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Chapter Text

The beginning of the season is almost more physically draining than the end. With the longer race schedule, someone has finally had the bright idea to group all the European races together, which means that Charles can spend much of the latter end of the season at home.

Not at the start.

At the launch of the season, when they are fit and full of energy, they are forced to endure all the remote races with crazy jet lag and endless media duties. They hotel hop from one country to the next, never settling for longer than four days at a time before they are off on the next leg of the trip.

In short, it’s only been one race and Charles is already fucking exhausted.

There is so much to do between Bahrain and Saudi Arabia that he doesn’t think he has taken a breath since the race ended.

He attributes this to why he’s currently falling asleep at dinner.

‘Lord Perceval,’ Carlos snaps his fingers in front of Charles’ face. ‘You’re like, the youngest person here. Why are you sleeping at the table?’ Charles grins lazily at his teammate, beside him in the booth at the restaurant.

‘I’m not the youngest! Not even one of the youngest anymore!’ Charles tries to do the mental tally in his head, but gives up quickly, his brain filled with treacle sticking all his thoughts together.

‘Mate, the only ones younger than you are Oscar and I,’ Lando laughs. ‘I think that puts you firmly in the classification of one of the youngest!’ Charles just sticks his tongue out in Lando’s general direction, not even bothering to look at the man.

‘Are you okay?’ Alex asks, and Charles does open his eyes this time, hearing the genuine concern beneath his English accent.

‘I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.’

‘It’s the beginning of the season, isn’t this meant to be when you’re full of beans?’ George chuckles, coming out with another of his confusing British phrases. Why would he be full of beans? 

‘Benefits of driving for Ferrari,’ Charles groans, tipping his head back against the wall. ‘If you think your media duties are intense, try pleasing Sylvia.’

Carlos frowns, not that Charles can see it. ‘I didn’t have much today.’ Charles' heart sinks, and he cannot bring himself to respond. He suspects the heavy silence is answer enough. The mood dampens once everyone realises the implication. Carlos doesn’t have as much media because he doesn’t have a Ferrari seat for 2025.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up,’ Charles grabs Carlos’ hand, squeezing it tightly. Him and his big, stupid, tired mouth.

‘Hey, Perceval, since when would I be mad about you doing more media?’ Charles glances to his right, to find Carlos grinning, his eyes glistening suspiciously, but his smile genuine. ‘Just means I need to do less, ay.’

‘Actually, I think it just means I do double,’ Charles groans again, banging his head against the table. ‘I’m going to go back to the hotel. I need sleep before the practice sessions tomorrow.’

‘But you’ve not eaten anything,’ Max points out from the other side of the table, his deep cobalt eyes piercing into Charles’ evergreen irises.

He shrugs, ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’

‘You need to eat,’ Max presses, and Charles cannot help but raise his eyebrows at the over-protective Dutchman. They weren’t friends for years, could barely stand to be in the same room as one another. All of a sudden, you let a guy become your friend and he thinks he has the right to lecture you on your eating habits. Honestly, men.

‘I'll eat something back at the hotel, mother,’ Charles rolls his eyes. He regrets the motion instantly, his vision blackening momentarily. When it returns, the world is lurching back and forth drunkenly. It takes a few seconds for him to realise that he is swaying where he sits, Carlos having thrown an arm around his shoulders to keep him steady. The eye rolling appears to have been too much for his tired state, triggering a wave of light-headedness and nausea so intense he has to clamp his jaw shut to avoid the rising bile. The dizziness finally abates, and though it was probably only half a minute all together, when he reopens his eyes, it is clear that it has not gone unnoticed.

‘Charles, are you okay?’ Carlos’ tone is concerned, and Charles can feel his arm tightening reflexively against his shoulders.

‘I… yes… I, I think so,’ Charles’ voice is trembling slightly, shaken by the unexpected turn of events. ‘I really am just very tired. I’m going to get a taxi back to the hotel I think.’ He breaks away from Carlos’ grip and stands, clutching the table for support as he wavers on his feet for a second.

