Chapter Text
It was something so out of character for his father to talk about this kind of thing that it stuck firmly into Max's memories. All it took was a little alcohol and pity for him to repeat it to Charles.
“You know my dad says Micheal Schumacher used to see a psychic in Monaco back in the nineties.”
“A what?” Charles shouted at him over the music. His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.
“You know like a witch, for your curse” Charles didn’t look any less confused, perhaps just a little surprised as well. “Of course it’s probably bullshit.” He shrugged Charles off quickly and returned to dance. Hoping the flush he’d already had on his face from drink and dance hid his further embarrassment. He didn’t see Charles again for the rest of the night.
*
It didn’t come up again until after the next Monaco Grand prix. Charles had just slipped back into fourth place behind Hamilton in the championship crashing out at the first corner with a brake failure. Max couldn’t help but feel bad for him, with Charles quali-laps Monaco really should have been his race. If it had been mistakes from pressure or nerves Max probably would have just written it off as Charles' problem but Charles himself was always stable and seemed to put away pressure and frustration like no one else on the grid.
Charles had found him on his way back from the podium and pulled him aside quicker than the cameras could follow.
“Do you remember where? The witch?”
“Huh”
“Was it an old church? in the city?” Charles urged him, nodding his head towards the impatient ushers standing near them.
“Oh, yeah I think so.” Max nodded and then Charles disappeared again as quickly as he’d come. Max didn’t get much time to think about it until he was in bed in the early hours of the next day. He wondered what it might take for him to turn to mystics for help.
*
Max even started to feel guilty about it when at the next race on the calendar he caught glimpses of Charles with a new decidedly witchy looking carved pendant around his neck. Charles himself had been avoiding him all weekend even in front of camera small talk seemed more rigid than normal. He’d been told by more than one coach or driver growing up to avoid superstitions, they provided you with something nerve inducing that was completely out of your control. Jos Verstappen might have actually praised him for throwing Charles off like this, him being Max’s biggest rival for probably the rest of his driving career.
Qualifying was uneventful, Charles took pole but his quali-pace had been the best all season and Max was next to him on the grid with the two Mercs between them and their teammates. It was a starting order that was getting familiar, the finishing order similar but seemingly Charles always dropping a few places down from strategy and occasionally technical issues. Max liked to think he was faster in pure race pace anyway but they’d had less opportunities to really test that then he’d like.
Baku didn’t seem like it would be any different. Not in the first twenty laps at least, Charles and him separated by more or less a second with Max cutting into him with the DRS every other lap then Charles building his advantage back up in sector two. They both pulled away from the Mercs Hamilton fending off Perez behind him and George running mostly on his own. Then Charles had been called into the pit, got stuck in traffic, and Max and George over-cut him within the next two laps.
The tone of his radio messages changed, he started hearing more about George and it seemed clear it was his win now. But Charles passed George quicker than they expected, just when George's tires should have been at their best. That was okay. He still had a good lead built up running in clean air and the car was good. He should be building it but he wasn’t Charles no matter what Max tried was throwing out fastest laps after fastest laps. He must be burning through his tires and his fuel Max thought. It almost spurred him into doing the same.
It wasn’t a surprise when Charles caught him, but it wasn’t a surprise that Charles' pace never seemed to drop off. Max was getting warnings about every other part of his car starting to overheat as he tried to defend against Charles who certainly should have the worse tires after chasing him like that. Charles was relentless and the next time the reached turn one with an unfortunate flash of him and Daniel in 2018, Max went wide and Charles was past him.
He’d thought it would have been okay, in a few laps when Charles tires inevitably dropped off because surely he must have destroyed them in those last few laps. It wasn’t happening though Charles slipped back into his chain of fastest laps and clearly already pulled steadily away by the end of the lap. Max couldn’t touch him for the rest of the race and in the end Charles finished 15 seconds in front of him. It was the best anyone had seen Charles race, but then it was a track he liked and perhaps he had just gained the confidence he’d been apparently lacking.
Charles was beaming throughout the entirety of the podium procedure, at least some of his rigidity was smoothed out though Max noticed they never made eye contact the whole time. It was a very uninformative debrief, the only mystery being how Charles had driven his car like that for so long without mistakes. That wasn’t how they worded it but Max could easily read into their confusion, even the ferrari pitwall had seemed surprised though he imagined their debrief was a lot less sombre.
