Work Text:
Mondays of race weeks were always chaotic. Suitcases were packed, data was disclosed, sim rigs were occupied 24/7.
But in the middle of Monaco, there was a different kind of chaos.
Charles lay curled up in bed, wrapped in a thick blanket despite the scalding summer heat. Sweat clung to his temples, his curls stuck to his forehead, and his nose had the slight pink tinge of a cartoon character with the flu.
“High fever,” the doctor said, pulling the thermometer out with a frown. “Plenty of rest and fluids, along with the medication I’ve prescribed, and you’ll be good to go in a week.”
“Can I race?” Charles croaked, voice scratchy and barely there.
The doctor sighed like he’d already had this fight in his head. “I would recommend you not to, Mr. Leclerc. But knowing you—”
“Thanks, doc,” Charles cut him off with a faint smile.
The moment the door closed behind him, Charles grabbed his phone with trembling fingers and ordered the medicine online.
Because there was no way in hell he was telling the team he was sick.
🦢
A loud pounding on the door jolted Charles awake on Tuesday evening.
He groaned, bleary-eyed, as his phone buzzed non-stop on the nightstand. Before he could reach it, the door clicked open—and in stormed a fuming Max Verstappen.
“What the fuck, schat?” Max snapped, already mid-rant before his eyes landed on Charles.
Then he froze.
Charles was a mess—sweaty, pale, curls plastered to his forehead, hoodie hanging off one shoulder like a deflated balloon.
Max’s anger melted in half a second. He rushed forward, sliding onto the bed and gathering Charles into his arms.
“You’re boiling, Charlie,” he murmured, worry laced into every syllable. “Come here, love.”
Charles sighed as he melted against Max’s chest, like that’s exactly where he’d been trying to get to in his fever dreams.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Max asked, pulling back just enough to search his face. “I was so worried. You haven’t answered my texts in a day and a half. Apparently you haven’t answered anyone.”
“Sorry,” Charles whispered, threading their fingers together. His voice was a croak. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Oh, baby,” Max breathed. “I was created to worry about you. If I’m not allowed to worry about the love of my life, then who am I allowed to worry about?”
“I’m the love of your life?” Charles rasped, lips twitching into a weak smile.
“Don’t divert the conversation,” Max said, stern. “Have you taken your medicine? Did you consult a doctor? Have you even eaten—?”
“Maxie,” Charles interrupted, tugging at his hand. “Calm down. I called a doctor yesterday, he gave me a prescription.”
Max squinted at him. “And food?”
“Well…”
Max stood up like a man on a mission. “Right. That’s it. I’m making you food.”
Charles blinked blearily. “You… know how to cook?”
“I know how to boil water aggressively,” Max snapped, already halfway to the kitchen. “And I’ve seen my mom make soup. How hard can it be?”
Charles leaned back against the pillows with a laugh that turned into a cough, fondness blooming in his chest like a second fever.
Ten minutes later, the apartment was full of clattering, muttering, and what sounded suspiciously like Max threatening someone.
“I’m dating an absolute idiot,” he grumbled. “No sense of self-preservation. Selfless, my ass. Why the fuck does he need to be selfless.”
Eventually, Max returned with a steaming bowl of… something. It was vaguely yellow, smelled like garlic, and had noodles that were definitely two minutes past al dente.
He looked entirely too proud of himself.
“Here,” he said, kneeling beside the bed and blowing gently on a spoonful. “It’s edible. I think.”
Charles took a bite, eyes fluttering shut. “Tastes like… childhood and chaos.”
It tasted horrible. But Charles wasn’t about to tell Max that.
“Perfect,” Max grinned. “I added a little salt and a lot of love. Also, maybe a piece of eggshell. But we ignore that.”
“Should I even ask why there’s egg in what looks like vegetable soup?”
“You absolutely should not.”
Max climbed into bed beside him, gently tucking the blankets back around Charles like he was glass.
“I’m skipping media day,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Charles’s clammy forehead. “They can survive one Thursday without me. You need me more.”
Charles grinned, voice still scratchy. “Max?! Are you using my sickness as an excuse to skip media?”
“How dare you?” Max gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “How can you accuse me of such a crime? Does our love mean nothing to you?”
“Not when you use it to dodge media duties,” Charles shot back, smug.
Max narrowed his eyes. “I just made you soup.”
“If you call this soup, then maybe you should try some,” Charles suggested innocently.
“No thank you,” Max replied, with all the drama of a man dialling Christian Horner mid-emergency.
“Christian. Charles is sick,” he said, pacing the room.
A pause.
“What do you mean ‘So?’ My boyfriend is sick, and I need to skip Thursday to take care of him.”
Another pause. Max rolled his eyes. “I’m not lying to skip media! Why would I do that?”
From the bed, Charles snorted so hard it turned into a cough.
Max turned toward him with the wounded expression of a betrayed lover and shoved the phone into his hands. “Here. Talk to Charles. Apparently no one trusts me anymore.”
Charles took the phone, feigning death with all the enthusiasm of a drama queen. “He’s telling the truth,” he rasped, voice theatrically pitiful. “I have a high fever. Cannot survive without Max. I might die.”
Max beamed at him like he’d just proposed.
“I promise he’ll be there before Friday,” Charles added. “Thank you.”
He handed the phone back, smirking. “You owe me.”
“What can I do for my liefe?” Max asked, already climbing back into bed.
“Cuddle him and shower him with kisses?” Charles offered sweetly.
“That has always been my destiny.”
Max pulled him close again, kissing his fever-flushed face with reverent care.
“I’m going to take such good care of you, Charlie,” he whispered.
“You always do.”
Charles drifted off tucked against Max’s chest, soft snores rising in rhythm with his breath.
Max gently reached for his phone again, calling Andrea to explain the situation with as much responsibility as he could manage from under a weighted blanket of boyfriend. When he hung up, he kissed Charles’s curls and let himself fall asleep too, curled around the most precious chaos he’d ever loved.