards them. It seemed to be some sort of settlement, a town? The walk wasn't too long, but the stiffness in your joints made it long. Walking was difficult, so was standing up straight. You took a lot of breaks on your way there. What year could it be? How long had you been… dead for? Would there be someone in this world that cared for you? Perhaps not. 

Something deep within you, led you to the edge of town, towards a small, ruined house. It seemed abandoned. You wonder if its owner had left on a journey of their own and settled away. Seeing how no one was around, you entered the house. The dust inside made you sneeze, once, twice, thrice. You giggled to yourself. This feeling was peculiar. You explored the house, finding nothing of value, besides a few trinkets. One was a silver brooch with a blue gemstone in it. You felt carvings on its back, so you turned it around and squinted your eyes to read what it said. 

‘To my heart, -L.’ 

How sweet of this person. But why would the owner leave it behind? Had those two fallen out? You found the possibility sad. Your mind had cleared a little more, since you woke up, which was when you noticed a pendant with a blue gemstone hanging from your throat. Maybe you enjoyed this color before you died! You decided to pocket the brooch, since the owner clearly didn't care for it. You looked through the house some more, in hopes of finding something else, like another pair of shoes, or perhaps some clothes you could use. Your search came up empty, but you weren't too upset about it. 

You were worried, however, about how you would keep yourself fed and hydrated. You had nothing to your name, besides the clothes on your back and this brooch. You didn't wish to give it away, so you would have to find another way. Perhaps you could find work, but what kind of work? You don't remember what you are good at. Much less who you were before. You only knew your (?) name and even that information was flimsy at best. Anyone could have carved that name on that tree. It could be anyone's name, for all you knew. Someone's lover, someone's daughter, someone's sister?

Your instincts led you towards the town's center, and into a tavern next. You're not sure why you trusted that instinct, but so far, it has not led you astray. You chatted with some folks nursing their drinks, they seemed intrigued by you. You weren't a local, afterall. You mustered up the courage to ask the barkeep, a beautiful, red haired woman, if she needed help with anything. If it hadn't been for her kindness, you're sure you would have starved on the streets. She seemed like she saw right through you, all the years she spent working and interacting with people probably had made her an expert in reading them. She told you she was unmarried, and gave you a roof over your head. You confessed to her that you had no memories of your life, she took pity on you. 

You worked hard for her for a few months. Made enough money for yourself to be able to drift around, as your gut guided you from one place to the next. You never stayed long enough to make significant connections with anyone, always moving on to the next place whenever you felt that deep gnawing need in your gut. You discovered you quite liked cooking, working at different taverns when you had need for money, or found a place you wanted to settle down on. 

Being a drifter, had led you to see so much of the world. You had interacted with all sorts of people, who led different types of lives. Once, you found yourself drawn to one of the churches of the gods, where your attention was caught by the statue of a Goddess. Her gentle features captured in the cold stone enthralled you. How you wish you had that level of skill too. Maybe you did? But that was in the past. A past which you had no idea of, still. Sometimes, you dreamt of a large, imposing palace, of walking in its halls in a rush. Other times, you dreamt of a man, his face obscured, but his arms always in some way on you, holding your own. 

A witch you met in a tavern during your travels took interest in you. She told you you had the aura of someone that had been brought to life by that Goddess. You might have been naive in believing her word, for she could have been lying to you, but you're unsure what she could gain by doing so and you didn't like distrusting people unless they gave you a reason to. So you vaguely told her your story.

The dreams you had were your long lost memories, she said. But any hopes of you finding that man from your dreams were diminished, when she told you that you had probably been dead for a while before your resurrection. So he probably would be long gone, too. It saddened you quite a lot. You had nothing from your past to hold onto, no one to come looking for you or to go back to.

The witch offered to take you under her wing, as her apprentice, but you quite liked the way you lived now, so you declined and kept traveling. Shortly after that encounter, your dreams got more intense. Some nights they were so intense you could barely sleep properly. You often dreamt of the same man, his voice always calming you. You wished desperately to find him, but realistically, you probably never would, but alas. You kept traveling.

You wandered into a large luscious forest early this morning and had gotten a little lost and disoriented. It’s trees were large and imposing, so can anyone really blame you for marveling at them? You surely wouldn't. The birds were chirping, the deer were frolicking and none of them seemed to pay you any mind as you walked about, occasionally sitting on the ground to rest.

The day had passed by in a blur like that, and night had gradually started to fall. Rain began to slowly fall, small droplets pitter pattering against the leaves making a calming melody. You would have to find shelter soon, before it started to rain heavily.

You kept wandering, until you stumbled upon a manor. It looked a little run down and abandoned, so you decided to take your chances with it. The rain had been increasing in volume, so you hoped if any owners existed, they would at least take some pity on you.

