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Now looking back, there were signs as early as Tuesday. That evening, Charles informed him he would be heading to Maranello early the next day to prepare for the Italian Grand Prix over the weekend; Max acknowledged with a hum while racing on simulator. When he looked up, he saw Charles rummaging through the medicine cabinet for painkillers, popping one out and swallowing it with water.
"What's wrong?" Max let go of the sim wheel, frowning.
"Head hurts a bit, not sure why," Charles shrugged. "Maybe it was too hot outside today, too much sun."
Max paused, then stopped the game and took off his headset, beckoning him over. "Come here."
Charles obliged, wrapping his arms around Max's shoulders. Max straightened up, hugging him gently. Closing his eyes, he smelled the cool, green bergamot scent on Charles; the body in his arms was warm, breathing and heartbeat normal.
"I'll go to Maranello with you tomorrow," he said finally.
Charles looked at him in surprise, then smiled. "I'll be at the factory all day tomorrow, I can't keep you company, Max."
Max just shrugged. "You don't need to. Let me play on your simulator, stay at your apartment for free, and I'll go straight to Imola from Maranello the day after. Will you let me?"
Charles laughed, leaning down to kiss him. "If I said no, would it work?"
"Nope," Max said between kisses.
"Well then, I'll just have to be generous."
They set off from Monte Carlo on Wednesday morning, driving towards Maranello. At first, they chatted enthusiastically about the Imola circuit and simulators, but as the journey progressed, Charles in the passenger seat grew quieter. By the time they neared Piacenza, he stopped responding to Max altogether. Max initially thought he was sleepy, but a sideways glance revealed he wasn't asleep, just frowning slightly with a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Charles, you okay?" Max gripped the steering wheel tighter without realizing it. "Are you feeling hot? Should I turn up the AC—"
"Max, I'll drive the rest of the way," Charles opened his eyes, interrupting him quietly. "I think I might be... a little car sick."
Max quickly pulled over to the side of the road, turning to check on him. Charles was panting slightly, green eyes bright and wet, like mist rising off a lake in the sun. Max held his hand, feeling the palm damp and warm.
"Since when do you get car sick?" Max frowned.
"Either your driving sucks, or I'm pregnant. Pick one, Verstappen—" Charles tried to joke, but his voice trailed off at the end, turning away to cough.
Max kept holding his hand, ignoring the jab at his driving skills, responding selectively: "You're not pregnant, Charles. I won't let you get pregnant again."
"I know. You're losing your sense of humor, Max." Charles rolled his eyes, opening the door to get out. Max followed suit. Before they switched seats, he pulled Charles close, leaning in to linger against him for a few seconds. Charles still smelled of clear bergamot, but Max keenly detected a subtle difference from yesterday—the scent seemed steamed by heat, the usual cool green note completely gone. Charles leaned against him lightly with closed eyes, not pulling away immediately, so Max leaned closer, nuzzling his neck. Charles' heartbeat and breathing were slightly faster than usual, but not by much; the rise in body temperature was more noticeable.
"Done?" Charles opened his eyes a few seconds later, asking calmly. "I think three or four cars have already filmed us."
"Sorry." Max let go, handing over the keys.
Charles took the keys, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine. "So, any theories, detective?"
You're getting sick. But Max wasn't 100% sure yet, so he didn't voice his deductions. Instead, he asked, "Did you sleep well last night?"
"Is that why?" Charles pondered as he drove. "I think I did wake up a few times last night, not sure why."
"Nervous about going wheel-to-wheel with me then," Max laughed.
Charles huffed, raising an eyebrow. "Watch yourself, Verstappen. Don't go crying to GP on the TR when I beat your ass."
Seeing his spirits seemed fine, Max relaxed a little. "Come back early today then, we'll race a few rounds on the sim."
"I'll destroy you," Charles declared war.
However, the declared simulator battle never happened. Upon arriving in Maranello, Charles went straight to the factory, while Max drove his boyfriend's Ferrari Daytona SP3 around town aimlessly. He ordered a pizza for lunch at a roadside cafe; half an hour later, everyone in the tiny Italian town was gossiping, claiming Red Bull's Max Verstappen had stolen Il Predestinato's supercar and was about to infiltrate Ferrari HQ to steal technical secrets. Max rolled his eyes, attributing it to the custom Daytona SP3 being too flashy, but still drove the noisy supercar around town unnecessarily for two more laps before returning to Charles' apartment, thinking, You'd better get used to me soon.
