Chapter Text
The curve where Charles goes off fills him to the brim with dread. He might as well be looking in a mirror from 2020. Everything about it, the parabolica, the angle, the speed, the abrupt stop and destroyed barrier—all of it is wrong. And sickeningly familiar.
For a moment, his thoughts are taken over by the sense memory of the gentle, sighing moan Charles lets out whenever he puts his mouth to the nape of his neck. His boy is as soft as they come with the proper touch. He melts every time Max gets him underneath the protective barrier of his body. Trying to reconcile that softness with the violence of such a wreck breaks him a little. He’s been spoiled all these years, never having to see Charles go off track like that. Gloved fingers flexing on the wheel, he thumbs the radio open, gets out a single stiff, hollow word. He says Charles’ name so GP gets confirmation of what he’ll be seeing on the coverage and a heads up of the information he’s wanting.
Much faster than he would’ve anticipated, GP answers him. “Charles is out of the car, Max.” That speed tells him the other driver hopped out on his own which is a positive indicator that allows him some breathing room.
“He is good, yeah?” Max is already doing the mental math about how long it will be before he can check Charles himself.
“He got out quick and he’s off track now.”
It’s all he’s going to get at the moment because it’s all that his engineer can confirm. And he has to live with that insufficiency. “Alright.”
The red flag will give him a point of reset and maybe, if he’s lucky, Andrea or Arthur or someone will be able to get a message to him that Charles is okay. He brings the car in and sits for a breath before tugging at the straps and getting himself out while the team takes care of cooling the machinery. GP is waiting for him once he’s out, handing over the tablet the second he has the helmet off.
Watching the replay does horrible things to his chest.
“Fuck, he hit his head,” he says, playing it back again and then glancing up toward his engineer.
“What, mate?” GP checks, ducking closer because he couldn’t hear him the first go over the noise in the pitlane.
“He hit his head,” Max repeats, gesturing. “On the halo. He hit his head.” It just had to be a sideways hit. The worst way to go into the barriers. His anxious thoughts lead to him scanning the sea of bodies, looking toward Ferrari helplessly, someone should be at medical to meet Charles, hopefully they’ve already gone.
He turns to ask GP if they got any message from the Scuderia, any word on his condition, but a sudden spike of noise and approaching movement catches his attention instead. Two mechanics shift out of his line of sight a handful of meters away and Charles pushes through the gap they make, shoulder first, looking around hurriedly and he can almost see his mouth forming the shape of his name.
The more Red Bull employees that realize which driver is in their midst, the more that start pointing Charles toward him, allowing him to close the distance. Max narrows the gap as well, already drinking in the sight he makes, looking for evidence, symptoms.
“Alpha,” Charles says—urgency painting his tone—reaching to clutch at his forearms, trying to get close to the shelter of his body.
Immediately, the people closest to them find something else to look at.
“Charles, what are you doing here?” he asks, bewildered and not liking the look in his eyes.
A little out of breath, two medics arrive on Charles’ tail. “He’s refusing treatment, wouldn’t let us take him until he saw you,” one of them explains.
It’s not the smart call, it’s not procedure. Charles is shaking around the edges, white knuckles clasping into his racing suit. “Alpha,” the Monegasque repeats before leaning, wobbling closer. “M-my eye, my right eye—I c-can’t,” he says, low and shredded, close to a whine of panic and quickly followed by swallowing down raw, uneven gulps of air.
The click in Max’s brain is instantaneous. The whirl of chaos dies out under a crashing wave of deadly calm. “Charlie—omega, breathe,” he commands. He maybe overcooks it a little because more than a few betas near them take a breath right along with Charles. Normally, he handles Charlie with a delicate influence when he uses a command. He’s never put this much bend into the words, but then again, it’s never been an emergency.
From the corner of his eye, a cameraman turns the lens their way and Max takes Charles’ hand, guiding him toward the RB garage, motioning for GP and the medics to follow them. He gets them just out of sight behind a temporary wall, doesn’t mind at all when the others hover a few steps away.