Before you entered, you knocked first, just in case! No one responded. Phew! You pushed the door open, its hinges creaking loudly, it had probably not been used for a while. What a pity, it was a marvelous door! You stepped inside and shut it behind you. Taking a look inside, you noticed various paintings hanging from the walls, depicting landscapes of different times of day. They all looked so beautiful! You wonder who the artist might've been. You'd have liked to meet them! 

Shaking yourself dry you shivered a little and leaned down to remove your boots so as not to dirty the lush carpet you noticed.

Little did you know, someone had been watching you this whole time. The man had been looking at you in disbelief from the top of the stairs. It couldn't be- 

He cleared his throat loudly, making you let out a startled yelp as you looked around trying to see who (what?) it was. “Who may you be?” he asked.

You sighed in relief and looked up at him, trying to smile reassuringly. “Hello, sir! Just a drifter, I was seeking shelter from the rain! I knocked but no one responded… My apologies for barging in like this!”

His mind was in disarray. It couldn't be her. What a cruel trick of fate. It just couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. He tried to keep his cool facade up, but he was shaken. Your voice, your looks, it was as if you were a carbon copy of… he shook his head, “apologies, I didn't hear the knocks.” he took a few steps down the stairs, his heart in his throat. The closer he got, the more sick he felt. “You are welcome to take shelter here.”

“Really? Thank you so much! I promise I won't burden you!”

Even your consideration was the same as- “come on, the fire is lit in my study,” he motioned for you to follow him. As you trailed behind him, you told him your name when he asked once more, and he told you his. A pretty name for a pretty man.

(This whole introduction had given him serious whiplash, to say the least. He thought back to the first time he saw her back then. How her mysterious introduction had had him thrown for a loop. How easy-going she had been the next time he saw her. It seemed you didn't know he was a vampire, not yet at least. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.)

“You can sit,” he motioned at one of the armchairs that were near the lit fireplace as he went to stoke the fire.

“Thanks, Leon!" you took a seat and looked around the room. More paintings decorated the walls, some propped up on the floor. The ones kept in here were of a couple, the same one in each painting, you assume, in different locations. Some were of the couple near a riverbank, some of the couple standing close together amidst a garden. They were so romantic!

“So, you live here alone?”

Leon stiffened at the question as he straightened up. “Yes. I have for quite a while.”

“Oh! Don't you get a little lonely?”

He laughed bitterly. If only you knew. “Sometimes, yes.”

“I get that! I get lonely often on my travels!”

He hummed thoughtfully. “How about tea?”

You smiled and nodded, “if it's not too much to ask for, yes please!”

“I offered,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. He could test you, see if you were a shapeshifter wanting to pull a cruel prank on him. He quickly made the tea and held the cup in front of you in one hand, along with a silver spoon on the other. If you reacted to the silver, he would act swiftly, your appearance be damned.

“Thank you so much! I fear I might get sick if I don't warm up properly!” you smile and take the warm cup of tea and the spoon, using it to stir it. You blew some air to it to cool it down before you took a sip and hummed in appreciation. “This is great!”

So, not a shapeshifter. What the fuck were you, then!? Because you surely weren't her. He gave you a tight lipped smile and sat down on the armchair across yours, also taking a sip from his tea, deep in thought. He glanced at you as you moved to take your thick scarf and cloak off. The silver pendant he had once gifted her hung off your neck. He stared at it in shock. He remembers, clear as day, he had buried her with it. How could this be?

“You have a really nice taste in decorations, by the way,” you said after a while. “Did you paint those yourself? They're beautiful.”

“No… My lover did. But thanks.”

You nod and look around some more as you take another sip from your tea. There's shelves filled with books and quite a lot of books at that. You wonder to yourself what kind of books a man like him would read.

“You mentioned you are a traveler?”

You nod enthusiastically, “yeah! It can be a lot of fun!”

“You have no companions? Family?”

Your face scrunches up. You've had this conversation numerous times already, people always curious as to why a woman would travel by herself, their following bewilderment when you spoke of your missing memories and your failure of a search to find out if the man from your dream-memories is still alive. “Nope. None whatsoever. No clear memories either,” you state, because why hide the truth? He opened up his home to you in your time of need, the least you can do is be honest with him. 

“No… memories? How come?”

He was quite perplexed, to say the least. A stranger, waltzing into his home, looking like an exact replica of his dead lover… he didn't want to have hope that you… were her… but the more you spoke, the more those hopes grew.

“Well, it's a long story, but to shorten it, I woke up beneath a tree, apparently my Goddess granted me life once more, I must've been quite devout before I died!”