‘This is not fine,’ George has risen to his feet as well, grabbing onto Charles’ arm. ‘Are you sick?’

‘No, I’m just tired,’ Charles waved him off, straightening slowly. To his relief, the dizziness doesn’t return, and he is able to step away from the table without incident.

‘That doesn’t look like you’re just tired,’ Oscar voices, face imperturbable as ever.

‘I’ll feel better after I sleep. See you tomorrow at the track, yeah?’ He doesn’t wait for their response, knowing that they will undoubtedly wish to continue the argument. God, he wants to be anywhere but here. He stumbles out the door, gasping desperately for breath. All he wants is some fresh air, but it’s so hot and dry he feels his lungs are barely getting air.

Charles slumps down against the front of the building on his haunches, head in his hands as he takes careful breaths. He hadn’t been feeling that bad most of the day, exhausted sure, the odd stomach cramp and he didn't want lunch. But nothing like this.

‘You’re so fine,’ a sarcastic voice rings out above him. A horribly familiar Dutch voice.

‘Go away,’ Charles groans, as he focuses his energy on not passing out.

‘No, we won’t.’ It is the “we” which makes Charles raise his bleary eyes. All his friends are in front of him, Max kneeling, looking at him with intensity.

‘None of you ate dinner,’ is all he can think to say.

‘Good thing the hotel offers room service,’ Lando huffs. ‘But can we hurry up please? Some of us need feeding.’

‘God you’re such a child,’ Oscar rolls his eyes. ‘I drove. Can only fit two people in the car though.

‘I’m yours,’ Lando jumps on Oscar’s back, the Aussie catching his thighs instinctively.

Carlos looks baffled but amused by the interaction. ‘I drove too. Charles, you’re coming with me.’ He doesn’t have the strength to protest, nodding slightly. The world sways along with his head, making the nausea threaten once more. He wavers on his haunches, and Max lunges to steady him.

‘Did you drive?’ The Dutchman asks, and it takes a moment for Charles to realise he is being addressed.

‘Erm, yes. Oh god, I can’t leave the car here.’

‘Give me your keys,’ Max holds out his hand in demand.

‘You can’t drive it,’ Charles protests. ‘It’s a Ferrari.’

‘Shock,’ Max deadpans. ‘Now give me the keys.’ Charles doesn’t protest any further, just makes to stand. There is no way he can dig his keys from the pocket of his skinny jeans while hunched over like this. Aggravated by the change in elevation, his vision begins to swim in and out dangerously yet again. He is vaguely aware of Max’s arms, lean yet corded with muscle keeping him upright. It takes a few minutes before he manages to re-orient himself, but by the time he does, only Max and Carlos are remaining.

‘I swear I felt fine earlier,’ his voice is weak and breathy, though he has no idea when it got that way.

‘So, you admit you’re not fine now?’ Max’s tone is mocking, though there is more than a little concern beneath the teasing.

‘I’ve felt better.’ Charles removes his hand from Max’s shoulder for a second, to dig his hand into his front pocket. He hands his keys to Max without further complaint. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

Max doesn’t bother responding, just gestures Carlos forward. The Ferrari driver approaches his teammate, taking his weight from Max without prompt. Charles wants to protest at the manhandling, but his knees are trembling, his head scrambled. Carlos steers him to the second Ferrari, a few spaces over from his own rented car which Max is already climbing into. Charles drops into the passenger seat with a sigh, immediately turning the air conditioning on as high as it will go.

‘Do you have a fever?’ Carlos’ voice breaks through his reverie.

‘No, I’m not hot. I just need air,’ Charles breaths, sinking into the leather seat with a sigh. Carlos does not ask anything further of him, but Charles has been in the car with him enough times to realise he’s driving slowly.

Fuck, Charles doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bad. Even when he had the tooth infection, he was in pain, but he felt okay otherwise. This is something deeper. He genuinely had attributed it to exhaustion, but thinking back now, there is no reason for the dizzy spells that have been plaguing him. Or the nagging stomach pains he’s had on and off for the last few days.

