Chapter Text
Max awoke, every inch of him, from toes to fingertips, a searing furnace. Perfect timing. His first day of winter break already a cruel joke. Blazing heat prickled his skin, tongue dry as sandpaper. Just yesterday, he had been craving a day of lazy bliss, lounging around, but not with a feverish ache.
The room sways as he forces himself up, with every muscle screaming in protest. A glance in the mirror confirms it: flushed pink and plastered with sweat, he looks like he finished racing a hundred Qatar Grand Prix.
The doorbell cuts through the fog on his head. He stumbles his way to the living room,
each step a plea for it to be the doctor his fever-addled self managed to text.
Looming at the door, Max lets out a sigh of relief. The doctor’s quick appearance at his door felt like a lifeline tossed to a castaway.
After words of gratitude from Max’s side, the doctor does a check-up, taking some samples to test for infections, including a rapid covid test. Getting sick at the start of winter break already feels like a slap in the face, adding covid to that would have felt ridiculous. Fortunately enough, it comes back negative.
Max mentions the flicker discomfort of his headache, barely nothing next to the furnace burning inside him. Ironically at the same time, shivers are traveling down his spine under his shirt. Max is left in a battle of conflicting desires over peeling his clothes off from his body or burrowing under the covers.
“This will help with your headache,” The pill gives Max a promise of relief, despite its bitter taste. “Don’t expect miracles with the fever, though.” The blunt words make the bitterness linger on his throat.
“Almost 39 degrees,” Max croaked, his voice raspy like sandpaper, each word a painful rasp against his throat. “No wonder I feel like I'm melting.”
The doctor furrows his brows, jotting down some notes on a notebook of his. “Keep an eye on your temperature, every few hours.”
Max gets to keep the doctor's digital thermometer, since he never cared to buy one. He can't remember the last time he got a fever.
After a series of instructions that places strong emphasis on being wary of dehydration and body weakness, the doctor is ready to leave, not without a last plea for Max to rest and a reminder to call him if his body temperature surpasses the 40 degrees mark.
Curling sideways on his bed, Max lets out a long sigh, a dry rasp echoing in his quiet room. With the promising pill on his body, at least his throbbing headache would soon be gone. It only takes for his nap to solve the overwhelming battle with his molten heat.
Having expectations was his first mistake. Max wakes up and the persisting throbbing in his head mocked him. He clenches his fists, raising it into his eyes, attempting to rub out the pain behind them.
Max drags himself to his bathroom, yearning to wash the sheening sweat away from his face. The mirror reflects himself ten shades paler, eyes sunken, exhaustion etched on his face even after two hours worth of a nap.
As if his look wasn't hint enough of his sickness, a slight touch on his forehead is a threat to melt his hand off. Dreading his fever rising, he scans the room for the thermometer, ending up not lucky. A sudden sense of irritation consumes him, a strangled groan escapes his throat.
Max pats the bed, expecting to feel a lump that resembles the thermometer. Grunting with exertion, Max lifts his bed cover. His body limbs scream at him in protest, the bed cover is heavier than Max remembered.
A clacking noise echoes and Max’s stomach clenches, bracing for the worst, like his phone dead with a screen cracked. Max seems to have attracted bad luck after the season finished because it is not his phone screen that is cracked but the thermometer display.
Max just falls defeated into the bed. His head sinking into the pillows, now filled with grating curses.
Already without a shred of sanity left in his brain, instinct takes the reins. A blur of motions: fetching a mask, yanking a cap and throwing on the first hoodie within arm’s reach.
Unable to drive, he sets off to the small market two blocks down, the closest place he could get a thermometer. His legs are wobbly, making his walking pace slower. His body is already asking for a break.
Among other words of encouragement, the store’s proximity beckoned him, mere meters away the yellow glow from the entrance taunted him. Just the thermometer and then he can freely return to the craving comfort of his bed, choosing to never leave again if he wants to.
From the corner of his eye, Max notices a young male figure crossing the street in a hurry, approaching. The last thing he wants is to get recognized so he speeds up his steps, ending up in a disjointed scramble.
“Hey, Max! Are you ok?”
Even in his fevered haze, Max registers the familiar lilt instantly. He doesn't want Charles to witness the pale, trembling wreck he is right now but the Monegasque, so warm and familiar, doesn't deserve to be rudely ignored either.
“Charles,” Max croaks, the scratchy and raw feeling in his throat far from being gone. “I’m alright.”
A frown creases Charles' brow, his gaze lingering on the beads of sweat clinging to Max’s temple. “You don't sound alright and you don't look alright either.”
Max forces out a brittle laugh. He dismisses Charles with a wave on his hand, but his voice betrays him, raspier than usual. “Just a cough, nothing to worry about.”
Charles' hand lingers on Max’s shoulder, a silent question in his touch. His eyes, usually sparkling with warmth, now hold a worried glint.
The pale skin, the glistening look of sweat , the discomforted expression. Each detail screams of a sick individual. Charles is close to expressing his concerns aloud, words on his tongue, when Max beats him to it.
“Sorry mate,” Max internally cringes for the nth time at the way his voice comes out. “I’ve got to go.”
Being his stubborn self, because there is no way Charles is letting a sick Max road free, he stops Max before he can step away. “No need to run off yet. You are not looking good.”
Max’s throat dries, the words refusing to form. He is not obligated to confess his body resembles a radiator to someone from the grid.
But lying to Charles feels wrong, especially to a Charles with his gaze etched with worry, eyebrows drawn together and lips slightly pursed. Max swallows hard, the silence thickening, words floating in the air.
Charles’ hand reaches out, fingers hovering over Max’s temple. The heat that blastes after the first contact makes his eyes widen in alarm, his worry still not washed away from his face yet.