That made his world stop. You had been revived? By… Her? Too many details lined up for comfort. “A tree, you say? What kind was it?”

“A willow! Big old tree up north! It's not too far from here, actually!”

The storm was now raging outside, causing quite a ruckus. You seemed clueless to his internal mix of panic, joy, melancholy, which the weather matched perfectly by a loud clap of thunder echoing through the room. So it… it was you. It had to be. “...I know the one.”

“You do? Wow! How long have you been living here, then?”

The word “centuries,” slipped out from his lips before he could stop it. You slowly turned to look at him in shock at his slip-up. He didn't want you to be scared of him, but now that was too late. You would probably freak out and bolt, and he would never see you again.

“You’re… a vampire?” you asked quietly, setting down the cup of tea shakily on the table.

“...Yeah.”

“Oh,” was all you managed to say. He hadn't attacked you yet, but what if he had wanted to lower your guard and then strike? Fuck, fuck, fuck, how could you be so careless!? “You won't eat me, will you?”

He scoffed, as if offended at the mere thought. “Eat you? I could never, fuck, I would never.”

He could be lying to you. But he sounded sincere, more sincere than some of the people you had interacted with so far. “You didn't put anything weird in my tea, did you…?”

He scoffed again, “sweetheart, if I wanted to kill you, I would've already done so.”

That oddly reassured you. Just a little bit, at least. So, what the hells, you decided, you might as well go for it. “Have you been around for long…?”

He laughs softly. “Too long.”

You nodded once more and steeled yourself. “Could you know who the maker of this was?” you pulled out the brooch and handed it to him. He stared at you, his mouth hanging open. He thought he had long lost this.

“You… How did you get this?”

You explained how your first day after your resurrection had gone, and he had listened intently. He kept you talking (which was something he always had been good at before she- no, you- died), and you had told him of how your last two years had been. You're not sure why you felt so at ease telling him all about your life, how you dreamt of your past but it was never clear, but it was a feeling like no other. You felt warm and listened to, for once in your (newfound) life.

“Are you crying? I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?” you immediately apologise when you notice a few tears staining his cheeks. He quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand and hands you back the brooch.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he says softly.

“You-you knew me!?”

Your excited tone makes his heart flutter. Your happiness was always contagious to him, and for once, he's glad he didn't drink an ounce of wine tonight.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Were we close!?”

“Close would be an… understatement.”

Oh… Oh.

Could he be the man from your dreams? Now that you think about it, the voice matches, you even feel… the same sense of safety from your dreams in his presence, despite his nature.

The rain kept pelting against the windows harshly as you two talked well into the night. He (somehow) convinced you to agree to stay with him, for a while, at least and he also helped you make sense of some of your tangled up memories. You really felt like you could trust him.

The months passed by enveloped in tension between you two. He had let you choose one of the manors rooms as your own, and tried to give you as much space as he could, but oftentimes he was a little overbearing. You didn't blame him, opting to just play along with it to ease his fears. If your positions were switched, you would have been the same.

You often would end up keeping him company during nights when your dream-memories overwhelmed you enough to be unable to continue sleeping. He craved to hold you, but he hadn't tried to do so yet. Maybe you would be averse to affection from him this time around and he knew that it would break him if he saw disgust on your face by his advances.

Getting to know you once again had brought back his feelings for you ten times stronger. You hadn't changed too much, it seemed, you were just… more free. Freer than you had been in the past.

The first time since you two were reunited that he held you was one he would remember for a while. Hearing your horrified screams of pain had made him rush to your room instantly, only to find you asleep, a night terror causing it. He gently stirred you awake and was (pleasantly) surprised when you threw yourself into his arms and sobbed. Your pained cries had broken his heart, but holding you like this? Oh god, he could die a happy man. The last time he got to hold you was when he buried you. The sheer contrast of how you felt against him was overwhelming. When he managed to calm you down enough to speak, you told him that you dreamt of your death. The screams made more sense now. You begged him to stay next to you, if not for the night, which he obliged, without hesitation.

Things changed after that. You were more open with him, even touched him casually, as you once did before. He reveled in it. Eventually, you asked if he could feed from you, when after one night of more memories returning to you, you discovered that you used to do that. The experience felt new and old at the same time, and you were surprised to find the whole experience pleasurable, even.

Leon felt so complete and happy after so many centuries of pain and loneliness. Everything was falling back into place, slowly but surely, and he couldn't be more overjoyed at the fact.

You ended up staying with him for good, occasionally going on small trips with him, your wanderlust still there. But that old need in your gut had vanished. It seems it had finally led you where you were meant to go. You kept praying to the Goddess, genuinely thankful for the second chance at life She had given you. 