‘I’m sorry, for bringing up the press back at the restaurant,’ Charles breaks the silence.

‘Ahh, don’t worry Charles,’ Carlos waves him off. ‘We all know this is the reality.’

‘Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it,’ Charles grumbles, unable to prevent the single tear slipping down his cheek. Luckily, it’s on the side not facing Carlos, so he is able to wipe it away subtly.

‘Just because I will be leaving Ferrari, Charles, it doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.’ The Spaniard places a comforting hand on Charles’ knee, kneading small circles into his jeans.

‘People always say that.’ He wishes his voice didn’t sound so childlike, small, and broken. The people in his life don’t always choose to leave him, but he finds himself alone either way.

‘You’re my best friend. Leaving you would be like tearing out a piece of my heart.’ Charles is silent for a few moments, taking in the words. Carlos says it with such ease, as though this isn’t exactly what Charles’ scarred heart needs to hear.

‘You’re my best friend, too.’

It’s only a few more minutes before they pull up to the hotel. ‘Are you going to pass out if I let you get out the car alone?’ Carlos keeps his tone light, but he is clearly worried.

Charles just smiles sheepishly, the expression on his face enough of an answer. Carlos doesn’t answer, choosing instead to slide out of the car and round the vehicle, opening Charles’ door for him. He wants to make a quip about chivalry, something to make this less awkward, but doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he takes Carlos’ outstretched hand, and uses it to lever himself up, pausing when a shooting pain erupts in his abdomen. Charles cannot prevent a deep groan at the unexpected agony, hunching over with one hand flying to his stomach.

‘What happened?’ Carlos demands, his free arm hovering over Charles’ back.

‘Nothing,’ Charles inhales sharply through his nose as the pain lessens, before disappearing entirely. ‘Sorry, just erm, just got cramp.’ Carlos frowns, clearly unconvinced, but focuses on getting him into the hotel. It’s a few minutes until they are standing in the lift, jolting upward to the second floor.

Charles isn’t naïve enough to think that Carlos will be leaving him alone tonight, so he does not object when the Spaniard leads Charles to his own room. The door is open already, and Charles becomes aware of soft voices floating from the room.

‘Mate, I don’t want anything with fish in it!’ Clearly that’s Lando.

‘No, we all know that you just want milk,’ his teammate retorts.

‘Awh, always knew you were a fan really.’

‘I swear to god,’ Max’s voice is strained, having beaten them back to the hotel due to Carlos’ careful driving. Charles can imagine the man pinching the bridge of his nose like the grandpa he is.

‘What do you think Charles would like?’ He hears George ask, just as he and Carlos enter the room.

‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear,’ Alex muttered ominously, making Charles frown.

‘I am not the devil.’

‘It’s a turn of phrase mate,’ Alex huffs. ‘Though you look rough. Maybe the devil will take you.’ Charles chuckles and wishes he hadn't as the pain returns to haunt him, though duller than before. He manages to avoid making any facial expression to betray his discomfort, though he must have given it away in his body language, because Carlos immediately steers him toward the couch.

‘You are sick,’ he declares, crossing his arms as he takes a step back.

‘I’m fine,’ Charles cannot suppress a wince as he shifts uncomfortably, before finally allowing his tortured body to sink into the fluffy cushions. The six men examine him judgementally, and he pouts like a child. ‘I just want to sleep, and then I’ll be fine.’

‘Uh huh,’ Oscar rolls his eyes, and Charles can’t help but miss the slightly less sarcastic version of the young Aussie.

‘Leave me alone,’ he grumbles, burying his head in the pillow. His eyes are already heavy, and it is only a few seconds before he is asleep.

Ramblers in the wilderness

We can't find what we need

Charles has no idea how long he is out, but the smell of food rouses him. He groans deeply into the pillow, before pushing himself into a seated position. There is still pain when he moves, but it is duller than before. He waits for it to fade, but this time it persists at a constant hum in his body. Charles rubs his eyes, realising that he was moved to the bedroom while he slept.