“Max,” GP warns, holding his watch up and monitoring the development across the pitlane.
“Yeah, I know,” he replies. They don’t have the benefit of spare time. When he swipes his hands down the outside line of Charles’ arms over the fireproofs, he notes how well he’s doing with the breathing. “That’s good,” he affirms because the other driver has been hanging on his every gesture since the command. “Tell me again about your eye.”
“I-it is—is a bit blurry,” he reports, swallowing dryly, but maintaining the more regular inhales and exhales.
“Was it blurry just after or was it completely gone?” he asks, experience guiding his questions.
Terrified, the Monegasque hesitates before saying, “gone.”
“Alright.” He keeps himself calm and doesn’t let anything show on his face. “Did you throw up in the helmet or after?”
Charles shakes his head minutely, but Max slides his hands up to stop the movement. “You answer verbally. I do not want you moving your head unnecessarily until you’ve been seen by a doctor,” he corrects. “You understand?”
His omega is quick with the response. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good.” Max offers a rewarding brush of a touch across his cheek. “You’re going to go with the medics now. Andrea will be waiting for you there. I want you to let them do the tests they need, okay? If you’re not sure about something, you listen to Andrea. He’s going to be with you until I can see you again. I will make sure Arthur or your mother or both are with you too, as soon as possible,” he promises.
Charles almost nods before catching himself, wetting his lips, and uttering a quiet, “okay.”
“Andrea will have your things, he’ll have my jacket for you too.” Max’s eyes dart all over his omega, anxious at the prospect of being apart. “If they want to transfer you to a hospital, you go. That’s non-negotiable, schatje.”
“Okay.”
“Max,” GP says a second time.
He disregards it.
“If you feel unsafe at any point, you ignore everything I just said, okay?”
Charles blinks in surprise at the seriousness of the switch up. “Alpha?”
“If there’s a nurse that makes you feel like you’re in danger or an alpha doctor that your instincts alert you to—you listen to that. You believe that. You tell Andrea, you throw my name around, you do anything you need to get them to listen.”
It takes a stuttered second, but Charles agrees to that too.
“You’re going to be okay, schatje,” he murmurs, shifting closer and rubbing up his arms.
“I just—I f-freaked out,” Charles mutters in a rush, taking a larger inhale. “I don’t think I even shut off the car—I can’t r-remember.” Frustration crinkles his brow, makes his eyes darker.
“I know, but it’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” Max reassures, fighting the instinct to put a grip on his nape the way he would under normal circumstances. “We’ll worry about the car later. I’m serious, what the fuck use is the car if you’re not healthy to drive it,” he huffs, his thumb shaky as he presses it into the other driver’s bicep. Glancing at his own touch, he squeezes once before reluctantly pulling his hands away. “I love you, I need you to be safe. Now, get the fuck out of here,” he instructs with a gruff, emotional edge that lacks all the bite.
Charles steps into him instead of away. “Je t’aime aussi.”
“A couple hours, schat, and I’m finding you,” he murmurs. It settles between them as an oath. “Be good.”
Some tension in Charlie loosens and he gives a final agreement before allowing the medics to lead him back to the car that’ll take him across the paddock to be assessed. Max watches his back until he’s out of view and only after sending word to Ferrari does he set his attention on the race at hand.
GP feeds him an update during the race when Charles is released from medical and it motivates him more than ever to reach the finish line as fast as he can. Third place feels…he doesn’t fucking know, it hardly registers in comparison to the scale of everything else.
In the cooldown room, he stares at the highlight reel and refuses to give up a reaction when they put Charles’ crash in front of his face. They’re not going to get the satisfaction of watching him flinch.
On the podium, the tifosi sing for him, chant his name. He might not be Ferrari, but this is how they show some love for Charles and he appreciates it. He thinks Charles will too. Eventually.