He raced on Charles' simulator as planned but felt unsettled for some reason, crashing into the wall three times on the Nordschleife—a rarity for him. Three and a half hours later, he received a call from Charles. The sun was setting, but it was still earlier than he expected.
"Max," the voice on the other end sounded weak. "Can you—can you come pick me up?"
Max was already standing up, grabbing the car keys from the table. "I'm coming," he said, then heard a string of suppressed coughs on the other end. His heart tightened, gripping the phone hard unconsciously.
"My car... can get in directly. Just drive inside," Charles sounded hoarse, clearing his throat before finishing the sentence.
"Okay," Max answered, then asked, "You okay, Charles?"
Silence on the other end for a few seconds, then finally: "I'm fine. Don’t worry about it."
Max was not surprised by Charles' answer, just told him he'd be there in ten minutes, then hung up and drove towards the Ferrari Maranello factory.
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the factory gate as promised, but the security guard didn't let him in easily as Charles had said. The news of Max Verstappen infiltrating Maranello to steal secrets had apparently spread. The guard stopped him like he was facing a formidable enemy, interrogating him in heavily accented English. Thinking of Charles' coughs and wet breathing on the phone, Max felt more and more anxious. He considered crashing through the barrier but figured he wouldn't make it out of Maranello alive if he damaged Charles' beloved SP3, so he gave up. He called Charles again, saying the guard wouldn't let him in; Charles asked to speak to the guard. Max listened as they chattered in Italian, feeling his irritation burn brighter. Finally, the Italian mercifully let him in, warning him not to steal anything or else. Max swore a crisp "fuck you" and floored the gas pedal.
He drove to the foot of Enzo Ferrari's house and found Charles waiting there with his physical trainer, Andrea. They seemed to be arguing. Max got out, and Andrea turned immediately, complaining to him in English: "Your boyfriend was in a meeting with the team, started vomiting like a fountain out of nowhere. Then he insisted on doing the Pirelli tire test—"
Charles tried to interrupt loudly in Italian, but Andrea raised his voice too. Both gesticulating and talking over each other, making Max frown. Then Charles' voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a violent coughing fit interspersed with broken gasps. Max walked over, rubbing his arched back to soothe him, pulling him gently into his arms. Under his palm, Charles felt hotter than a few hours ago—definitely a fever now. The body trembled in his arms, panting rapidly after the coughing, a wet wheeze audible in his breath. Max's heart sank, tightening his embrace unconsciously. Skin to skin, he felt Charles' body hot and damp. He sighed, trying to keep his voice calm. "Charles, tell me the truth, how do you feel?"
Charles blinked blankly at him, green eyes hot and wet. "I... don't feel very good," he said finally, lowering his gaze, voice quiet.
"For God's sake!" Andrea threw his hands up, shouting loudly.
Max just nodded, having a fair idea. Although Charles's "I don't feel good" usually meant something like "I have sepsis," Max could make a rough judgment with his own sharp senses. Charles was clearly sick, and it had progressed rapidly in the last few hours. It looked like the flu or a bad chill; Charles' temperature, scent, heart rate, and breathing were abnormal, but generally within a controllable range—at least for now. He steadied himself, holding Charles' sweaty palm gently. "We're going back now."
Andrea walked over, handing him a bag, explaining the medicine and food Charles needed to take. Charles looked up unhappily, raising his voice, "Andrea, I'm right here and I'm not deaf. Just tell me directly—"
"Will you listen if I tell you?" Andrea crossed his arms. "Since you've grown up now, getting more stubborn—"
"Okay, gentlemen," Max interrupted, not wanting to hear them argue. "Let's all calm down, alright? Peace is hard to come by." He took the bag from Andrea, thanked him, and pushed Charles into the car. Charles sank into the passenger seat, sighing heavily, then closed his eyes wearily. Max started the engine, driving out of the Ferrari Maranello factory while reaching over to hold Charles' hand.
"Feel terrible?" Max asked.
Charles didn't open his eyes, just shook his head slowly. "Just annoyed. It's the Italian Grand Prix this weekend, why now—"
"You can't control this, Charles," Max lowered his voice. "Don't blame yourself."
