Work Text:
Max had woken up feeling like something was wrong.
It wasn’t anything in specific. Maybe it’d been his dream. After all, he’d startled awake to a diffuse pain in his side; it was far from the first time. That’d started many years ago, when he was still karting, and still made mistakes often. He always internalized the lessons he was taught, and that’s what helped him improve– but sometimes, he internalized them so much that they became part of his subconscious, replaying in dreams, leaking out in wakefulness if someone brought a hand towards him too fast.
In dreams, he didn’t have a sense of smell, taste, or hearing, but he could see fists before they connected, and he could feel the force as if it were really happening, the pain exact. So, it wasn’t the first time he’d woken up panting, holding his side, covered in sweat.
It was earlier than he normally awoke, but he was alert enough, and waking up was the worst part of sleeping, so there was no need to go through it a second time. He would just start the day ahead of schedule. It was Sunday in Austria and he had to perform well. The idea gave him a spike of anxiety that shook away any dregs of fatigue, and he started to get up.
As soon as he pushed himself upright, it really felt like something was wrong.
An ache shot through his abdomen, and he braced it with his right hand. The skin felt hot, but he realized, so did the rest of him. It was probably just because of how clammy and cold his hands were; anything would be hot in comparison.
He swung his legs over the side of the couch he’d slept on– there was a nice bed also in his hotel room, but he usually was not allowed to sleep in one in his karting days, so the habit stuck– and was met with a spike of pain that knifed up inside his abdomen. Max gasped in a breath as he pressed on the diffuse area.
Pressing hard, very hard, helped a bit. He realized the room was no longer spinning– when had it started?– and removed his touch to instead push off the couch, and everything rebounded twofold. Max gritted his teeth, suddenly nauseous, lightheaded, shaking, and shoved himself up anyways.
Off-track, Max was a very quiet person. Now, he made a strangled noise of alarm, so loud he scared himself in the split-second lag between it being forced out and him realizing what it was. The twist in his gut was blindingly, swelteringly hot, focused down into a sharp point that throbbed white-hot in his lower abdomen, around the hipbone.
Fully against the wall for support, he felt around the area, wondering if his hip had broken. But the bony area was prominent and even with his hands numbly shaking, he could tell it was intact bilaterally.
There wasn’t much more Max could make heads or tails of. He gave a prod to the pulsating phantom knife and cringed down, the room swimming, his guts clenching in on themselves and only making it worse in the process. He threw up.
Slowly, the world faded back in, and Max could hear his pounding heartbeat again, but not much else. The room was experienced through a layer of radio static. He raised his head, wiping his mouth, and found that his entire face was dripping with sweat. His shirt clung to him, too, but the disgusting sensation barely registered between the waves of nausea and blurred vision.
As a kid, when it had hurt really really bad, to the point he could not see, hear, or think, when he couldn’t even remember what he’d done to earn discipline in the first place between the screaming in his nerves, Max learned the best thing to do was to grit his teeth and breathe and wait. Eventually, it’d be over. Eventually, his blood would clot, his bones would heal, and it’d stop hurting. Just like him, his body had no conception of giving up, and was determined to continue no matter the circumstances. So, if he waited long enough, it’d fix itself.
Thankfully, it took a lot less time to resolve than his snapped radius-ulna had. Max opened his eyes to a hotel room that darted in and out of focus, but that stayed still underneath his feet as he limped to the restroom, favoring his left side.
Lifting his arms to remove his shirt sent a shockwave down into the dulling mass, and so did shifting his weight from one leg to another as he discarded his boxers. He just went very slow. It would’ve been less painful to sit on the countertop or something, but stripping down was not a physically demanding task, so there was no reason to take a break and sit down. Max wasn’t lazy.
He accidentally glanced at himself in the mirror while reaching over to turn on the fan. Max often avoided those, so he wasn’t too familiar with how he looked at baseline, but he knew this was not it. His skin was always pale, but now it was white as a sheet, and glistening with sweat. His eyes were glazed over, half-lidded. And his mouth was open, his nostrils flared, panting from heat and pain and exertion.
He turned away and set the shower on cold. He was used to taking cold showers. Maybe once it had been a punishment, or something; maybe it’d been to avoid being yelled at for using too much hot water; maybe it’d just been efficiency. But the freezing spray was a welcome shock to his body and as goosebumps raised all across his skin, he began to feel better.
Yes, it’d be fine. It was all coming back to him now. The world came into focus as he shivered. He had to do well in Austria, of course, and then he’d get a 12-day break before starting England. So it was okay.
It was just a matter of getting through one race. And he knew he could do it. Of course he could. The car was literally built for the track, and besides, he was an excellent driver, and he’d qualified well, and he knew he could do it. He just had to grit his teeth and remind himself of that.
–
The setup passed in a blur. Max had always been brief and abrasive with his speech, so noone saw his affect today as a red flag. He was grateful for this. And he knew well how to smooth all the edges of conversation into giving the other person what they wanted, to not draw unwelcome attention to himself. Nods and yesses and well-timed, thoughtful answers, but no spontaneous elaboration. He certainly didn’t want to be barred from the race just because he was queasy. In Austria no less. That’d be the embarrassment of a lifetime. And anyways, he knew he could do it. He’d raced worse tracks in worse cars in worse weather in worse physical condition, and won.