He spots Andrea waiting for him after the press conference and jogs to get there faster. “Tell me,” he greets, swiping a towel over his champagne tacky face again. He’ll need a shower as soon as he can manage it.
“He is waiting for you in your room. He has a concussion. The blurriness in his vision has luckily gone away, but the doctors want more tests. Either tonight or tomorrow is best. He will need monitoring, but I know you are familiar with concussion protocol.”
Max nods and gestures for them to start walking because he won’t make Charles wait longer. “How is he feeling now? Headache? Did they give him anything?”
At his side, Andrea matches his strides. “He’s exhausted, maybe a little confused. He still does not have a great memory of the crash and it makes him anxious. There is some headache and sensitivity to light, but he wanted to wait for you before taking anything. Arthur got him to eat a snack, but mostly he has just been drinking water,” the trainer reports. “These,” he holds out papers that Max takes, “are the medical notes they gave him on release. There is maybe not much in there that you do not already know, but,” he shrugs.
“Thank you,” Max acknowledges. He’ll be pouring over the details as he always does with any of Charlie’s medical papers. “They treated him well?”
Andrea nods in confirmation. “They were very accommodating and understanding. I stayed with him the whole time. His family arrived and spent time with him too, that helped with him staying calm. He just wanted to wait for you though, once he was done speaking to the media.”
Right. Media duties. “What is the team thinking? More tests and then Charles makes a decision?”
The trainer’s expression closes off a small amount, mouth flattening in displeasure. “They want him to race next weekend. They will hold off on the decision, but have made the expectation clear.”
His jaw clenches tight, blue eyes flashing with anger. “Good thing that’s not their fucking call to make, then.”
Andrea doesn’t say it, but his silence is an agreeing one. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered so as not to carry, “there are whispers about this turning the tide in Hamilton’s favor.”
“Mm-hm,” Max hums. He has a good idea of who in the higher ranks of Ferrari would want an alpha at the helm. They round the corner toward his trailer and pause at the door. “We’re not going to touch it for a couple days, alright? He needs rest. We’re not flying out tonight like we planned either, it’ll be tomorrow, so do you mind staying another night? That won’t fuck with your plans?”
“No, it is fine. I already extended my hotel room another night,” Andrea reassures.
Max thanks him again for all his help, for being there when he could not. It has been a relief time and time again that Andrea is with Charles, that he cares for him. They say goodbye until tomorrow and Max tugs the door to his trailer open before climbing the stairs.
There’s a lump buried under the bed covers in the back and Max sets aside the trophy, the papers, everything in his hands as he eyes the shape curled there. None of the lights are on, but that makes sense with the sensitive eyes, the headache. Maybe he is asleep.
But no. The lump shifts with a twitch of movement and then again in a larger gesture to reveal a tuft of dark hair followed by a sliver of his face.
Max approaches with slow steps and crouches down at the edge of the bed to be at eye level, holding his racing suit so it doesn’t slip off his hips. He reeks of drying champagne, doesn’t imagine that will be appreciated at the moment.
Charles curls toward him, wanting to get close. “Alpha,” he mumbles, lethargic and softened.
“Hey, sweet boy,” Max says, stretching out to brush aside a sheet edge so he can see him a bit better. “How are you feeling, mijn schat?”
“My head hurts,” Charles complains, tone bleak, eyes sad.
Max frowns and gently swipes through the dark strands of hair, careful not to tug any of them by accident. “Yeah, that was a big off,” he murmurs. “How did it go with the doctor?”
Under his touch, Charkes shuts his eyes for a moment before replying. “They want more tests, but they said I have a concussion. It is not so bad, though, I don’t think.”
“Yeah? Is that why you’re laying in the dark, because it’s not so bad?” he asks facetiously. It earns him a small, adorable pout of protest in response. “How’s the blurriness?”
“Gone now.”
“That’s good,” Max replies, keeping his hand moving comfortingly.
“Are we flying home tonight?” Charles whispers, watching him with exhausted features.