Charles opened his eyes, forcing a smile. "I know."
"Sleep well tonight, maybe you'll be fine tomorrow," Max comforted him.
"Hope so," Charles sighed unhappily, not sounding convinced.
Back at the Maranello apartment, Charles ate a banana, then threw it all up five minutes later. Max knelt behind him, supporting his body as he leaned over the toilet, rubbing his back. The terrible retching lasted over a minute; Charles' back arched, cold, wet fingers gripping the ceramic rim white-knuckled. Max held him gently, calling his name hoarsely, feeling his heart clench tighter.
After vomiting, Charles fell back, collapsing limply into Max's arms, panting for nearly a minute before his breathing settled. Max flushed the toilet, wiped the corner of Charles' mouth with a towel, his hand brushing the side of the neck, feeling the pulsing vein—an agitated, restless rhythm far from normal.
"I'm not actually pregnant again, am I?" Charles opened red-rimmed eyes, panting slightly.
"You're not, Charles. I can smell it," Max sighed, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
"Do I smell funny now?" Charles forced a self-deprecating smile. "Like a rotten lemon?"
Max just tightened his embrace, whispering in his ear, "You smell ill."
Charles rested in his arms for a while, then struggled to sit up, looking at him. "Can you get me a glass of water?"
Max nodded, getting up to fill a glass. When he turned back to help Charles up, he found the latter had already used the marble counter to pull himself up. He sighed, wrapping an arm around Charles' waist and handing him the water.
Charles took the glass, rinsed his mouth, then looked at his reflection in the mirror.
"Fuck," he cursed low. "I look pathetic."
"You do not," Max turned off the vanity light, leading him by the hand back to the bedroom. Charles fell heavily into the pillows, eyes closing almost immediately. Max shook him gently. "Baby, take the meds before you sleep."
"Oh, right," Charles struggled to sit up. "Help me find... is there a pill that makes me fully recover by tomorrow?"
"Hard to say, Charles," Max answered truthfully, handing him a Paracetamol. "You might want to pray."
Charles blinked, then crossed himself; he seemed only capable of single-threaded thinking following Max's lead. He took the pill, swallowed it with water, then muttered to himself, "Must recover tomorrow." He thought for a second, then issued an ultimatum to himself: "Day after tomorrow. Free practice is the day after tomorrow. Must be better by then at the latest."
He started coughing after speaking, turning away to muffle the sound in his elbow, his whole body shivering.
"So— cold," he said through chattering teeth.
Max leaned over to hug him tight, feeling his eyes burn from the trembling heat in his arms. He held Charles, kissing his sweaty temples repeatedly until the shivering finally subsided. He laid Charles down, covered him with a blanket, and rasped, "Sleep, Charles. It'll be fine tomorrow."
Charles nodded, closing his eyes sleepily. A moment later, he sighed, begging in a barely audible voice, "Scent me again, Max."
Max smiled. "Okay." Then leaned down to kiss the side of his neck.
As it turned out, Wednesday wasn't the worst. The fever reducer and painkiller only lasted eight hours tops; the heat once briefly suppressed, only returned with a vengeance. At 5 AM on Thursday, Charles' fever spiked. His burning body tossed restlessly beside Max, moaning softly in a half-dream. Max groggily turned on the bedside lamp; Charles whined at the sudden light, curling up instinctively into Max's arms. In that moment, Max felt the heat clearly—Charles was soaked in sweat, burning like a furnace, much hotter than when he fell asleep, and shaking violently. Max woke up instantly, scrambling to sit up, grabbing the ear thermometer from the nightstand.
"Charles, wake up," he shook Charles gently. "Let me check your temperature."
Charles brushed him away, eyes still closed, frowning deeply. "Leave me alone... so tired."
He spoke in French, voice slurred and muffled by wet gasps, Max almost didn't catch it. He ignored the protest, pulling Charles up into a sitting position. The sudden change in position made the Monégasque cry out in discomfort. He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, panting and asking raspily, "What… time is it?"
"Still early," Max said, using the thermometer on him.
Charles panted painfully for a moment, frowning in confusion. "Why… wake me this early?"