So he sat in start position, in P3, ready to win the race.
The race, too, slipped through his fingers, despite how tight he was gripping the wheel; his hands had gone numb, and if he wrenched them away for even a second, he’d never be able to get ahold of it again.
The positions, of course, did not, and he climbed to P2. Charles Leclerc was in front of him. The scarlet of the Ferrari hypnotizing as it danced across the track. Max had fallen into a rhythm, a fog that made it hard to keep his eyes open as he slammed from side to side in the cockpit through turns 5, 6, 7, 8; the jostle re-ignited the dormant throb in his gut and all of a sudden he was braking late coming up over turn 9, and it was only muscle memory, only the skill beaten into his mind that kept him from going too wide, but turn 10 was approaching too fast and Max had to tense his core to keep his neck attached as he took it very sharp, and it felt like his abdominal wall was tearing open.
Max’s vision had turned spotty again, his hearing gone, but 10 to 1 was a long straight that required nothing but flooring the gas and shifting gears up as the wheel display flashed an indication. He almost lost traction on the sharp turn, but then it was basically a straight between 1 and 3, and coming out of 4, his head already stopped spinning. It was going great. Lap 60 of 71. Just 11 more.
The one small issue was the fact that he was still P2, with Charles ahead of him.
He’d have 12 days to rest after this– if he got P1. If he didn’t, he’d have no time to rest at all. Jos had come to watch the race, so they’d be in physical proximity, and easily let into the paddock if he wished, and besides, Max just wouldn’t feel right being lazy by sleeping and taking painkillers if he lost.
If he found enough time in the sharp corners, he’d be able to pass Charles for sure.
Max resigned himself to the bolts of hot agony as he took 1, 3, and 10 as fast as he could.
He passed Charles on lap 69 and didn’t even realize it. The voice on the radio could’ve been underwater for all its intelligibility, but as he sped towards turn 4, he made out congratulations, before braking hard, turning hard, and going back under the waves.
–
Charles absolutely could not believe it. Max never changed. He’d been an arrogant, dangerous driver since they’d met in karting, and now in the high-powered F1 cars, he was shoving Charles off the track once more. He was reckless. He had absolutely no concern for other drivers. Hell, he didn’t even have any concern for himself. He drove like it was win or die, and if he lost, he’d surely take the whole grid with him.
Charles was furious as he passed the checkered flag, ran a cooldown, and pulled his car into the P2 spot. He was furious as he removed his harness, steering wheel, and safety devices. He was furious as he got out the cockpit. He was furious as he removed his helmet.
He whipped towards the Red Bull, glaring at the space Max should’ve been in. Only he wasn’t. He was still in the car.
Max had to pry his hands off the wheel and missed its release several times. When he went to place it on the hood of the car, he almost dropped it back onto his lap. He fumbled with the harness and clasps like his hands were frozen solid. When he finally removed enough to get out the cockpit, he rose unsteadily. He was shaking. When he had to step up, then down, he stumbled and seemed very close to falling right over.
It cut through the ire Charles had. Was something wrong?
Then Max went directly to the scales, then the podium stairs, and it came back with a fresh layer. Max hadn’t thanked his team, hadn’t hugged them, hadn’t even given a high-five or a nod. Was he that cocky, that he thought it was all him? Or was he just so used to winning now that he felt no need to celebrate? He hadn’t even removed his helmet! So, what, he thought himself too good to even look them in the eyes, now? It was so disrespectful!
Charles stood on the scales, but his eyes were locked onto Max as he began up the stairs. He took off his balaclava and in-ears and ticket and shoved it all into his helmet. He foisted it upon someone without even looking nor caring who it was, and started after the other man.
“Ey! Verstappen!” he called, moderately aware of the fact that there was a crowd and cameras. He cared more about this than the fallout, though. This ran deep. It was like the culmination of all the hatred he’d ever held for the guy. All the weird feelings that kept him up at night, confused.
Max didn’t turn around, so Charles doubled his pace.
“I am talking to you, Verstappen! Look at me when I speak to you!”
Nothing. The bastard thought himself too good for another driver. He never came to the dinners they invited him to, nor vacations. He refused all their gifts. He never invited Charles over when they’d been kids, had hid Charles from Jos, looking scared as if his friend meeting his dad would’ve been a bad thing. He insisted on wearing long sleeves and trousers all the time, even in the best monegasque weather Charles had tried to show him– from some compulsion to stand out, he guessed.
Charles was near enough to touch him, Max having only risen two steps of the flight, and he did. “Ey! Connard! Je te parle!”
He’d seized Max’s shoulder and jerked it back, and all of a sudden, he was slammed by Max’s entire bodyweight colliding with his. The guy tried to catch himself, but then his knees buckled, and Charles didn’t think about grabbing him around the chest, he just did it.
It was disorienting and not at all the outcome Charles had expected. Once his mind caught up to his body, he realized he was holding Max against his chest, arms locked around the other man, hands splayed over his back. Max’s helmet rested oddly against his shoulder. Charles realized his race suit was getting damp where he made contact with Max, and also that Max was shivering rather violently.
