Chapter Text
Charles knew something was wrong the moment he opened his eyes. His alarm was ringing where his thoughts should have been, pulsing inside his skull instead of on the nightstand. His body ached in a way that didn’t belong to training or stiffness. Heat clung to him under the duvet, yet when he pushed it down a chill rippled across his skin.
He sat at the edge of the hotel bed for a full minute, elbows on his knees, breathing carefully. Swallowing burned. His tongue felt heavy. He checked the time, saw the media schedule waiting for him like a list of promises, and that was that.
Media day didn’t care about fevers.
He showered. Hoodie. Cap. Smile. The routine wrapped itself around the symptoms and carried him toward the paddock.
By the time he arrived, the fever felt like it had threaded itself into his bones. Every step landed just a fraction heavier than it should. The air wasn’t especially hot or cold, yet his body couldn’t decide which it hated more. His face burned while his hands hid inside his sleeves, chilled and stiff.
So he smiled, because smiling was muscle memory.
Autographs. Photos. Sponsor lines. The same five questions, each one sounding further away than the last. He had learned long ago how to run on autopilot. Jet-lag had failed to break him. Heartbreak hadn’t. Exhaustion hadn’t. A fever was not going to win.
Carlos looked at him once and frowned like a man checking data that didn’t make sense.
“You look terrible,” he muttered, too soft for cameras.
“Good morning,” Charles said, aiming for lightness and almost making it.
“You’re pale and flushed at the same time. You're both sweating and shivering. Cariño, that’s a fever.”
“I’m fine.”
It came out too fast to be true.
Carlos stepped closer, studying him. “Do you know how high is it?”
“How high is what?”
“Your temperature, cariño. You can't do Media Day like this.”
Charles kept walking. “I can. We have a long day.”
“You not collapsing is my priority during that long day,” Carlos replied, and though he didn’t push further, he stayed close enough that Charles could feel the concern like a second shadow.
Pierre appeared midway through the morning, breezing into his orbit the way he always did: casually, intentionally, unavoidably.
“You look like you’re about to faint on a sponsor board,” he said without preamble.
“Bonjour,” Charles replied weakly.
Pierre touched his forehead with the back of his hand. Charles didn’t manage to hide the flinch.
“You’re burning up, Calamar." Pierre said. “Why are you here?”
“Because, it's media day.”
“That’s not an answer.” His voice softened, rare and sincere. “Sit down when you can. Drink water. And if you pass out, at least angle yourself away from the cameras. I refuse to see your unconscious face all over the media.”
The smallest smile got stuck in Charles’ throat.
Others noticed too. A PR asked if he wanted tea. Someone slipped him electrolytes. A photographer’s “you alright, mate?” sounded more like you don’t look it.
He made it through anyway.
He always did.
And then, somewhere between interviews and debrief, he crossed paths with Max.
“Hey. You good?” Max asked, a notebook in hand and the weight of expectation behind his eyes.
“Always,” Charles replied automatically.
Max nodded and kept walking. It wasn’t indifference. Just trust.
Charles didn’t blame him. He was too good at seeming fine.
By the time he returned to the hotel, the day had thinned into shapes and obligations. His hoodie stuck damp to his neck. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The room was too cold and not cold enough all at once.
He sat on the bed. Closed his eyes. Let the thought of sleep settle over him like soft snow.
His phone buzzed. Incoming call. Two words appeared at the screen: MAX VERSTAPPEN.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then he answered.
“Hi,” he said gently.
There was a pause. Then Max — stripped down, unarmored:
“Are you busy?”
“No,” Charles said. “Tell me.”
A breath. Fragile. Then:
“Can you come over?”
Not casual. Not attention-seeking. Real need was rarely loud.
Charles’ body begged him to say no. Bed called to him like gravity.
But Max never asked like this.
“Send me the room number,” he murmured. “I’ll come.”
He stopped by the hotel café for soup and bread — steadying himself against the counter when the world tilted, waiting until it passed — then rode the elevator up to Max’s floor.
Max opened the door too quickly.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Charles lifted the bag. “I'm pretty sure you haven’t eaten.”
Something unguarded flickered through Max’s face. “You didn’t have to…”
“I know,” Charles said simply. “But I wanted to.”
The room was neat in the way nervous hands made neat. Jacket shifted. Curtains half-drawn. Glass of water untouched.
They sat on the bed with an inch of space between them.
Max stared at his hands.
Charles waited.
Then Max spoke.
“I keep thinking I’m doing everything wrong,” he said. “Not just in the car. With… everything.”
The calm tone bothered Charles more than shouting would have.
“Your dad, again?” Charles asked, keeping his voice gentle.
Max huffed a breath that had zero humor in it. “When is it not with him?”
He leaned back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling.
“He thinks I should’ve tried harder with Kelly,” he went on. “He keeps saying it. That I gave up too quickly. That I walked away from something stable for no reason.”
Charles swallowed. The motion scraped his throat.
“You didn’t walk away for no reason,” he said.