It takes him a second to regain his balance when he pushes to his feet, however he feels steadier than he did before. Not fine, but definitely better. He opens the door, realising there is a low level of noise coming from the other side.

He steps into the living area of the hotel suite, instantly finding six pairs of eyes fixed on him from where they are gathered round the dinner table. ‘You’re still here.’

‘Course we are mate. We needed to eat,’ Lando scarfs down some fries from the plate in front of him.

Charles snags one of the fries, popping in his own mouth. Lando makes an outraged noise, immediately moving to guard his plate.

‘Get your own!’

‘I wasn’t here when you ordered, it’ll take ages for something else to come up,’ Charles whines, making grabby hands at the plates of food spread around.

‘You’re feeling better then,’ George says wryly, fending him off from his own plate.

‘No, I’m so hungry I might die,’ Charles whines, flopping down in the spare chair. Why there is a dining table in a hotel room he has no idea. But this is Saudi Arabia, and they are in a hotel room booked by Ferrari.

‘How are you feeling?’ Alex asks around his mouthful of burger, making Charles’ stomach rumble loudly.

‘Better,’ he shrugs, not really lying. ‘I told you all I needed was sleep. And now food.’

‘There is a plate in the microwave,’ Max says gently, from across the table.

Charles cocks his head in confusion, peeling himself off the chair and going to examine the kitchen. As promised, there is a bowl of pasta waiting for him in the microwave. His favourite pasta, with the right sauce and everything. He quickly turns the microwave on, heating it before making his way back to the table.

‘Whoever ordered this pasta for me, I love you,’ Charles groans through a mouthful, the familiar flavours comforting him. ‘My father used to make this for me when I was young. It’s the only dish he knew how to make,’ Charles chuckles gently, memories growing in his chest like a warm blanket. ‘It makes me think of him every time I eat it.’

He can see them swapping guilty glances, and he realises they must think this is a melancholic recollection. ‘Thank you, for remembering. For making me feel I am at home.’

‘You said it once, in an interview. You said that this pasta reminds you of your childhood, of your home,’ Max won’t meet his gaze as he says this, looking bashful. The knowledge is so intimate, and the fact that Max remembers it...

‘Thank you,’ Charles’ voice is quiet, and he doesn’t miss the way everyone looks away from the intense gaze he and Max are currently locked in. Max breaks the connection first, a deep blush growing on his cheeks. Charles turns his attention back to his pasta.

‘Okay,’ Oscar breaks the tension. ‘Something clearly happened there.’

‘Yeah, we don’t talk about it, Osc,’ Lando claps the Aussie on his shoulder.

The rest of the night passes without incident, everyone eventually filtering out to go sleep in their own rooms before practice in the morning. Finally, only Charles and Carlos remain, George having exited mere minutes earlier.

‘You’re going nowhere,’ Carlos orders, pointing his finger at Charles.

‘I’m fine, I swear,’ Charles rebukes. It is a lie, he has been feeling increasingly unwell as the night goes on, his stomach becoming more unsettled, the pain increasing in intensity. It has culminated so that he now feels truly shit, but less close to passing out than he was earlier. The nap and air conditioning in the hotel have been good for him.

‘We need to go to bed. And you’re sleeping here.’ Carlos’ tone doesn’t leave room for argument, so Charles doesn’t even try.

‘Is there another room..?’ He asks, having not spotted one.

‘No. We will be sharing.’

‘Carlos, I can’t do that. Just let me go back to my hotel room!’ Charles protests immediately.

‘Are you uncomfortable? I can take the couch. Just, we have shared a bed before and you never minded,’ Carlos shrugs.

‘That was on holiday,’ Charles protests immediately. ‘We have never shared a bed on a race weekend! I don’t want to disturb you. You need sleep for the race tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow is practice, it barely even counts,’ Carlos waves it away dismissively. ‘Besides, I will be worried about you otherwise.’

Charles thinks he should probably protest more, but he doesn’t have the will. He feels awful, and he misses his family. If Carlos is offering him comfort this readily, who is Charles to turn it down? He allows the older man to lead him into the bedroom. They each use the bathroom briefly, before falling into bed.