After a year or two of this, now closer in age to him than before, to be clear, the age he was turned at, not his actual age, and after you two had had a lot of long talks about things and your memories were fully back, he turned you. It was what you always had wanted anyways, so if now, then when? The world had felt so different now, so amplified, it was as if you were truly seeing it for the first time again. You had also started painting again somewhere along the way. Everything was perfect.

It's not a bad invention, Max figures. Practical, even. On a normal day, he'd be excited.

Somehow he's not. If he can't even recognize the door, God knows what the hell waits on the other side. A new thought plagues his brain – maybe he should have just stayed at the hospital until he remembers.

It seemed like a good idea to get the hell out of the hospital as soon as possible. The doctors gave him clearance, reluctantly, after Max got just a bit stable. They reached an agreement with Jos. The longer Max stays in hospital, the worse his confidence and reputation gets. If Max wants to keep his current problem under wraps from the rival teams, and the general public, he has to act normal. Admitting his temporary amnesia to the world might seriously damage his chances on securing another title – at least that's what his father says. Max agrees. Still, the word 'another' in front of 'Max's title' feels absurd.

He hasn't even won one yet. Three? Seriously? With the fourth being mathematically secured he could afford to skip the last two races when he was rotting in a hospital bed? Bizarre.

He should be celebrating, driving donuts around the track or something. Instead, he's standing in front of a door he doesn't recognize, wondering if he somehow skipped the best years of his life.

His father doesn't spend much time pondering like Max and just strolls inside, his and Max's duffel bag in both hands. To be fair, even the ride up the elevator made Max's head spin like the worst kind of a hangover, so he's fine with his dad taking the lead.

Jos doesn't notice the way Max stays frozen in front of his doorstep. He's already inside, making himself at home. Designated caretaker, until Max starts being able to fully take hold of his daily life. Up until recently – Max's recently – they'd often shared a hotel room, so this is not something Max particularly has a problem with. Out of all those lined up in front of him, this is a minuscule one. The task at hand is to make sure Max does not get overwhelmed, avoids screens as much as possible in the first two weeks and most importantly, does not faint. Because if that happens, it's a straight ride back to the hospital.

His hair hasn't even grown back from when they had to shave it off for the operation. Together with the bruising, Max is actually very much fine with staying away from the society for now. There's enough monsters in the world without him parading his grotesque, bruised face around.

Right. He's deflecting. Getting lost in his shaven head in order to delay the inevitable – stepping into his own fucking apartment.

He's gotten it barely a month ago. Yet, it's apparently been used for five years, fully furnished by a his older self. Future self. Past self. It's a bit confusing, he still hasn't found a way to name it and –

Stop it, Max. Deflecting like a pussy.

Right. It's not that dramatic.

He lifts his head up and takes few steps inside.

The floor creaks under his feet. That's new. The Max who's lived here, whoever the hell he was, must've liked this dark wooden flooring, even though Max remembers being completely fine with the white tiles. It looks good, he figures, but it's a bit unnecessary. Nothing to lose sleep over.

The hallway smells like the familiar lemon cleaner and then something warmer. Something sweet. Vanilla? Oh God.

Okay, fine – so a lot of things have changed. The open kitchen and living room floor plan stayed, but that's about it. Gone is his gray couch, now replaced by something, in a color that Max has to find the correct name for – burgundy, Max believes is the correct term. Massive piece of furniture that could fit seven people comfortably. It looks like the kind of couch that belongs to someone who hosts dinner nights, or cuddle piles, or both. Right now, it only spikes up his anxiety, because he doubts there's that many people willing to come over to visit.

Max's headache, which is sort of a constant companion ever since he woke up, intensifies. It's a lot to take in.

He glances toward the kitchen and almost stumbles. The whole thing's been redone. The appliances are massive, all sleek black and chrome. Big stove, massive fridge, nice island in the middle is tiled with something he believe might be marble. Fancy bar chairs surrounding it and – a wine cooler? So, 2024 Max drinks wine? Ugh, lame.

"I've checked with the doorman. The cats are scheduled to come back in few days," Jos proclaims, as Max returns his gaze at the extravagant couch.

Max perks up. "Jimmy and Sassy?"

"Yes, there are apparently two cats."

That, at least, makes sense. Thank fuck, something stayed the same.

With this comment, Max is reminded of one thing that his father has vaguely mentioned in the hospital. Before he was made aware of just how far his amnesia goes, he'd been acting significantly more distant. One would almost say a flash of relief washed over his face when Max said he only remembers his life until 2019. Jos very reluctantly explained, that they had fallen distant over the past few years. Why would 2024 Max ever do such thing? His father is the reason why Max is even half the driver they claim him to be. At times, his future self sound a bit stupid.