Max looked at the number on the thermometer, heart sinking. He lifted Charles slightly to lean against his own shoulder, softening his voice. "Charles, you have a high fever. Need to take meds again."
Charles was too tired and sick to speak, could only slump in Max's arms, panting quietly, as if even breathing took all his strength. Max gritted his teeth, holding him tight, grabbing the medicine to feed him with water.
Charles fell back to restless sleep after the meds, but Max couldn't sleep anymore. He felt Charles' scorching breath on his neck, heard the wet wheeze in every rise and fall of his chest, making his heart ache with fear. He waited wide awake until the meds kicked in, suppressing the terrifying fever and calming the spiking heart rate slightly. Charles' pheromones still smelled bitter like they were burnt dry, projecting pain unconsciously, almost like a silent cry for help. Max held his sweaty palm, thinking, How did he get this sick in less than 24 hours?
He stared through the pre-dawn darkness, watching the window turn white, the light growing brighter. Charles' alarm rang at eight; Max got up to turn it off, but the Monégasque was already struggling to wake. Charles propped himself up with difficulty, then wailed, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"Max, did you beat me up last night?" He asked painfully with gasps. "Why does my whole body hurt like hell?"
"Nobody beat you, Charles. If anything, the virus beat you," Max dismissed the accusation, checking his temperature again. Thanks to the meds, the fever wasn't as bad as earlier, but Charles still looked extremely exhausted, as if staying awake took every strength he had. He leaned against the headboard with eyes closed, panting for two minutes, then gathered courage to try standing up using the headboard, only to collapse back like his bones had melted. Max caught him quickly, holding him gently.
"I don't think I can go to the track today," Charles struggled internally in his arms for a moment, then opened his eyes in surrender, saying despairingly.
"Skip media day then. Ask the team for leave," Max stroked his damp hair, whispering.
Charles emailed the team, then threw his phone aside in frustration, covering his face. "Didn't I already take the meds? Why am I not better?"
Max sighed, shaking his head. "The meds worked, you're not burning as bad as at dawn. But getting better takes time, okay?"
"I don’t have the time!" Charles gritted his teeth anxiously. "It's Ferrari's home race this weekend—"
"Charles," Max interrupted him, deciding to say it: "Worrying and getting angry won't make you heal faster."
"So fucking stupid," he leaned back wearily, scoffing self-deprecatingly. "I really know how to pick a time to get sick, don't I? So fucking great."
Max lowered his head, clenching his jaw unconsciously. He was silent for a while, then looked up slowly, rasping, "Don't talk about yourself like that... please."
Charles sighed heavily, closing his eyes as if exhausted. "I know. Sorry."
Max looked at him, heart twisted with aching affection. He opened his mouth, wanting to say stop apologizing, I wish I could be sick for you, can you stop being so hard on yourself, but finally just pulled him into a hug, whispering, "I'm staying with you."
Charles leaned against him, forcing a smile. "Okay, stay with me for five minutes, then you go to the track."
Max tightened the embrace, shaking his head. "I'm not going either."
Charles straightened up in surprise. "Why not?"
"I can't leave you here alone like this," Max sighed. "Your fever was bad last night, honestly scary. What if you get delirious again with no one watching?"
"I'm better now, aren't I?" Charles widened his eyes, the skin around them still red from fever. "I'm not going, you too not going, what does that look like?"
"I don’t care." For you, I'd do anything.
Charles was silent for a moment, then looked up. "I'll ask my brother to come over, okay? Lorenzo is coming for the GP too, he already arrived in Modena yesterday." He looked down again, adding quietly, "Can't let my stuff delay your work."
Max didn't speak, thinking for a long time. Charles was barely able to get out of bed now; he was extremely reluctant to leave his side. But he knew Charles had high pride and hated being a burden; missing his own media day was hard enough, delaying Max's work would only add to his guilt.
Losing the internal battle, he looked away, forcing calmness. "Call Lorenzo then."
Charles nodded, gave him a shaky smile, and called his elder brother. He spoke raspily for a bit, then started coughing uncontrollably, body shaking, back arching. Max listened silently, rubbing his back until the call ended and Charles collapsed back into his arms, exhausted and pale.
"Lorenzo will be here in half an hour." Charles panted on him for a while, then propped himself up laboriously. "Max, go. You'll be late."