With the air conditioning beating down on him, and Carlos’ warm presence on the other side of the bed, it only takes seconds for Charles to fall into a deep sleep.

We get a little restless from the searching

Get a little worn down in between

Charles panics as soon as he wakes. He is thrown from a deep sleep by the awareness of a rising sickness in his body. He is going to hurl.

He stumbles out of the bed and into the adjoining ensuite, his knees slamming into the marble floor as he empties his stomach violently into the toilet. He continues to vomit heartily for a few minutes, before he falls back, boneless against the hard tiled wall. He is aware for the first time of the intense shivering which he can’t control, yet the sweat covering every inch of him. He’s so hot, but he can’t stop shaking.

Charles stays hunched in the corner for a few minutes before he feels his guts begin to rise again. He launches to the porcelain, feeling as though his stomach is going to exit through mouth with the force of his heaving.

By the end, he is bringing up nothing but bile, not that his body seems to have realised that. He continues to dry heave for a few long minutes until he can finally slump back. Where he had been burning hot, somehow, he’s now so cold he can feel his teeth chattering.

This must be what death feels like.

He’s being dramatic he knows, but he’s not felt this bad, maybe ever. The pain in his stomach is growing worse, but so long as he stays still, it’s not terrible. It is this endeavour that keeps him on the bathroom floor for so long, that at some point, he falls into a restless doze.

Like a bull chasing the matador

Is the man left to his own schemes

Charles wakes again, slowly this time, as light pierces his eyeballs. He winces, bringing up a hand to deflect the bright light. He regrets that quickly as the movement reaggravates his painful abdomen, deciding to close his eyes instead. He has no idea what time it is, but his body is telling him vocally how unhappy it is to be alive.

It takes a few minutes, and Charles has to lever himself up with the support of the sink, but eventually he is balancing on unsteady legs. He leans against the porcelain, looking in the mirror above. He is a mess. His hair is flattened and dishevelled, eyes blanketed by bags so deep they look like black eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this pale, lips white and cracked.

A shower. That will make everything better. He lingers beneath the spray, alternating between sitting and standing, as he finds he has so little energy he can barely stay on his feet. By the end however, the hot water has warmed him up after a long night on the cold bathroom floor, and he does feel more alive. A quick glance in the mirror reveals that he still looks rough, but certainly less pitiful than he had been.

He wraps the towel around his waist, slipping into the bedroom quietly when he realises that Carlos is still sleeping. Charles grabs his clothes from the suitcase in the corner, before making his way to the living space. He drops onto the couch gratefully, relieved to be off his feet despite the limited physical activity he has partaken in.

After thirty or so minutes of scrolling mindlessly through his phone, curled up tightly to retain warmth, Carlos’ head pokes out from the bedroom.

‘Ah, there you are.’ His teammate’s voice is husky from sleep, the Spanish accent thicker than usual. ‘I was worried you might be gone.’

‘Nah, I’m here,’ Charles’ voice is broken from the violent expulsion of the night before, and Carlos frowns in worry.

‘How are you feeling today?’ Carlos approaches him, pressing his cool hand to Charles’ forehead before he can pull away. ‘Christo, you are warm!’

‘I’m fine,’ Charles lies through his teeth.

‘You are a liar,’ Carlos rolls his eyes. ‘Tell me the truth, or I’ll tell Fred.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Charles gasps in faux betrayal. ‘I don’t know the English word. You are a traitre!’

‘You love me really,’ Carlos chuckles. ‘Now tell me how bad you feel. I do not forget.’

Charles sighs but sees the sense in admitting to his teammate of all people, how bad he really feels. ‘Everything hurts. I think I might vomit every time I move, and I really, really don’t want to stand up.’

Carlos doesn’t say anything, but the concerned turn of his mouth speaks volumes. ‘I am going to shower, we will talk after this, yes?’ Charles doesn’t have a chance to respond, as Carlos heads straight for the bathroom. He is distracted by his phone pinging in his hand.