Jos keeps talking from the kitchen, something about supplements and new meds and checking back in with the neurologist at the end of the week. Max doesn't respond. His ears feel full. His brain keeps whispering, this is your life, but he doesn't recognize it.

He turns around and sees the biggest shock since waking up. More perplexing that opening eyes in a hospital bed and failing the memory test doctors gave him. This is complete nonsense. A proof this is cannot be his apartment. But it is, the keys worked and Max nearly has a breakdown at the sight in front of him.

Never before has a piano, a gigantic white piano, freaked a man out like it does Max now.

Something tightens in his chest when his eyes focus on it too long.

So 2024 Max also plays piano? That same tone-deaf Max Verstappen that fails every karaoke session Daniel Ricciardo imposes on him? Oh, this is so, so sad. Max lets out a heavy sigh, embarrassed on behalf his future self that must be going through some identity crisis. That thing takes up so much space! His lips curl in disgust and he decides that there has been enough exploring of the living room for today.

He takes a step toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom, not sure what he's looking for. Some peace of mind, probably.

Thank fuck the bed is the same one he bought. Must have been expensive enough to fit the standards of the piano virtuoso that 2024 Max tries to be. He skips over the fact the sheets are different and welcomes this small win. His beloved, comfy bed. He wishes for nothing but to lie in it and go asleep.

The headache. It's like it's taken permanent residency in his head. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm and groans. He should brush his teeth. He should change. He should try to be a human being.

Instead, he shuffles to the wardrobe. Or rather, the wardrobe that used to be a regular IKEA closet. Now it's a floor-to-ceiling, matte-brown built-in – custom wood – whatever, that lights up upon opening. It looks like it belongs to someone with expensive taste and way too many clothes. Why does Max have so much space dedicated to his wardrobe? Is it for some piano related costumes? Ugh.

Max ignores the urge to judge his future self and opens the first set of doors.

Empty. Okay, weird.

He frowns, opens the next. A few jackets hang there – his style, sort of – but the spacing is odd. Like it's missing half of the things in it.

The third set of doors are almost completely bare, save for a single wooden hanger that swings gently when he opens it.

He closes it fast. Nope. Not dealing with that tonight.

The fourth door (he still can't believe there is that many in his closet) is luckily full of Red Bull teamwear, simple black or blue jeans and plain colored t-shirts. Oh, thank God. He grabs a random t-shirt and slowly, with the intention of not making a move that might hurt his bruised body, changes into what's now been declared a sleepwear.

"Going to sleep!" he yells toward the kitchen, voice muffled against the pillow he gently flops himself onto. "Don't care what you're doing, I'm tired. There's a guest room."

Or, there was, as far as he recalls. No reply from Jos. Just the soft clink of glass and pill bottles, maybe Jos setting things out for the morning. Or maybe he already took the hint.

Max lets his eyes close. The mattress feels the same. That, at least, stayed.

His body relaxes one part at a time – shoulders, arms, fingers, but something in his chest stays tight, humming beneath the surface.

He doesn't cry. He doesn't think he's going to cry. Crying is for losers. He is apparently a world champion. Those only cry when they win. Fake it, till you make it.

But still – before he drifts off fast, and finally gets some rest, he prays. Or, does something very similar to that.

He prays for his memories to return. To get back the four years he lost.

Soon, the doctors said. But they didn't say how soon. And they didn't say if.

//

A giggle. Unbearably cute, infinitely angelic and smooth, like honey. "Max, stop it," he voice commands, but not in a way that could be taken seriously. No, in fact in the specific way that makes Max want to do nothing else but continue. "Ah, Max, come on, leave it!" A kiss, given by Max, on the softest skin he'd ever touched. "Not in a million years, schatje."

They said his memories will most likely come back in dreams. So far, they'd been nothing but a confusing mush of voices, giggles and many different alterations of the word 'Max'. Happy, angry, defeated or affectionate. Not much to work with.

Starting the third morning ever since he woke up from the induced coma, he wakes up with annoyingly painful longing in his chest. Like something is missing, like it's all wrong. Lonely and miserable. He figures it's the memories his head misses. The podium, the payoff, his whole life making sense after winning it all. Well, it's your job to get them back, so do your work, he thinks and repeats his mantra internally. Targeted directly at his brain, that apparently can't handle a hit or two. 51 G or 52. Waking up has been the worst. The headache comes back within seconds.

He slowly forces himself upright. His neck cracks. The top of his skull pulses like it's full of acid.

Max pads to the bathroom, squinting at the brightness even though the lights are dimmed to that gentle yellow they use in fancy hotels. The tile is different – he remembers blue, boring, tiled floors. Now it's some stone. Warm under his feet.

There's a mirror above the sink. He already knows he's going to hate it.