Max didn't let go, shaking his head. "I'll go when your brother gets here. I'll drive fast, 40 minutes to Imola."
Charles sighed wearily, saying quietly, "You think I haven't been? You can't make it in 40 minutes."
But he had no strength to argue anymore, could only resign to fall back onto Max, panting quietly against the Dutchman. Max held him silently for a while, laying him down as he drifted into drowsy sleep, holding his hand gently. Charles squeezed back subconsciously, then fell into a restless, exhausted sleep. Max didn't let go, sitting on the edge of the bed watching the clouds shift outside, until the doorbell rang half an hour later.
Thursday was already Max's least favorite day of a GP weekend; today he was especially irritable having to leave a sick Charles. He dealt with media interviews absently, answering ridiculous questions (Yes, the Daytona SP3 I drove yesterday is Charles Leclerc's; No, I didn't steal it; Yes, I drove into the Ferrari factory but no, I didn't steal Ferrari's damn secrets; Why? Because I was picking up my damn boyfriend, maybe you know him, he happens to work at Ferrari), earning a warning from the FIA for "poor attitude" after a complaint from Sky Italy. At noon, he finally got half an hour free, hiding in the Red Bull hospitality to text Charles while shoveling food.
He didn’t want to seem too anxious, so only sent three messages in a row, but waiting for a reply felt agonizing, food tasteless. Luckily, Charles replied only five minutes later, saying he felt much better, just ate some scrambled eggs but threw it all up. Max typed and deleted several paragraphs, finally sending only "Please take the pill again at one PM," then forced himself to focus on lunch. He finished a whole pasta salad, then peeled an orange. The burst of fresh citrus scent naturally reminded him of Charles' clear bergamot scent, then he remembered that bergamot was terribly bitter today.
"Fuck, this is sour," He finished the orange, stood up abruptly cursing, and walked away.
Yuki Tsunoda looked at him in confusion, asking the strategy engineer next to him, "What’s wrong with him? That orange was sweet."
Max lost all the stupid PR games against his teammate in the afternoon, filmed a Heineken 0.0 ad expressionlessly ("Can't you smile a bit, Mr. Verstappen? —No, never mind, your smile is scarier"), and was finally allowed to leave at 3 PM. When walking fast to the parking lot and passing Ferrari hospitality, he heard a Ferrari PR officer telling a media outlet: "...Please stop your baseless accusations that Leclerc is faking illness to avoid media day." He stopped, checked the media badge—Marca—walked over, grinned, and said, "Call me if you need, I can break your ribs so you can avoid media days for three months too." Then he walked away without looking back.
During his driving back to Maranello, Max got a call from Red Bull PR, informing him of a second FIA warning for "threatening media personnel" after an anonymous complaint. He grunted acknowledgment but showed no intention of apologizing. He hung up, flooring it onto the A9 highway; this time luck was on his side, traffic was clear, and he stopped at Charles' apartment in exactly 40 minutes.
Lorenzo opened the door. Max greeted him, skipping pleasantries and asked directly, "How is he?"
Lorenzo lowered his voice. "Better than this morning. Took meds at noon, sleeping again now."
Max nodded, putting down his keys, pointing awkwardly at the bedroom. "I'll go..."
"Go see him." Lorenzo smiled and nodded.
He crept into the bedroom, sitting quietly by the bed. As Lorenzo said, Charles was asleep, color less scary than morning, but still looking exhausted. Max watched him for a while, then touched his forehead gently. The heat had indeed gone down, though still warm. He sighed, zoned out sitting there for a bit, then stood up and left, closing the door.
Lorenzo was brewing coffee in the kitchen. Seeing him, he made an extra cup and handed it over. Max took it, saying gratefully, "Thanks."
Lorenzo smiled, joking, "Thanks for the coffee?"
"Thanks for the coffee too," Max nodded. "And thanks for coming to take care of Charles, of course."
Lorenzo shook his head gently. "Charles is my little brother, I've taken care of him since he was a kid. You don’t need to thank me for that."
Max sighed, sipping coffee. "He is strong, usually doesn't need taking care of. Never seen him this sick, hope it doesn't happen again."
"He was easier to handle as a kid. Acted up sometimes, but listened to his big brother." Lorenzo laughed.
"Doesn't listen now, does he?" Max laughed too. "But he's always been the most stubborn type, has to learn the hard way."