Max shrugged, the motion small and tired. “He says I ruined something good because I always want more, even when I already have enough.”
The word stuck between them.
Ruined.
“That’s not fair,” Charles said quietly.
“Since when has he been fair?” Max asked. “He practically told me today I won’t know I’ve made a mistake until it’s too late to fix it. And the worst part is… some days I believe him.”
Charles shifted a little closer so Max wouldn’t have to raise his voice or his eyes to be heard. The inch of space made his fever roar hotter, like his skin didn’t know what to do with proximity and sickness at the same time.
“What happened with Kelly wasn’t a failure,” he said. “You both tried. It didn’t work. That’s not a crime.”
Max looked at him then. There was something unguarded and brittle in his gaze.
“She texted earlier,” he said. “Nothing heavy. Just practical things. Schedules, handovers, who’s got what. It was… normal. Too normal. Like nothing ever happened and I’m the only one still stuck in the middle.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care,” Charles said softly. “It just means she’s doing what she needs to stay okay.”
“And I don’t know what I need,” Max admitted. “Not really. I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to keep living like everything is a test I can fail. I don’t want every decision to feel like a trap. But ask me what I do want and I…”
He trailed off, shoulders sagging slightly.
“I don’t know.”
That, more than anything else, sounded honest.
“You’re allowed not to know,” Charles said. “You’ve never really been given space to figure it out.”
Max’s mouth twitched slightly. Not a smile. Just a recognition.
Silence settled again. Not empty — full.
After a while, Max exhaled.
“You look exhausted,” he said softly.
“Just a little,” Charles admitted. “But I’m here.”
Something in Max eased.
“Stay?” he asked. Barely a whisper.
“Of course.”
They moved to the small table so Max could eat. Charles reheated the soup with the kettle and the awkward patience of making do in hotel rooms. He poured it slowly, but his hands shook hard enough that the spoon clinked repeatedly against the bowl.
Max’s brows drew together. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Charles tightened his grip on the spoon until it steadied. “Just tired,” he said lightly. “Long media day.”
He pushed the bowl in front of Max like that settled it.
Max didn’t argue. He never had much practice challenging people who said they were fine.
He ate. Not a lot, but more than Charles had seen him eat all afternoon. The warmth and normality of it seemed to pull some of the panic out of his shoulders.
Charles took a few half-hearted spoonfuls for show. The soup felt heavy in his stomach. His hoodie stuck to the base of his neck with sweat. His head pounded.
But Max talked.
Not non-stop. Just steadily. About the pressure. About how even when he won, certain voices made it sound like it wasn’t enough. About the silence from Jos that felt louder than yelling.
“It’s like he’s waiting for proof that I’m not as good as everyone says,” Max said quietly. “And I keep thinking if I slip, even a little, he’s going to say he was right not to trust me fully.”
“You shouldn’t have to race for that,” Charles said. “You shouldn’t have to live for that.”
“What else do I do?” Max asked. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
They ended up back on the bed, backs against the headboard, the empty soup bowl abandoned on the table. The lamp cast soft light over the room. Outside, the hallway was quiet.
At some point, Max leaned sideways until his shoulder rested lightly against Charles’. It wasn’t calculated comfort. It was instinct. Like his body knew where to go before he’d decided it.
Charles stayed perfectly still.
His own pulse thudded in his ears. His hoodie was damp. The fever burned through him and made everything feel too bright and too distant at the same time.
Silence settled. Not tense. Just there.
Then, in that slack, sleepy moment where words slipped out without permission, Max said:
“You’re the only person I can rest around.”
It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t prepared.
It was just the truth, dropped between them like something fragile.
Charles didn’t breathe for a second.
He turned his head slightly, studying Max’s profile. His eyes were half-closed now. Some of the tension had left his jaw. The lines at the corners of his mouth had softened.
“I’m glad,” Charles whispered.
His voice almost broke on it.
Max didn’t answer. He’d already fallen the rest of the way into sleep. His breathing slowed. His body finally believed it was allowed to stop bracing.
Charles stayed upright because lying down would mean shifting him.
His spine hurt. His fingers ached from being curled in his sleeves. A fresh wave of chills crawled up his arms, sharp enough that his teeth pressed together on instinct. Sweat cooled on his skin and then reheated, leaving him clammy and uncomfortable.
He wanted nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and stop existing for a few hours.
Instead he sat there, letting Max’s weight rest gently against him.
He watched the digital clock on the bedside table slide slowly from one minute to the next, the numbers shifting quietly in the dark.
He stayed until his own eyes closed, not from rest, but from sheer exhaustion.
Even then, he kept just enough tension in his body that Max wouldn’t be disturbed.
Because Max had asked him to stay.
And Charles always stayed.
-
He woke to the faint grey of early morning leaking around the curtains.
His neck hurt from sleeping upright. His back pulsed with dull pain. His mouth tasted dry. His head felt full of cotton. He sucked in a slow breath and his lungs burned faintly on the way down.
Max was still leaning partly on him, still asleep, still breathing evenly.
For a second, Charles let himself watch him.
