Work Text:
"Charles!"
The teenager opened his eyes just as his Papa burst into the room, the door flying open and the lights turning on. Charles turned around, pulling the duvet over his head. "Papa, please, I'm not feeling well," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
"Because you sneaked out and got drunk again?" Sebastian asked. Charles hadn't, he had been feeling queasy yesterday already and had gone to bed early in hopes of sleeping it off.
"No." He coughed and whined when his father pulled the duvet off his body, a shiver running down Charles' spine.
"Charles, really. You need to get ready for school and live with the consequences of your actions," his Papa scolded.
Charles wanted to cry. His head was pounding and his whole body felt so incredible heavy and sore, his throat was dry and his nose stuffed. But Charles wouldn't cry, not in front of his father who already seemed irritated this morning.
"Hopp, hopp," Sebastian made and left the duvet out of Charles' reach. "We are leaving in fifteen minutes,” he announced as he left Charles alone and closed the door on his way out.
Charles blinked blearily and fought to sit up, everything hurting. "Fuck," he mumbled. How was he supposed to get through the whole school day like this? Why didn't his Papa just believe him?
It took Charles another five minutes to put on some clothes, worn-out jeans and a black hoodie he practically drowned in, then he managed to stand up and make his way to the bathroom.
A look into the mirror confirmed he looked absolutely horrible, his skin pale and clammy, dark bags under his eyes and his lips bitten raw. With shaking hands Charles reached under the faucet and wet his hands to wash his face a bit.
By the time he got downstairs, Oscar and his father were already putting on their coat and shoes. Charles didn't say anything as he grabbed his own shoes from the rag and slipped into them. Sebastian seemed to be in a hurry this morning which may explain the way he had burst into Charles' room earlier.
And Charles felt horrible enough already, he didn't want to be on his father's bad side today - or more than he already was. He was also simply too tired to start an argument now, the effort of standing up almost too much for him this morning.
"Come, let's go, let's go." His father shooed them out the door and into the car, Charles plopping into the back seat and closing his eyes. Some rest, just for a few minutes.
"Charles!" He jerked his head up and looked around, disoriented. He was in the car, right, they had been on the way to school. His father was looking at him from the front seat.
"Uh, sorry," he mumbled and took his backpack. The pounding in his head was so bad it hurt his eyes and left Charles slightly dizzy and disoriented as he tried to find the door handle.
"Uh, Papa. Do you maybe have an Ibuprofen for me?" He dared to ask, his eyes teary from the bright lights above him. God, he must look horrible.
"Charles, I told you. You have to live with the consequences of your actions, if you-"
"Papi, please." Sebastian looked slightly taken aback at the term Charles hadn't used in years. Daddy.
But he was hurting and desperate and yeah, maybe he just wanted his father to hold him and stroke his hair, like he had done when Charles had gotten sick as a child. His Papa sighed and reached for his wallet, going through some pockets until he found the rest of a cut up blister, handing it to Charles.
"You need to stop doing this," he said, sounding disappointed and Charles ducked his head as he took the pill with sweaty hands and muttered a 'Thanks' before fleeing the car.
His eyes were burning once again because with Charles' emotions totally messed up this morning, the look on his father's face hurt more than usual. He had come to terms with the fact that he was no longer the little boy that could get out of trouble with a sweet smile but it hurt that his Papa had seemingly lost all his trust in Charles and only saw the worst in him.
Charles had tried, he really had. He had wanted to be a good son, a good student, a good person but all his efforts had never been enough and he had realized it didn't matter if he gave his best or just gave up. He had just expected his Papa to fight a little more for him, to see right through Charles.
His Papa had known him since he had been a toddler, why did he just believe Charles had changed drastically because of puberty, why didn't he see past the walls of defense Charles had built?
Charles shouldered his bag and rushed past the other students at the entrance, away from his father. He needed a quiet place to take the Ibuprofen.
Normally, Charles liked the English class. He liked literature, liked talking about all those novels they read for class, liked taking notes in his books and finding stylistic devices or reading between the lines. Today, looking at the pages hurt his eyes.
Miss Thomas was talking at the front of the class and writing something on the blackboard but Charles' ears felt like they were filled with cotton. His eyelids kept dropping and Pierre had elbowed him about seven times already to keep him awake.