“You’re burning up, Max.” Charles exclaims the obvious and Max fights the urge to roll his eyes. With every syllable, the Monegasque’s tone slowly edges a state of agitation. “What are you doing out here? You should be in bed!”
“Need to buy a thermometer.”
“Just call someone else to get it for you.” Charles’ voice escalates, frustration simmering beneath his worry. Max would enjoy a fussy Charles but now it only makes his head hurt. “This isn’t the time to be stubborn, mate.”
The Monegasque looks exasperated, like Max just committed an atrocious mistake.
Charles’ sigh morphed into the raspy commands of his race engineer, scolding him after he didn't follow any of the orders he barked in his ears.
Charles’ hands darts out and catches Max’s arm, anchoring him before he can sway again. The touch, a sudden spark of reality, jolts Max out of his feverish haze.
“Look,” Charles says, his voice softening slightly. “Just let me take you home. You can rest in my car while I grab what you need.”
Max is sincerely thankful for the tempting offer, but he hates feeling helpless. He already went through the worst part, getting out of his bed. It is just a few steps, right? He can get it over with.
“I can do it myself, you don't hav-”
“Get in the damn car, Max.”
Max gets cut off sharply. Without any energy to fight back, he grabs the keys from Charles’ hands and diligently walks his way to the flashy Ferrari that is parked near them.
When Max sees Charles walking back to the car with two big bags hanging from his arms, he sinks a little into himself, feeling his eyelids growing heavier.
“Max, hey, don't fall asleep yet.” Charles sounds like it hurts him to coax Max out of his sleep. Like he knows that Max only wants to sleep his fever off. “We are two blocks away, right? Do you still live there?”
Max can only manage a soft hum, accompanied by a nod. He still has his eyes closed, just imagining that sweet and concerned look on Charles' face.
Knuckles on his forehead makes Max let out a gasp before he relaxes, unconsciously leaning into it to seek for that cool contact against his sweaty skin.
Before Max fully sinks into unconsciousness, there’s a gentle tug on his sleeve.
“We’re here. You sure you don’t wanna see a doctor first?”
Max shakes his head softly, not wanting to trigger the ache in the back of his head.
He notices Charles staring, his green eyes ringed with curiosity and Max could be imagining it, but there is also a wave of gentleness in the stare.
Making it out of the car and up to his floor, Max knows Charles hasn’t left his eyes off him for a second. When they stop at his door, Max rummages through his pocket to get his keys.
“Let me open it.”
And Max could curse him out for treating him like he is unable to use his hands to open a simple door but he doesn’t want to. Not when he still has that look that is slowly starting to get under Max’s skin, getting the urge to figure out what it means.
“You staying?”
“I know you, Max.” Charles’ gentle glint in his eyes intensifies. His dimples make an appearance, a subtle curl on his lips. Max wants to yell at him. "You’d rather rot away in your bed than call someone to come take care of you, wouldn't you?”
This caring, nurturing aura that surrounds Charles would kill him, if his fever doesn't kill him first.
“You don't have to.”
And then, he finds out what the look in his eyes meant.
“Let me take care of you.”
As if Charles’ actions didn't make it obvious enough, painting his motives on the wall. Max is, not so proudly, a little obsessed with this nurturing side of Charles. Max knows he could tell Charles to fuck off now but the Monegasque would still seek for a subtle offering of care, like calling his doctor or anyone from Red Bull to check up on him.
Max nods, wishing he doesn't look too eager.
“Besides, I can’t trust you not to go outside again.”
-
No seconds are wasted before Max is already laying down on his bed. He can’t quite shake the drowsiness from before, his head still fuzzy, begging for him to rest.
Embarrassingly enough, he almost forgets what he went out for.
From his bed, Max scans the avalanche of bags that Charles carried up to his bedroom, hopefully his precious thermometer is buried in any of them.
“Charles, can you pass me the thermometer?”
After rummaging through the bags, Charles’ fingers, with a lingering coldness on them, brush Max when he finally hands him the instrument. Charles’ usual fiery touch felt like a snowflake against Max's skin.
“Do you need help with that?”
A scoff escaped Max, a tint of bitterness blooms from his annoyance. “I’m not exactly paralyzed, Charles.”
Charles goes through the bags with exaggerated care, his eyes flicking towards Max every few seconds. His feigned nonchalance melts away, replaced by a probing stare.
The weight of Charles’ scrutiny gnawed at Max, but then, a glint full of mischief replaced the annoyance in his eyes. He has the perfect solution.
“Would you feed the cats for me? That would make me very happy.”
Charles practically leaped at the chance, nodding eagerly. His eyes gleam full of anticipation, like he has been assigned the task of his life. “Of course, everything you need.”
“Don't worry, they are nice with strangers.”
A beep erupted from under Max’s armpit, the thermometer looks akin to the one from his doctor. It is brand-new, with a gleaming display that flaunted 38.9 degrees. Max’s fingers fly across his phone, typing a note, making sure to add the time next to his temperature like his doctor instructed him to.
Charles reappears back in his room with two damp washcloths. He holds them out near Max's face, hesitant but hopeful. Doubt flickers in his eyes, a battle between his devotion to help Max and the fear of overstepping.
Max’s breathing hitches when the cool fabric finally meets his skin, the red one resembling a gentle kiss on Max’s temple, the purple one a mellow caress on his nape.
The coolness sent a shiver running down Max’s spine. Yet, it also sparked a sense of relaxation, pulling him back into the sluggish state he's been in before.
Charles’ voice, usually crisp, softened to a murmur, a lullaby filled with soothing words and quiet reassurances.
Max’s eyelids droop, the world shrinking to the comforting pressure of the washcloths and the steady rhythm of Charles’ presence.
A weak smile touches his lips as he mumbles a thanks, hoping the words are not drowned by the haze of sleep.