Yeah. No. That's not him.

Or it is, technically. But it looks like a tired, slightly heavier, slightly older version of him – like someone got the real Max Verstappen and dragged him through four years of some serious shit. The stubble doesn't help. It's uneven and lazy, like whoever wore this face didn't care enough to shave this week. Hospital bed is not good enough of an excuse.

His hands grip the edge of the sink.

It's just aging. You've seen your dad age. It's not dramatic. You knew this would happen eventually.

He leans closer. Lines around the eyes. Subtle, tiny. Faint. But there. His eyes flick to the counter. Two toothbrushes in a ceramic holder. One pale blue. One matte black.

There are also two identical electric razors beside them. Same brand. Slightly different models, black and a red one.

What kind of psycho has two shaving devices? To spice things up? 2024 Max is kind of trying too hard.

He doesn't think much of it yet – just frowns and reaches for one at random. The matte black one feels slightly familiar in his hand. Muscle memory is a great guide, he recalls one of the many tips the doctors showered him with. Fine, progress. Another small win to celebrate.

He runs warm water and begins to shave slowly, watching the stranger in the mirror move at his own touch. His face is wider and the sight in the mirror is objectively ugly. Deep purple marks, a scar on the top of his head and something, that can only be described as chicken feather-like hair, growing out. With disgust in his mouth, he realizes, this is the first time his facial hair is longer than his hair. He slides the razor down his cheek, no matter how repulsive his reflection is.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers that the second toothbrush isn't his. He silences that nonsense immediately. Nothing feels like it's his.

The rest of the day consists of lots of empty laying around in the bed, Jos coming in regular intervals with medically approved meals, asking him pointless questions regarding his state, probably reporting it all back to Max's doctor. At one point, Jos comes with a drafted interview, answers already filled in, for Max to approve. He barely glances over the printed material, still on screen probation. Agrees with anything his father deems appropriate.

"We need to give the fans some answers that'll calm them down," Jos says and Max does not argue. Instead, he asks about the team and Jos shuts all of his questions with a simple "Don't worry, it's taken care off." Max sleeps seventeen hours of the whole day.

//

The second day of their confinement, Max begs his father to tell him the story of his championship – championships. The concept still feels foreign. Jos takes him to what appears to be a room dedicated for trophies only. It's extremely overwhelming, but in a good way, for the first time in a long time. To say there is many of them would be a severe understatement. They spend the afternoon with Jos recalling the important races and Max downplays the headache his stories are causing him. Powered by the fear he'd stop talking.

Third day is marked by the first time Max actually sees a screen again – a Facetime call with the rest of the family, back in Holland. It's jarring to see kids he doesn't remember being born now calling him uncle Max. A brief phone call followed by a monster headache.

On the fourth day, Jos finally goes out for a longer time and Max feels like he can breathe again. He does some more exploring. After all, this apartment is still one big mystery. He barely gets around to the living room again, before the curtains catch his attention and he rants internally at the fact his black, light reflective ones had gone. Now there's some beige see-through shit.

He makes his way over to the kitchen.

The wine fridge. He opens it and examines the half filled cabinet, one wine next to another, all looking rather expensive. Few images flash through his mind. It's all unclear, blurry and impossible to piece together. A cork floating in the bottle, a stain on the pillow and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. It's quick as a flash – a random evening in the dead of winter. Someone smirking at him for not owning a cork screw. "Close your eyes, I'm about to make crimes against the culture of wine," a French sounding voice echoes from somewhere deep within. Max recalls being nervous that night. The kind of nervous that travels all the way to every tip of his fingers. Excitement, wrapped around in fear of making the wrong move. He tries, desperately, to follow the trail. Failing on making anything real from it.

Before he gets to move again, there is a knock on the door. Expecting his father, he calls out that he's going to open and takes his time. Jos enters the apartment with two big cat bags. When the two furry devils, larger today then he remembers them, rush over to him, it's the closest to happiness he feels ever since waking up.

The following day, Max gets to go outside for the first time since his arrival back to Monaco. His trainer Brad and Jos have booked out a session at the private gym, because while the road to full recovery is expected to be long, if Max does not start moving now, he will soon lose all of the muscle mass. Brad is one of the very few people who knows the full scale of Max's condition. Normally, Max would work out at home, with no issues. But, apparently, Brad hasn't been inside the apartment for about two years now and all the equipment has been moved somewhere. Max obviously has no idea where. He informs Max of the fact that it was him who insisted on doing so. Again – weird. Again – he has no capacity to question it.