To put it simply, Charles was feeling miserable. He just needed a few more minutes of rest to get through the day, just a break for his eyes.
His arm slammed against the table and Charles jerked his head up. Fuck, he had fallen asleep, propped up on his hands and lost balance. It was deadly quiet in the room, the other students looking at him in shock.
"Mister Räikkönen-Vettel. Is my lesson so boring you are falling asleep?" Miss Thomas asked and Charles shook his head immediately, a sharp pain flashing in his neck.
"No, I'm sorry," he said, eyes cast onto the table. He liked Miss Thomas and her class, he didn't want her to think he was a bad person as well.
"Alright class, please analyze the monologue on pages 251 to 252," the teacher instructed and the typical murmur of 20+ high school students started up again. Miss Thomas placed down the chalk and made her way over to Charles.
He ignored the way Pierre glanced over as their teacher crouched down in front of his desk, effectively catching Charles' eyes.
"What's going on, Charles?" she asked and he hated how worried she sounded. Why couldn't she just believe he had gotten drunk and was hungover, the way his own father did.
"Nothing," he mumbled and looked away, onto his papers, his fingers playing with a pen. "I'm sorry, I really like your class," he added, his throat dry.
"Thank you but I already knew that," Miss Thomas replied with a smile. "That's why I'm asking you what's going on."
Pierre was doing a good job at pretending not to listen but Charles wasn't stupid. "Just a bad night." He tried to shrug it off but his teacher didn't back down.
"Charles, are you sick?" she asked softly and Charles swallowed before shrugging. "Why didn't you say anything? Why are you even here?" Miss Thomas wanted to know and again, Charles only shrugged.
"Alright." Miss Thomas straightened up. "Pierre? Could you bring Charles to the nurse please? And tell the office to call his parents," she ordered and Charles' head whipped up.
"No, please," he begged. "I can manage.”
His teacher only shook her head and nodded at Pierre. "I can't take responsibility for a sick student stumbling through school. You need to go home, Charles, you look like you have a fever." Miss Thomas sounded final and Charles swallowed.
Fuck, his parents wouldn't like the call they were about to get. Pierre helped him pack up and guided him through the school's hallways. "Miss Thomas is right, what are you even doing here?" his best friend asked.
"My Papa thought I was just hungover so I had to go to school," Charles explained, grateful Pierre was carrying his bag.
"He looked at you and deemed you okay for school?" Pierre asked in disbelief.
"He didn't really look at me," Charles admitted, "he was in quite a hurry this morning." Pierre made a short hum, not sounding particulary pleased but didn't push further on the matter.
"Wait a second," Charles mumbled when they reached the corridor with the nurse's office. He grabbed the wall and took a breath, his body already at its limits.
Pierre rushed forward to hold him upright. "Fuck, Charles, you should really be at home," he hissed.
Nurse Evans also took only one look at Charles and ushered him to the stretcher, muttering something about him looking dead on his feet and sent Pierre to the office to call someone for Charles.
"Make them call my Isä," he called after Pierre, knowing his Papa was probably in a meeting and would hate getting a call during it. Charles also wasn't sure his father would even come.
"Kid, you have a fever," Nurse Evans announced after placing a hand on Charles' forehead.
"Hmm," Charles replied and closed his eyes. It was okay to sleep now, right?
This time, Charles awoke on his own terms to low voices and rustling keys. He groaned and barely managed to hold up his own head before it could drop onto his chest.
"Hey, pikkuinen ," a familiar voice said and Charles blinked his eyes open.
"Hi, Isä," he muttered and closed his eyes again.
"You should get him into bed as quickly as possible, if it gets worse he needs to see a doctor," Nurse Evans instructed and Charles could hear Kimi grunt in reply.
"Charlie, can you walk?" his Isä asked and Charles bundled all the energy he had left to nod.
"Yeah. But help, please," he managed to say.
"Of course," his father agreed and his big hands steadied Charles as he got up and leaned into his father.
"Let's get you home." Pierre followed them outside to the parking lot, still carrying Charles' backpack and offering a hand in case Charles could no longer hold himself upwards.