"Easier to fool back then, not anymore." Lorenzo shook his head. "Seeing him this sick, I told him to skip practice tomorrow too, he shut me up immediately. I was hoping you could persuade him."
Max was silent for a long time, then rasped, "I can't ask that of him."
Lorenzo looked at him in surprise. "Why?"
"I can't ask him to do something I can't do myself." He looked out the window while holding the coffee cup. "Unless I'm dead, I'm getting in that car. I know he's the same."
"Even just free practice?"
"Even just free practice." Max nodded. "If I can't do it myself but ask him to, that's too hypocritical."
Lorenzo watched him, then sighed. "I guess that's where we differ. I get so nervous watching Charles and Arthur race, but ultimately I just want them safe, winning or losing is secondary."
"I actually understand how you feel, Lorenzo, I also have younger siblings," Max lowered his head, voice soft. "But I also know racing is our life. Since I love him, I have to let him go do what he loves, even if I have to worry. It's fair, because I know he feels the same about me."
Lorenzo was silent, then laughed. "Max, I didn't think so before, but now I see you and Charles are really the same kind of people."
Max laughed too. "Guess there's a reason we ended up together."
Finishing coffee with Lorenzo, he noticed the other man looking at him hesitantly. Max frowned and asked, "Something wrong?"
"Max, this is your private business, maybe I shouldn't ask," his lover's brother started hesitantly. "But Charles is my brother, I can't help caring—are you planning to propose to Charles?"
Max raised an eyebrow in surprise, waiting for a moment. Lorenzo sighed, then opened his hand to reveal a small blue velvet box. "I didn't mean to open it; found it in the cupboard when looking for food for Charles, thought it was misplaced jewelry. Sorry."
"It's okay." Max shook his head, taking the box and opening it. Inside lay a gold ring, simple design, an inscription inside the band. He took it out, holding it in his palm, then smiled. "Yeah, I was planning to use it, just don't know when yet."
"I saw the inscription was in Dutch, so I assumed it was yours," Lorenzo said. "Mind telling me what it means?"
"Ah, this," Max smiled, translating. "'What God has joined together, let no one separate.' A bit old-fashioned, no? Actually, my mom gave me this ring. I only resized it for Charles, haven't decided if I should change the inscription."
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Lorenzo said. "Marriage is a sacrament, you are both blessed. Your mother wants you to be happy too."
"Yeah." Max smiled. "Actually, given my own family, I didn't have any sacred expectations for marriage. But being with Charles so long... started thinking about it in the end."
Lorenzo asked, "You talked to him, right? Charles told me he plans to complete the permanent bond with you during summer break, but didn't mention engagement."
"Would you believe me if I said no?" Max held the ring, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. "We talked about the permanent bond, but never really discussed marriage or engagement. Charles just mentioned once he wants to get married in the Monte Carlo Cathedral. I can only assume he at least had the thought."
"Monte Carlo Cathedral," Lorenzo repeated slowly. "A place with many memories. Charles loves you very much, Max."
Max lowered his head, gripping the ring. "I know."
"Alright, mate, I won't interfere with your plans too much, but I look forward to the day you become my brother-in-law." Lorenzo stood up to leave, hugging him. "Take care of Charles, okay?"
"I will." Max promised.
When Max returned to the bedroom, Charles hadn't woken up. He climbed into bed lightly, sitting beside Charles, holding his wrist. The meds seemed to have worked; Charles' body temperature was almost normal, pulse steady, breathing even, though a faint wet wheeze lingered. Max watched him, zoning out quickly.
In three years together, this was the first time he'd seen Charles this sick. Charles was usually healthy; past ailments were just toothaches or stomach bugs. Repeated high fever and delirium were new. Rationally, he knew it was just the flu, maybe severe due to immune overreaction, and Charles would recover eventually. But closing his eyes, remembering the terrifying fever and painful gasps last night, he felt uncontrolled fear. Does Max Verstappen get scared? He never thought so before. His job was driving the world's fastest cars to victory, theoretically a hundred times more dangerous than a flu, but he never feared it, nor for Charles. He rarely worried about safety on track because he knew he could tame the 330kph beast, and the Ferrari ace driver was no less capable. But sickness—
Sickness wasn't something he could control. He could only watch his partner be struck down, suffer, and fight alone. What could he do? Pour some water, hand a pill—useless, basically. Max Verstappen always had a way, but this time, for the first time, he admitted helplessness.