He takes a deep breath and puts on a cap that covers his head fully, not really keen on anyone seeing his poorly shaven head. His dad picks the most expensive looking car in Max's garage to drive them there. One of the goals of today is to get briefly spotted on his way to the gym. Give an illusion to the fans that he's doing better than what's his actual current state. A hired paparazzi is waiting on them in one of the streets.

The frustration of having to move like a careful doll, instead of properly working out like he's used to, is not helping Max's mood.

//

Max feels nauseous before the car even stops on the way back to his home.

"Pull over here," he mutters, voice thick with the pressure building behind his eyes. He will do anything in order to get out of this car. Walking the last fifty meters is a better option.

Jos doesn't argue, just slows to a crawl. "I'll park the car in the garage, Max."

"You do that. I'll walk," Max says flatly, already reaching for the door.

He pulls his cap lower, shoulders down, sunglasses in place. No one pays attention – just a couple of joggers stretching near the front steps. Just when he think he's safe and sound, a call disrupts this illusion.

"Max…"

The voice hits like a blunt bullet. The response Max's body has, the spike in heart rate, is severely disproportionate to the occasion. Charles Leclerc is standing right in front of the entrance, face buried under a thick hoodie, a random grocery bag in his hands. Perplexed look on, like he'd just seen a ghost. His mouth open and closes. Breath draws in. This cycle repeats about seven times. His eye scan Max up and down and a small muscle on his forehead twitches.

Wave of shame and anxiety hits Max. While Charles might look a bit washed down – which he does, quite a lot actually – but it's nothing to how horrid Max still looks post surgery.

No option to avoid him or pretend he doesn't see him. Charles is staring, in a way that makes Max almost nervous. And when 2019 Max is nervous, he goes into a panic mode.

"Charles," he responds, playing it casual, and aims for the entrance door. What is Charles doing in front of his building is a question he will happily ponder upon alone, once he's protected under the privacy of his apartment.

A hand catches the door before he manages to get near it. Not to help him open it, but to stop it.

"Max, wait, please," Charles urges carefully, but firmly. Max does not have it in him to maintain eye contact, so he just keep his head down, focused on the ground. He doesn't need to look up to feel the urgency of Charles' stare.

"I'm really tired, Charles, can we chat some other time?" he tries, already knowing it won't work.

Charles doesn't remove his hand off the door. It's getting real uncomfortable just how close he stands to Max, so it's only natural for him to back away a bit, few steps from the entrance.

"How come you're already out of the hospital?" Charles asks and Max swears he can hear his voice come out shaky.

Weirdly enough, it's the second time Max sees Charles since he woke up from the coma. Everything had been weird that day, but Charles had been exceptionally weird at the hospital. It had been more than obvious from the first second, that in the past few years, they'd grown lot closer. A hard pill to swallow. Unlike this version of Charles, Max still feels blood in his throat whenever he sees him. And an urge to go and snatch any possible trophy from hands of the Monaco driver. He plays such a 'nice guy persona' in public, Max feels a bit insane about it. Good boy Charles, always the martyr, never the culprit. Can people not see how much of an reckless behavior he does on the track? Has that changed? Max doubts it. Still, Max is apparently the one with the titles, so there is a leverage he's grateful to his 2024 self for.

What he's not grateful is the fact they clearly became friends. What is Max suppose to talk about with Charles? He does not want to speak to him at all. Some things didn't need changing. Until Max remembers what exactly happened that they're friendly in the future, he plans on keeping Charles on the top of the list of people to avoid. Small alarm rings in his head. If he's the one to reveal his secret, it'll be on the front covers of every sports news site in hours.

"They kept saying it's a miracle that I've got nothing broken," Max reluctantly explains and he does not even need to lie on that one. "It's mainly just a concussion, so I'll be fine very soon." Now this one is a bit of a lie, but how would Charles know, if Max manages to sound convincing? He tries to move back to the door, end this tragedy of a conversation – which Charles is determined on making impossible. Max gives him an annoyed look, when he stands to block the door even more. Charles shakes his head. For a guy as objectively attractive as Charles, he looks quite shit. Puffed up face, tired empty eyes and unwashed hair. The future is clearly not treating him well.

Eye brows raised, Max shrugs his shoulders. "What?" he asks, nodding at the door.

If someone were to guess, Charles looks like he is the one suffering consequences of a car crash, not Max. "I'm glad you're alive, Max." He's never heard him speak so slow before. "I was so scared."

Nice sentiment, but Max does not want to appear weak in front of a rival. "Yeah, well," he brushes it off. When he sees Charles reaching for another breath, seemingly trying to defy him, he quickly shut it off. "Thanks. I don't want you sympathy."

It is now when Max starts to wonder whether Charles has blinked even once since the start if their conversation. He believes Charles hasn't. "Of course, don't worry," Charles mumbles automatically, like he's not even there anymore. Max gives him a weak smile and suddenly it's awkward again. The door is still blocked and Max regrets not staying in the car.