*
It wasn’t too suspicious until the same thing happened at the next race and the race after. With Charles always forcing something miraculous out of his car that no one on Max’s team could understand. Maybe he could have written it off but Charles was still avoiding his eyes and Christian Horner and Toto Wolff had come together to try and find out how Ferrari were cheating. There was even a rumour running around that Charles had been drug tested three times since his last win. The next Saturday and the first free time Max had had in a while he texted him.
Max Verstappen
Did you do something?
12:46
It sounded a little more cryptic that Max had intended, but who cares, English was both of their second languages and Charles had sold his soul apparently. He gave up on receiving a reply by four. He’d just been on the worst run of his life with how often he was checking his phone and it made sense. Why would Charles respond to it? He deleted the message from his phone and tried to focus on something else.
Surely the whole thing was ridiculous. His Dad would have told him off for finding excuses. Then he’d spent the last three races trying to understand how Charles had seemingly stopped making any mistakes overnight and couldn’t come up with anything else. No-one was that good, they all aimed for perfection but you never get there, it doesn’t work, that was something his performance coaches had hammered into him a reason to accept mistakes when they inevitably happened. Except apparently to Charles Leclerc.
He had a team call, went out for dinner with friends, put in a few laps on the sim but the thing wouldn’t stay out of his head. Surely if he passed this onto anyone, he’d just look like a sore loser or insane, probably both. Maybe he should be trying voodoo himself, it could be the bizarre new era of formula 1 racing at least it’d be fair.
Then he does get a text from Charles well less a text just after midnight Charles simply sends him his location. He recognises what it is, Charles address or the building anyway. Then a moment later a voice note. The only voice note he’d ever received from Charles.
“Eight… floor four.” The voice note said, a barely recognisable Charles. The three words were so quiet yet still cracked the voice like a yell would. Max had to play it through three times as he waited for the lift before he understood it. It would have been believable to say it was concern that had brought him out but that wasn’t the feeling that was spurring so much urgency. It wasn’t without guilt either not that he could pinpoint what it was he was doing wrong but the hoodie, cap and mask felt too deliberately conspicuous as he passed by the party goers dressed for the opposite.
The doorman of Charles building let him in with a smile of recognition that Max politely but quickly returned. Something about being spotted tonight was making his skin crawl, more so every second he had to wait for the lift. His back was turned to the door man but he felt eyes on his back that he was sure would watch the lift numbers light up his destination inside the building too. As many times as Max could remind himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong he felt like a disobedient teenager, even more so one without the self righteousness to believe themselves in the right. He stabbed at the doors close button more times than he’d like to admit, impatience was an occupational flaw.
Charles' door was unlocked when he reached it. Max had knocked so harshly it had just clicked open. It wasn’t particularly reassuring, surely Charles would have the same security concerns as the rest of them in their line of work. Charles flat was cold too, the AC units were buzzing so loud you’d have struggled to sleep, even if you ignored the discomfort of numb fingers and toes. It wasn’t summer in Monaco anymore but Max’s hoodie was barely enough to keep him comfortable here. Then after a few moments the smell hit him as well.. Vomit and sweat. He crossed the kitchen and followed it to the door it smelt the strongest from. His shoes sticking to the floor in what he realised when he looked down were wet footprints.
This is probably when he should have called an ambulance.
The door they disappeared to and where the smell came from was ajar just in front of him. Something like relief washed over him as he heard breathing. He pushed the door open and found a bedroom. There was vomit on the floor by the bed and on the sheets too. Charles Stark naked curled up in the middle of it. His skin was shiny and wet even in the dark of the room. The only way Max knew he was aware he wasn’t alone was a brief groan that felt like half a word.
“I should call a doctor.” Max said.
Charles groaned again. Definitely a negative.
“Charles… ” Max stepped over the worst of the vomit on the floor to get closer to look at Charles’ face. “What did you do? Did you take something?”
“No. You know.” Charles moaned.
Max looked at the phone next to Charles on the bed.
“I should call someone.”
“No… just hot. Too hot.”