“No, we’re going to stay.” Right after the words are out, Max has a flash of thinking of the hotel, the fans that camp outside on the street below and serenade Charles through the night. He hadn’t considered the noise that would make, how much pain it might create. “Unless you really want to go,” he adds.
It takes a quiet moment of thinking before he says it’s okay for them to stick around for one more night. “I am too tired to pack,” he mutters.
Nevermind that Max would happily pack his bags for him, he gets the sentiment. “Are you hungry?”
The Monegasque cups his hand around his forearm and holds on. “Mm.”
He thought so. “Let me shower quickly and then we can get to the hotel, alright? You don’t have to move yet, just stay right here.”
When he tries to stand up, Charles tightens his grip and doesn’t allow it. “Max.”
“Yeah?”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you. Or anyone. Andrea was…he scolded me.” Charles gives a guilty look and clenches his free hand into the blanket.
He can’t say he’s surprised that Andrea snapped. The wreck was one thing, but then the Monegasque didn’t go where he was meant to, where his trainer would’ve expected him. “I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay, I’m not mad. We just want you to be safe, yeah? That’s the important part.”
In the warm, muted world of the trailer, his omega frowns and curls an inch tighter into the bedding. “Are you…you think I should not drive next weekend?” he asks.
“Ahh, schat, don’t get so far ahead of yourself. This is something to think about after you have the extra tests done. We’re going to take this one step at a time. And right now, your job is to lay here until I am showered and we can get you to the hotel for some food,” he reminds. “You don’t need to do anything else.”
It clearly takes Charles an extra moment to absorb that completely, and Max can see the anxiety in his small movements, but once he has he nods slowly. “You are sure?”
“I’m very sure, yes,” he confirms.
“Okay,” the brunette says in a small voice.
Max gets up to head for the small shower once more just to be stopped by the sound of his name again.
“Do you have to go so far away?”
Charles might as well have hit him in the chest, a direct impact. “The shower is too far?” Max asks around the rough scratch of emotion in his throat.
His omega nods.
He reassesses the situation. Maybe if I put a chair… “Do you want to sit next to the door and I can keep the shower open enough that you can still see me?”
Another nod.
“Yeah, okay. Let me help you.”
Charles stays just as clingy all evening. He holds onto Max’s hand during the car ride, slumped as he is in the passenger seat with dark sunglasses donned to block out the bright light. He stays tucked into his side on their way into the hotel, only vaguely waving toward the fans waiting for him. He pouts and becomes nearly teary-eyed when Max gets more than a few feet away at any given moment. It’s heart wrenching.
With his own concussions in the past, he has always leaned on the irritable side of symptoms, but Charles is just…devastated.
Ages go by before Charles gets proper sleep for no other reason than his head simply hurts. After food and water and some doctor approved dosages of pain relievers, Max finally gets him asleep. It takes a solid twenty minutes of scent sharing, but it works. Charles sleeps against his chest, soft puffs of exhales warming his skin. In direct contrast, he lies awake for a long time, marking the inhales and glancing down to study the line of the omega’s nose, the long, dark eyelashes that brush his cheeks. He’ll never take it for granted, having him warm and safe. Even the clinginess—he hates the reason, but he’s endlessly fond of being needed. Max traces his bite along Charlie’s nape. They’ve had two years of this, but he wants so many more. As many as they can have. And he knows Charles does too.
There’s no shot that this is the last crash. Maybe not even the last bad one before the season is out. He doesn’t want this as their new normal or to lose this before he’s had it for very long. When his thoughts drift to Spain in a week’s time, he knows that he won’t stop Charles if he chooses to race, but maybe they both need to recalibrate. It’s one thing for him to make the choice to not risk so much, to not push so much with regs that don’t reward his instincts, it’s entirely different to ask Charles to do the same for his sake… Silky, nostalgic vanilla swirls through the air when the brunette across his pecs sighs in his sleep and Max is done in by the decadence of it, the way that he’s quite sure he needs that scent to keep himself anchored in the world. Maybe, he thinks again.