"So, you're all fine?" Charles asks, doing an abysmal job at pretending he believes him.

Max gathers all the strength he has in order to look as confident as possible. "Yeah." This time, he actually smiles at him. Doesn't receive any reaction back. Charles gulps and then there is a pause, one that feels so lengthy, Max believes he's had slow laps that dragged on less.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, it's like somebody flips a switch on Charles. "Well, that's great news," he changes the tone of his voice drastically, so skillfully, it almost impresses Max. It's quite a shock. The contrast is astonishing. These few years have really done number on Charles, especially regarding the way he speaks to people. Like there is a filter he can just put on when he wishes to. Not that Max could get anything out of Charles' face before, but right now it's clear he won't be able even if he tried.

"I hope to see you soon at the Stars 'n' Bars," Charles announces with a suspicious glint in his eye.

Is that the yachting restaurant? Do they hang out there together? Just roll with it, whatever.

"Hopefully soon," Max nods in agreement.

Something washes over Leclerc face and after a pause, he nods too.

"I think," he seems to hesitate, but to Max's dismay, continues. "I think I'm going to get some Covid later," he says, eyes narrow, like he's really interested in Max's answer. "What do you think?"

What does Max think? He wants to get out of this situation as soon as possible. "Yeah, yeah. Sound great."

Charles is practically burning Max down with his stare. "Which color do you think I should get?" he wonders, relentless.

Max really underestimated just how big of a friend he'd become. First, Charles makes a scene at the hospital, practically hysterical, and now he's asking him for tips on what to buy?

"Um, blue is always a safe choice."

Not only doesn't Charles blink anymore, he also stops breathing like a normal person. "Okay..."

It's official. Max is shit at reading Charles' small grimaces. Ironically, he thinks 2024 Max would probably get way more information about this conversation from Charles' face, which seems to be paler now than when they started talking. Did he say something wrong? He tries to recall it all back.

Shit, right - Charles is a Ferrari driver. Of course. He should have picked red. Focus, Max. These stupid mistakes need to be avoided. Before he gets a chance to rectify it, Charles is already focused on another topic.

"Is Jos being nice to you?" He's not even hiding his obvious concern. Once again, it only spikes up Max's anger. Why is Charles asking about his father, and also, why does he ask with such a condescending tone?

"Of course. He's my father," Max defends, perhaps not with eloquent words, but with the way he now stands confidently, like he's ready to fight. All these years have not added into Charles' wisdom, he figures. He's just one of many others who judge his father unjustly.

Charles does not seem at convinced, or intimidated for that matter. "Sure," he replies, heavy on the sarcasm. This Max notices.

Another silent moment follows. Charles' pained, unreadable face is not a nice fit on him.

"And how do you feel?" Charles jumps back on the train of concern. "Better?"

"Yes, I do," Max repeats, hoping it will sound normal, ignoring the fatigue of his body and failing on pushing down the fresh streak of a familiar headache. "I'm just really bored. Not allowed any screens at the moment, so…" he adds, thinking it will steer the conversation elsewhere.

It doesn't. "How long are they expecting for your recovery?"

"Few weeks," Max answers simply. "I got lucky, I guess." He hasn't seen the footage of the crash yet. The doctors strongly recommended against it.

Charles, on the other hand, looks like someone who has seen it. Based on the way his face turns sour. "I'm happy you're alive, Max. Truly." It's impossible not to believe him.

A very long awkward pause. Max should also come up with a question, but his mind is point blank.

"I've got to go, Charles–"

"And the cats? What was the name…" Charles scratches his head, seemingly also trying to remember.

Finally an answer Max is certain of. "Jimmy…And Sassy."

"Okay, good," Charles lips curl, deep in thought Max can't decipher. "I, –uh, I remember you telling me Jimmy has to go to the vet soon. Has that happened already?"

Max's heart sinks. Is he sick? "No," he responds, eyes wide open. "But soon." He should probably thank him for that accidental reminder. He'd have no idea.

"Soon." With solemn smile, Charles nods and with a hint of finality in the air, reluctantly steps away from the door. Max happily enters the hallway and rushes in as quickly as his body allows him to.

Only when he's far enough, past the reception with a concierge he does not recognize, he turns back to watch Charles' back. Still standing at the same spot he left him, head turned over to the sea.

He doesn't why, but he still asks the man behind the desk. "Does he come by often?" he nods towards Charles.

At this point Max should really get used to receiving confused looks by other people. He instantly regrets asking.

The concierge double checks he's really pointing towards Charles, then gulps and reluctantly answers. "Sir, he lives here."

.

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