Sebby: Good luck today, kid
Sebby: You’ll get a podium this week, I feel it

Charles: Miss you Seb
Charles: Wish you could be here

Sebby: I’m sorry kid, I’m coming to most of the European races I promise

Charles: I know. Thanks Seb

Sebby: You good kid? You don’t sound fine

Charles: Yeah I’m good :)

He shuts off his phone after this, deciding to close his eyes for a few minutes. Lying to Seb doesn’t feel the same as lying to everyone else. He dozes restlessly as he waits for Carlos, the pain in his abdomen growing and subsiding with every breath.

‘Charles,’ there is a gentle hand on his knee, and he opens his eyes to find Carlos’ warm brown orbs looking back at him. He hadn’t even heard the other man approach, or registered the couch dipping when he sat down. ‘Charles, I really don’t think that you should be racing today.’

Truthfully, Carlos has a point, and Charles knows that. But this is also his career, another chance at the world championship. It’s Ferrari, and Jules and the Tifosi. He doesn’t want to let all the people he cares for down.

‘Let’s go to the paddock. We have briefing and media before we do practice anyway. If I feel worse, then I won’t race,’ Charles bargains, knowing that Carlos will not be satisfied with anything less. The Spaniard looks unhappy, but also knows that it’s the best terms he’s going to get.

‘Deal,’ he sighs deeply. ‘But on that note, we need to go.’ Charles checks his dying phone, having not realised the time.

‘God, yeah, let’s go.’ Carlos offers him a hand up, which Charles accepts gratefully, levering himself onto unsteady feet. They exit the hotel without incident, though sliding into Carlos’ sports car is painful.

The journey to the paddock is unpleasant, though Charles does his best to hide it from his Spanish compatriot. The movement of the car only increases his nausea, and the constant pain spikes every time they hit a bump. But they get there, and the two drivers climb from the car without being surrounded by fans.

Friday practices are often the most pleasant of a race weekend, as they tend to be the quietest around the paddock, most fans not arriving until the next day for qualifying. Charles can’t help but appreciate the peace, especially since he is acutely aware he’s not exactly on top form.

They get to the Ferrari hospitality just as debrief starts, Fred glancing at them both as they take seats beside one another.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ the older man jokes, before he gets a proper look at Charles. ‘Maybe the cat did actually drag you in.’ Charles smiles wanly, as the engineers chuckle at his expense.

‘Not the cat, just Carlos,’ he jokes, though the man in question doesn’t laugh.

‘He’s sick.’

‘Carlos!’ Charles whirls around, regretting the movement quickly when his vision spins. He manages to hold it together, glaring at his protective faux older brother.

‘You’re sick? How bad?’ Fred asks, immediately looking worried.

‘I’m fine!’ Charles throws his hands up in exasperation, the movement temporarily causing a spike in pain. ‘Let’s just get this done, and we can debate afterwards, yes?’

Carlos and Fred exchange a not-so-subtle look, before acquiescing to the request. If Charles spends the next hour in a stupor, just barely listening to their debrief, well, no one needs to know that but him.

He is shaken from his daze as all the engineers begin getting to their feet, Carlos following them. Charles is quick to stand, though he has to grab onto the back of the chair to keep his knees from giving way. A hand claps the back of his shoulder.

‘Charles, come, we must talk,’ Fred’s stern voice echoes, and Charles winces. This won’t be good.

Once Charles is steady again, Fred leads him to his office, within which Carlos is already waiting for them.

‘Ambush,’ Charles mutters sulkily beneath his breath, as he sits beside Carlos. Fred takes the seat behind his desk, before examining them both closely.

‘Charles, be frank, are you well enough to race?’ The genuine concern exuding from Fred’s every pore makes him want to cry.

‘I don’t know,’ Charles says honestly. ‘I feel bad, I shall not deny this. But Fred, please, let me try. If the practice laps are going badly, I’ll retire from the race, and we can get a substitute in.’

‘Fred, come on. He is not well. You can see it; I can see it. It’s not safe,’ Carlos pleads, and Charles has to work hard not to show the stab of betrayal that strikes at his heart. This is his teammate; the best one he has ever had. His best friend, in truth. And he isn’t supporting Charles.