Max reached out to touch him worse than any fever he’d felt before. Fuck. Max rushed back to the kitchen and grabbed a handful of ice packs. He could hardly even bear to touch them with how cold the apartment was. Charles couldn't touch them enough though. As soon as Max returned he curled up around them whimpering gratefully. Trying weakly to lift his head to move one under his neck. Max leaned down to help cradling Charles' burning hot head as he weakly nudged at the pack with his arm. Max could feel how matted Charles' hair was under his hand and wondered how long he’d been like this.
The wooden pendant. It was still around Charles’ neck. It’d tapped against the plastic of the ice pack as Charles had slid it up past his chest. It was stupid, but maybe it wasn’t, it had to be. Max placed Charles head down on the mattress again and reached for the pendant. Should he touch it? How did these things work? He looked back at Charles, his eyes clenched shut in pain, whimpering, shivering and covered in sweat and sick. He grabbed the wood and yanked it up over Charles' head. He didn’t get far though. Charles' hand shot up and grabbed him.
“No!” he cracked.
“Come on Mate, it’s killing you.” Max pleaded.
“Will make it worse. Will stop soon. Monday.” Charles was gripping his hand with more strength than Max would have believed he had left.
“Okay.” he said without really understanding what Charles meant. He dropped the pendant and Charles seemed to relax back to how he’d been before which still was not much of an improvement.
Stepped back a bit and took the room in. Next to the bed by his feet were a pile of defrosted sports ice packs. More than Charles could have used at once surely. The duvet of the bed was neglected at the bottom as far away from Charles as he must have been able to shove it. If Max hadn’t felt how hot he was he would have tried to wrap him up in it. Max himself was so cold he wanted it for himself. He settled on a hoodie on a pile across the room as far away from the sick as Max could find. Charles was settled down a little with the ice, at least he seemed a step further away from death.
The other side of the room had a door that led to the ensuite. It seemed a less of a mess though Charles had at least made it this far to throw up before. Max flushed the mess away and wondered what he was meant to do. Clearly anyone else finding Charles in this state would have taken him to hospital but perhaps that was exactly why Charles had come to him. He must be the only person who might have understood that this wasn’t a normal kind of illness.
Max looked back at Charles on the bed. He was breathing evenly now, like he might be trying to sleep. The vomit was the next thing to deal with. It was a weird situation but aside from dealing with things Max wasn’t sure what else to do while he waited. He found some unopened cleaning supplies under the sink, rubber gloves too - thank god. Max worked quickly and quietly, Charles seemed only half asleep but it felt right not to disturb him. He dumped the dirty towels and gloves in the kitchen sink, Charles could deal with that himself later.
It was almost one and Max was starting to feel it. The adrenaline was settling down but he couldn’t leave yet, nor was he about to get into another man's bed. He settled on the chair in the corner and took the duvet from the bottom of the bed and curled up inside it trying to tuck his feet away from the cold apartment. It wasn’t easy to sleep but he thought he managed some, counting the sound of Charles' breath until he felt his eyes close. It wasn’t long before he was awake again though, there was a little light from behind the curtains and Max’s fingers were so cold they’d gone numb.
Charles was making noise, that was the second thing he noticed. Little whimpers again. Max got up from the chair and crept up towards him. The ice packs had warmed up a lot and so had Charles although nothing like what he’d been when Max had first got there.
“Max, more ice.” Charles mumbled.
Max nodded and fetched some of the ones he’d put in the freezer the night before. They weren’t perfectly cold yet but they were better than what was left. He swapped them out avoiding acknowledging quite how naked Charles was, something he’d seemed not to think about last night.
“Thank you.”
“It’s okay.” Max said. It wasn’t though. This was weird and he still didn’t know what was going on, what if Charles died and Max had to explain why he’d been at his apartment watching him.
“What’s happening Charles?”
Charles furrowed his brows, with a little low moaning sound.
“I can’t just stay here, if you get worse ”
“No” Charles forced it out, Max almost felt bad for pushing. “Will get better, will stop monday… today… later.”
“For fucks sake.”
Max returned to his chair unsure of what else to do. He tried to sleep again for a while but the room was too
bright now. He browsed his phone, and eventually gave up and shifted the chair over to where he could watch the TV.