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“You’re burning up!”
Charles turns from the mound of pillows he stuffed his pounding head to see Max’s worried face… two of his worried faces floating in the same general spot where his concerned voice came from.
He knew he was sick, felt it creep up to him as he prepared for bed the night before. Max crawled into bed right after him, but an argument prevented them from taking their usual form in bed (it involved a lot of interlocking limbs, Lando once called them a koala and a branch when he caught them once sleeping in the same vicinity.) He didn’t want to bother Max, not after a tough race with no win to show for it (The McLarens are really outpacing everyone this year, whether he likes it or not.)
He’s also fairly sure he responded a general and well worn ‘I’m fine’ to Max’s exclamations, but it doesn’t seem Max heard him? How could he not? He has his two… three? ears all primed to hear him. Not as if the harbor is noisy enough to drown the sound of his voice.
Max will understand. He always does. Charles hums, his chest feeling a little congested as he does, before turning his head back to the mound of pillows.
—
When Charles comes around again, he is in a bed, shaking. It is so cold, freezing almost, and he cannot stop his teeth from clattering against each other as his body attempts to warm itself with spastic motions that don’t seem to be any helpful.
He tugs the comforter closer to him, but it doesn’t help the cold that seems to seep into his very bones at the slightest contact with air. He ought to adjust the thermostat, but he doesn’t think he can get that far away from the bed.
Not to mention he can’t even open his eyes, like it is glued shut. Even so, he feels like the room is spinning. Or maybe sinking.
“Schat, you have to drink something.” The same worried voice from earlier swims in his periphery. Max is here.
“Cold.” He hears himself mumble. Maybe Max will get the hint with the temperature, he’s good like that. Always knows what Charles wants and needs.
The bed sinks with Max’s weight, which may be the source of weightlessness that overcomes Charles. Next thing he knows, Max’s hand is on his forehead, then up his hair, playing with it.
He sighs contentedly when his fingers card through his hair. Max always says he’s like a cat in that aspect, always wanting Max to scratch through his head. He can’t deny it, it feels more heavenly now — like a light massage through his pounding head.
He kicks off the comforter, the cold going away, now feeling too hot. Max’s fingers disappear from his head, and a cool towel replaces it on his forehead.
“So lucky.” He murmurs, digging his head against the pillows to find Max’s hand again. “Take so good care of me”
Max chuckles, and it sounds like his favorite wind chimes, and the rumbling of his laughter pulls him under again.
—
He wakes up harshly, because the water stings so much.
It feels like ice is digging into his skin and through his pores, it’s too cold. He looks around to find Andrea, and throw some of the ice at him, because why did he decide to give Charles an ice bath in the middle of winter?
Andrea isn’t next to him, but rather Max, whose long sleeves are soaked with water and his face breaks with relief as their eyes meet.
“Oh thank god you’re awake.” Max’s smile is blinding, so is the relief in his voice. “You had me worried there, schat.”
Charles smiles at him, and gets rewarded with a kiss for his efforts. The sting of the cold water dissipates with the rest of his confusion, but he quickly turns back to Max when the rest of his brain catches up to him.
“Max, why am I naked in the bathtub?”
—
Fully dressed and in comfortable blankets (his weighted one, he finds, is here in Max’s hotel room. He has no idea how it got here, but basing from Max’s fussing he doesn’t even need to ask), Charles finally gets a clearer view on Max’s frazzled and worried gaze as he finally finishes fussing around the bed and climbs in with him.
“Sorry” Charles mumbles into Max’s chest, feeling the need to stay closer to his boyfriend. Especially after Max explained the last two days, which he spent in the throes of a high grade fever, and ended with Max having to cool down his temperature in a bathtub.
“Why are you saying sorry, schat?” Max says, his fingers once again carding through his hair. “You didn’t choose to get sick.”
“Sorry for worrying you.” He says, lifting his head to look at Max. Clearer, this time, now that the fever has lowered into a safer level. He spies the crinkle around his eyes and the frazzled hair.
Max always worries for him, and Charles has grown to know its signs. Even when they argue, they’ll always come around.
Charles doesn’t know how he deserved someone like Max, but he is eternally grateful he is right here next to him, in his life with his love.
Max kisses his hair, sending a soft warm feeling through his spine. “I’ll always worry about you.” Charles places a kiss on his mouth, feeling Max’s smile against his lips as he whispers his thanks.