Max was tense as a spring but seemingly unable to translate it into holding himself upright. He tried to shift around, tried to get his feet under him, but a tremor went through his legs the second they supported any weight.
He moved his head, race helmet rubbing against Charles’ neck. Charles made a noise of surprise as Max felt at his torso with stiff hands. He seemed totally confused as to what had just occurred or what the thing supporting him was.
“Verstappen? Can you hear me?”
A pained groan. Oh. Fuck. Okay.
“Max? Max, ey, Max? You are hearing me, yes?”
At his name, Max tried to right himself again, and a coarse shudder ran from the top of his spine to the pavement below them. Charles, of course, kept him held tight in his arms, despite it rocking both of them. Max grabbed at his own stomach and whined incoherently.
“Max. Ey. Ey. Is okay. Merde. You will stay still. Do not move.”
Charles managed to undo the straps of Max’s racing helmet one-handed, and he removed it, along with the HANS device, balaclava, in-ears. It bounced where he threw it against the concrete, and he felt bad about this, but Red Bull could make another, meanwhile there was only one of Max.
Now Charles understood why he’d kept it on. Max looked awful. Delirious. His short hair was stuck to his skin with the sweat that dripped ceaselessly off him. His eyes were bordering on closed. His skin was deathly pale. And, as his head fell forwards to hide in Charles’ shoulder from the sudden burst of sound and light, Charles felt that he was burning up.
“What is… why is this happening? What is wrong with you?” Charles asked, and wanted to bite his tongue off for the phrasing. He was still not that good in English.
Max mumbled something, but despite his proximity, Charles couldn’t make out a word of it. It wasn’t too quiet, or in Dutch, it was just wholly incoherent.
“Your stomach hurts?” Charles tried again.
A nod into the collar of his racing suit, like Max wanted to hide in it. He panted ragged, overheated breaths against his neck.
Okay. Something was very wrong. Charles did not know what exactly, but it was emergency-level wrong, of that he was certain.
He looked over to the paddock directly adjacent. It wasn’t too sunny, but it’d be a place for Max to be out of the crowd’s view while the medical car arrived. And then Charles suddenly was snapped back to the reality of there being a crowd, and other drivers, and teams, and announcers, and his eyes widened as they fell upon a whole array of cameras zeroed in on him and Max. He hoped the burning in his cheeks was not half as visible as it felt.
Without a second thought, Charles grabbed Max’s upper arms and pulled them up around his shoulders. Max made a choked noise of complaint.
“Shh. No, no, it is alright. Just put arms here. Shh. It will feel better soon.”
He crouched down, making Max lean forwards across his shoulder with how unsteady he was, and locked his arms around the back of his thighs, and stood, lifting Max off the ground. It wasn’t a fantastic carry, but it was fast and got him into the garage– Charles belatedly realized he had no idea whose team it belonged to, not that he gave a shit– and then Charles was setting him down on a pit wall chair.
A dozen people tried talking to him at once.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled over the din. To their credit, they did fall silent. “Ambulancier. Il a besoin d’un ambulancier.”
They stared at him.
“Bah! Ne foutez pas le bordel! Quel bordel de merde! Allons-y! Ambulancier! Maintenant!”
Half the group scattered in different directions, running to find the on-site medical team. The other half did something with the computers, maybe checking Max’s telemetry, or biometrics, or the status of the helicopter, or whatever.
One stayed behind. “Is he–”
Charles held up a finger. “Ah! Stop!”
“It’s just– do you know what–”
Max had his eyes squeezed shut and grimaced as he tried to cover his ears. Charles, standing in front of him, pulled Max against his stomach and pet through his wet hair.
“Ta gueule.”
The technician sighed. “Bah, bien. Désolé.”
An ambulance pulled up in front of the garage entrance and its personnel sprang out. Evidently, they’d been on their way without needing to be called.
Everything moved very fast from there. A lot of questions and a lot of hands and equipment and then Charles was helping move Max onto a gurney. And then the gurney was taken away, and there was only air in Charles’ hands, where Max had been just a second ago. There was a buddy pair of city-uniformed paramedics, and a flight medic. He was asked a few brief questions he didn’t know the answer to. He was thanked for helping. And then he caught his last glimpse of Max as he disappeared headfirst into the ambulance, and the doors of the Ford model transport van slammed shut, and then it was off.
Charles was left standing there. Only air in front of him.
As it turned out, it was actually the Red Bull garage he’d carried Max into. They all stared at him, unsure if they should be quietly solemn or cheer in celebration.
Of course, Charles knew Max would be fine. He knew it. There was just no other option for that man. He’d already made up his mind about that matter, and had no worries for it.
What he did worry about, though, was the coming nightfall. All those weird feelings were hitting him at once, and he was going to stagger around drunk for the rest of the night, if he had any guess.
And then, when Max got better, and returned to racing, he’d have to see him again, to look in his eyes again. To rethink Max’s behaviors. What they really meant.
Maybe all those things he hated Max for were actually not things to hate him for.