Can one seek a pillar in such moments? He inexplicably recalled distant childhood, before wandering the tracks with his father, when his mother was still there. He vaguely remembered being sick in winter, crying weakly from fever at night. His father didn't care for such "trivialities," dumping the burden on his wife. He remembered hearing them argue loudly through the wall, then his mother rushing in crying, picking him up, driving him to the hospital.
Looking back at memories through dusty frosted glass, he wiped the dust away, seeing his mother sitting by his bed, holding his hot little hand, saying "Max, my baby," reciting the Lord's Prayer through tears over and over.
Max was surprised he still remembered his mother's voice and every word of the prayer. He rarely prayed after his parents’ divorce, didn't even complete confirmation, and privately thought his mother's weekly candle-lighting in church useless. But in that childhood moment, her gentle touch and prayer truly made him feel better—feel loved. It was warmth he could still touch through the foggy glass, through years.
He opened his eyes, seeing Charles' tired face. His lover panted softly with eyes closed, lips cracked, long lashes casting shadows on dark circles. It’s not Charles' best look, but the haggardness only made Max want to cherish him more. He held Charles' hand, closing eyes to kiss it, thinking Can I give you any strength? Do you know you are loved by me?
"What are you mumbling?" A low, raspy voice sounded. He opened his eyes; Charles was awake. He realized he was just reciting the Lord’s Prayer, up to "deliver us from evil." The prayer in his memory flowed like silent water, crossing twenty years to reach his lips intact.
He leaned down to pull Charles into arms, circling the warm body.
"The Lord's Prayer," he pressed against Charles's neck, telling the truth. "In Dutch."
Charles yawned, still half-asleep, mumbling, "You still remember that?"
"I'm surprised too." Max sighed.
"I know it too, in French." Charles followed his lead, lashes tangling.
"That's impressive, Charles." Max praised fondly.
Charles blinked laboriously, then remembered to ask, "Where's my brother?"
Max answered, "Lorenzo left, coming to see your race tomorrow."
Charles nodded, leaning closer and whispering, "I dreamt of you."
"What did you dream?"
"Dreamt you were holding me, kissing me," Charles smiled with closed eyes. "Your body felt cool against mine, so comfortable."
"Like this?" Max tightened the hug, kissing his neck, collarbone, and cheek.
"Just like this," Charles sighed. "I thought, I'm dreaming, you're still in Imola. But I opened my eyes, and you're really here."
"Guess I came back just in time." Max laughed.
Charles blinked, smiling. "Well, thanks for the effort, darling."
Max held him a bit longer until the Monégasque looked more awake. "How do you feel?"
Charles sat up a little, moving his shoulders. "Better—at least less like I got beat up."
"Again, I didn't beat you, Charles," Max sat up too, rubbing his back. "Want to eat or drink something?"
Charles nodded. "Yes. I'm starving."
"You threw up everything for two days, of course you are," Max sighed. "What do you want?"
"Get me some carbs," Charles ordered, then added, "But I want a shower first. I feel gross." He swung his legs off the bed, trying to stand using the headboard. Max leaned over to spot him in case he fells like this morning, but this time Charles stood up on his own, walking to the bathroom.
So Max just let go and said, "Take a hot shower today, Charles." Charles habitually took cold showers year-round, sometimes even ice water, but today could be an exception.
Charles smiled and agreed, "Okay." And closed the door.
Max went to the kitchen, putting two lasagnas in the oven, setting the timer, then changed the sweaty sheets in the bedroom. With nothing left to do while Charles showered, he sat on the floor leaning against the bathroom door, listening to the water running and occasional coughs. Fatigue crept in from all sides. It's okay, Charles is getting better, showering right behind me, nothing bad will happen. Feeling a rare relaxation, he wanted to close his eyes for a bit; but the door opened suddenly, nearly making him fall.
"Max?" Charles squatted in the steam, asking in surprise. "Why are you sitting here?"
Max looked at him, finally admitted after a thought, "Wanted to be closer to you."
Charles was silent, then leaned forward to hug him. "I worried you. Sorry." His voice muffled in Max's shoulder.