With some help from both Pierre and Kimi, Charles got into the car, letting somebody else put on his seatbelt and close the door for him. He leaned back against the headrest and a shiver ran through him, hopefully his father would turn on the heating.
Another car door opened and slammed shut, keys rustled and the engine roared before the car started moving. "I called Papa, he's on his way home." Charles was completely awake now, whipping his head around to stare at his Isä.
"Why?" he asked, his heart beating faster in his chest. His Papa must be angry, he had been so annoyed this morning already, he probably thought Charles was just pretending to be sick.
"I've got an appointment and somebody needs to look after you." Of course, on the one day Charles was sick his stay-at-home-dad had an appointment.
"No, I can look after myself, call him and say he doesn't need to come," he begged, trying to sit up straighter and fighting against his seatbelt.
"Charles, you couldn't even walk to the car without my help, I'm not leaving you alone at home," his Isä argued.
Tears welled up in Charles’ eyes and he hated himself for it. “Please, Isä,” he whimpered and his father’s head whipped around at the broken and wet sound of Charles’ voice.
“Charlie, what-” He pulled the car over and turned the engine off before giving Charles his whole attention.
“What’s going on? Why don’t you want Papa to look after you?” his Isä asked, brows furrowed in confusion. Charles avoided his father’s eyes and hastily wiped over his face.
“He doesn’t believe me. He was angry at me this morning. Please, I don’t want him to be even more angry at me, just call him.” He hated how desperate he sounded but he really didn’t have the energy to fight with his Papa right now.
“Charles, he isn’t angry. I promise. When he heard the school called he immediately started packing his stuff because he was worried.” Charles had trouble imagining Sebastian leaving all his work behind for him without a second thought.
“He has a lot to do today, he’ll be stressed if he doesn't get everything done and then you’ll start fighting,” he whispered, looking into his lap.
“Your Papa can work from home as well and you don’t have to worry about us fighting, that’s something between me and your father.” Kimi sounded final and Charles knew he couldn’t make him change his mind.
He was stubborn, but both his fathers were as well, their whole family was the personification of stubbornness, so he sighed and leaned his head against the window. “I want to go home,” he muttered and his Isä looked at him for another moment before he started the car again.
Back at home his father wanted to bring him to the sofa but Charles was adamant about going to his room and resting in his bed, mainly because he hoped he would cross way with his Papa less.
“Do you need something?” his Isä asked after he had pulled the duvet over Charles’ shivering body.
“No,” Charles mumbled, he didn’t want to bother him further.
“A tea, painkillers?” his father pressed further, unimpressed.
“Painkillers,” Charles whispered after a moment and watched as Kimi nodded and left the room.
He was half asleep already when he heard the unmistakable sound of a car parking in their garage and soon enough, a door slammed downstairs. Sebastian was home.
Charles managed to turn over, his back to the door and pulled the duvet higher up his neck, covering half of his face. He hoped if his Papa came to his room, he would leave if Charles seemed to be asleep.
For a few minutes, there weren’t many sounds in the house, only the shrieking of the kettle until suddenly footsteps sounded out from the stairs.
Just a few moments later, the door opened and Charles heard somebody enter and place something on his bedside table.
“Charles?” his Papa asked and Charles didn’t move, hoping he would just leave if he gave no reaction. The bed dipped and a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Hmm,” he huffed, defeated and turned onto his back, blearily blinking his eyes open.
“Your Isä talked to me.” Sebastian’s voice was neutral. “I’m not angry at you, okay? You are more important than work and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you this morning, I just… this wasn’t the first time I saw you like this in the morning on a school day, so I assumed it was just another day like that.”
Charles felt the urge to hide away, ashamed that his father thought so little of him. And angry that he hadn’t seen how bad Charles had really been feeling.
“Okay,” he whispered and turned to his side again. His Papa sighed.
“I brought painkillers, you should take some with the tea,” he muttered and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Charles’ hair.
And even though he was angry at his father, Charles wanted nothing more than for him to wrap Charles in his arms and cuddle him. “Call for me if you need something, I’ll leave the doors open,” his father said as he moved off the bed.
Charles curled his fingers into the soft cotton of the duvet and shuddered. He just wanted to be held. He let the tea get cold and didn’t touch the blister of Ibuprofen, because maybe Charles wanted it to hurt.