Then he shifted carefully, easing Max back onto his own pillow.
Max stirred, blinked blearily, and frowned. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” Charles said, voice rough.
Max pushed a hand through his hair. He looked less wrecked than he had the night before. Not good. But better.
“You have to go back to your room?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Charles said. “I need my stuff.”
He stood up slowly. The room tilted. He pressed his feet firmly into the carpet until it settled again. His body felt heavier than it should.
He made it back to his room, showered too quickly, changed into team gear, and tried not to look at the faint flush over his cheeks in the mirror.
He should have gone back to bed.
Instead, as he was tying his shoes, his phone buzzed with a text message.
Max: Would you come in with Me?
Charles stared at the message for a moment.
His body begged for a no.
His heart didn’t let him send it.
'Of course,' he wrote.
They met in the lobby. Max looked tired but composed. Charles felt like he was made of glass, but smiled anyway.
“Drive with me?” Max asked.
“You’re scared of my playlist,” Charles said weakly.
“It’s better than my thoughts,” Max replied.
So Charles drove them both to the circuit.
The steering wheel felt too warm under his hands. The sunlight outside the car hurt his eyes. He blinked more than usual just to keep things clear.
He didn’t tell Max any of that.
-
By the time they separated and Charles walked into the Ferrari motorhome, his legs had decided they’d had enough.
The room didn’t spin dramatically. It just… slipped. Like the floor moved a few centimeters to the side and forgot to bring him with it.
His knees softened.
His vision dimmed for half a second.
A warm, solid hand gripped his upper arm just in time to prevent his head from smacking against the floor.
“Sit,” Carlos said, the word sharp and steady all at once.
“I’m—” Charles started.
“You’re not,” Carlos cut in. “Sit. I'm getting help."
He guided him down into the nearest chair like he’d been waiting for this all morning. Charles didn’t argue. He couldn’t, not with the way the room still felt thinner than it should.
The team doctor arrived quickly. High fever. Pulse fast. Blood pressure not terrible, but not ideal.
“You’ve been like this since yesterday?” the doctor asked.
“It's nothing. I'm just tired,” Charles murmured.
Carlos made a low, irritated sound. “He was like this all day at media. He just refused to admit it.”
The doctor sighed. “You shouldn’t be at the track. You need rest. Real rest.”
Charles exhaled, the breath coming shaky.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, but it sounded more like habit than belief.
“Not if you keep pushing,” the doctor replied. “You’re running a high fever and you’re dehydrated. We’re keeping you here. Fluids, meds, quiet. If you don’t fight me, we can have you functional by tomorrow. If you do, you’ll crash.”
Carlos folded his arms. “He’s not fighting you,” he said. “I’ll make sure of it. We'll have the reserve driver do FP1 and FP2. Charles will rest.”
Charles wanted to argue, but he was just so, so, so exhausted. He didn't really put up a fight. They settled him in a quieter room. Dimmed the lights. Brought water. Something for the fever. Cool cloth on the back of his neck.
The moment his body realized it was allowed to stop, everything ached.
He closed his eyes and let the world narrow to breathing and distant voices.
-
Across the paddock, Max walked into Red Bull hospitality, a little less heavy than the night before but still not himself.
Checo glanced up from his coffee.
“How’s Charles?” he asked.
Max grabbed a bottle of water. “What?”
Checo frowned. “Charles. He came in looking like death. Nearly collapsed in Ferrari. They just announced he's not driving today.”
Max went still, fingers tightening around the bottle.
“…collapsed?” he repeated.
“Almost,” Checo said. “He’s sick. Has been since yesterday, I think. Didn’t you two arrive together today?”
The world recalibrated around that question.
Images from the night before lined up in Max’s head one by one.
The hoodie.
The too-bright eyes.
The way Charles had moved slowly, carefully.
The clink of the spoon in the bowl.
The occasional shiver he’d written off as tiredness.
How Charles had sat perfectly still so Max could sleep against him.
“How sick?” Max asked quietly.
Checo shrugged one shoulder, expression softening. “High fever, from what I heard. They’ve got him lying down. Doctor’s with him. He shouldn’t even be here.”
Max didn’t answer.
Because realization settled in slowly, then all at once:
Charles had come to his room, sick.
Brought him food, sick.
Listened to him spill everything, sick.
Stayed until he slept, sick.
Driven him to the track, sick.
And Max hadn’t seen it.
Hadn’t noticed the flush as anything but warmth.
Hadn’t read the shaking hands as anything but fatigue.
Hadn’t heard the raw edge in his voice as anything but “just a long day.”
He’d rested. For the first time in days, Max had truly rested.
On someone who was burning up from the inside while holding him together.
Max swallowed hard.
“Right,” he said eventually, voice quiet. “I… didn’t know.”
Checo looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Maybe,” he said gently, “next time you ask him to carry your weight, you should check how much he’s carrying already.”
Max didn’t have an answer for that.
Not yet.
But something had shifted.
The first fault line in a pattern he hadn’t even realized he was part of.