"It's okay," Max kissed his wet hair. "Everyone gets sick, I’m happy you're okay now."
Charles fell silent, leaning against him, hugging in an awkward pose in the doorway. The steam billowing out was hot, burning Max's eyes.
The silent hug lasted until the oven timer dinged. Charles sighed softly, looking up. "Is food ready?"
Max smiled. "Yes." He pulled Charles up, leading him to the kitchen. Charles' stomach growled loudly; he said embarrassed, "I'm really hungry."
"Eat more then." Max put the lasagna on the table. “Just don’t throw up this time.”
"Can't guarantee that." Charles sat down, shoving a forkful into his mouth, then yelping from the heat.
"Slow down." Max shook his head smiling.
While urgently fighting the pasta, Charles declared angrily: "I hate lasagna!"
Max watched him, affection flooding his heart, drowning him like sea. Charles still looked haggard, wet hair messy, unshaven; but his beautiful green eyes had life again, pale cheeks flushing with hope of recovery. Max suddenly felt a moment of clarity; he wanted to spend his life with Charles more than ever.
"Charles," he put down his fork, looking at the love of his life. "Will you marry me?"
Charles looked up, half a lasagna sheet on his fork, half in his mouth. "What?"
"I said," Max repeated slowly. "Will you marry me, Charles?"
Charles' eyes widened, lasagna falling off the fork. "You... uh, you're proposing?" He sounded incoherent, forgetting English again.
Max sighed. "Hard to interpret that sentence any other way."
Charles nodded slowly, licking sauce off his lip. He thought for a while, then laughed and cleared his throat. "Uh... No."
"'No'?" Max frowned. "What does 'no' mean?"
"'No' means," Charles looked away, trying to suppress a smile. "I don't agree."
"You don't agree?" Max frowned deeper. "Meaning, you refuse my proposal?"
"Listen, Max," Charles put down the fork, finally laughing aloud. "You can't steal it from me!"
Max looked confused. "Steal what?"
"I've been planning this for a long, long time!" Charles shouted, face red. "Like, a hundred years long. I planned a seaside restaurant, lots of white roses, photographers—"
"You were planning to propose too?" Max asked in surprise.
"No 'too', Max, looks like only I planned," Charles crossed his arms frowning. "A proposal should be the most romantic ritual, both of us dressed to kill, photographers capturing the moment, not this—you in t-shirt and jeans, me sick and sloppy, ugly as a stray dog!"
"You're not ugly, I think you look incredibly good." Max argued sincerely.
"That's not the point!" Charles raised his voice, coughing, face redder. "The point is... you can't steal my chance. I want to give you a proposal you'll never forget, Verstappen."
"Fine," Max said reluctantly. "When did you plan it?"
"I can't tell you, Max," Charles threw his hands up, eyes wide. "The whole thing was supposed to be a secret!"
"If you insist." Max sighed. "Please don't be mad, Charles. I don't have your gift for romance; I just wanted you to know I want to spend rest of my life with you."
Charles lowered his head, silent for a while, then laughed softly. "I'm not mad, Max. I... I'm very happy."
Max laughed too. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he looked up, green eyes magnificent. "Ask me again, Max."
Max took his hand, kissing it. "What about your romantic ceremony?" He asked softly.
"It's fine, we'll each propose our own." Charles laughed at himself.
"First time hearing that, but okay." Max stood up smiling, retrieving the blue box from the cupboard. "Do I need to kneel?"
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Essential step, no?"
"Okay." Max nodded, taking the box, kneeling on one knee before Charles. "Charles Leclerc, love of my life," he opened the box, revealing the ring. "Will you marry me and spend your life with me?"
Charles looked at him with beloved eyes, holding tenderness Max would drown in ten thousand times. "Yes," the Monégasque said tremblingly. "Yes, Max, I'll marry you."
Max slipped the ring on his finger; the next second Charles leaned forward, tackling him into a hug.
"Thank you for saying yes, baby," he held the warm, shaking body tight. "Don't cry, okay? You look better when you smile."
Charles looked up, wiping tears with a smile. "I'm definitely winning, Max. My proposal will be a hundred times better than this."
"But I was first," Max leaned down to kiss him. "Even if you wins, it’s a thing to come."