Fred examines them both closely, his eyes sharp enough to penetrate straight to their souls. Whatever he sees must satisfy him. ‘Charles, you must be checked out by medics before and immediately after the practice sessions. If they say you are not well enough to race, you do not, understand?’ Charles nods eagerly, feeling that his luck is turning. ‘You retire as soon as you feel worse, there is no shame in listening to your body. And no post-race press. You look like you’re going to die.’ Charles grins, allowing his joy to shine through unabashedly.

‘Thank you, Fred. I swear I won’t let you down!’

‘Listen to me, Charles, closely. The only way you could let me down is by hurting yourself. Okay, do you hear me? Retiring from the race is not letting anyone down. I know the way my predecessor ran this team was… harsh. But I do not want that mentality to prevail today.’

‘I promise, Fred. Thank you.’

Charles and Carlos both exit the room, one significantly more triumphant than the other. ‘Please, Charles. Please be sensible. As soon as you are at your limit, retire. I beg of you.’

‘You didn’t exactly support me back there,’ Charles spits, the words emerging harsher than he means them to.

‘Because I am worried about you!’

‘You don’t have to be, I am an adult, I can look after myself,’ Charles responds hotly, aware that they are drawing attention now.

‘You don’t have to though! I know that you have lost people, so you think you have no one. But I care. We all care!’ Carlos realises what he has done as soon as the words leave his lips. ‘Oh Charles, I am so sorry, I shouldn’t…’

‘Shouldn’t have what, huh? Shouldn’t have thrown my dead dad, and my dead godfather, and my dead friend in my face? Shouldn’t have used them as the punchline for an argument?’ Charles shakes his head, blood boiling hotter than the fever coursing through his system. ‘Of all people, Carlos. I thought you understood.’ He turns on his heel and storms away before the tears building in his eyes can begin to fall. He hears a muffled curse and what sounds like Carlos kicking out at something.

Charles manages to make it back to his driver’s room before he loses it. The lack of sleep, feeling like shit and hurtful words that his best friend threw at him all cumulating into one truly crappy day. Charles curls up on the small cot and cries softly. Being sick makes him miss his family more than ever, especially his father, who used to cook him pasta and watch movies with him for days on end while he was ill. Carlos referencing the man in such a callous way pushes Charles to the end of his already shortened tether.

It feels like no time at all has passed, when there is a soft knock on the door. Charles doesn’t answer, hoping upon hope that Carlos will leave him alone. Instead, against his wishes, the door cracks open, a remarkably familiar head poking through.

‘Carlos told me you’d be in here wallowing,’ Pierre grins, speaking French. Charles can’t help the renewed tears that begin to spill, at the sight of his oldest friend. One of his brothers, really.

‘Hey, hey, I’m sorry Charles,’ Pierre perches on the edge of the bed, pulling Charles into his lap so the Monegasque can cry into his race suit.

‘Did Carlos tell you what happened?’

‘No,’ Pierre frowns, clearly unhappy about the state of affairs. ‘All he told me was that you are ill and will not appreciate his company at the moment.’

Charles sniffs pitifully, the thoughtfulness of his fellow Ferrari driver taking some of the sting out of his earlier actions. ‘He said something, and I know I took it the wrong way. I was being sensitive. Just… it hurts so much, and I don’t feel well. I guess it just all built up at once?’ He can already feel the embarrassment taking over, at how he overreacted. Carlos shouldn’t have said it, but he knows that on a better day, he would have taken the words for how Carlos meant them, rather than how they came out.

‘Petit Calamar, please, you are allowed a bad day. And it sounds like you’ve been having a bad few days. You’re so warm, man.’ Charles winces, realising he is both sweating and crying into Pierre’s race suit. He sits up quickly, tucking himself beneath Pierre’s outstretched arm.

‘I need to go see the medic. Fred told me to go, otherwise I cannot race.’ Pierre doesn’t bother questioning if he should race. They both know it’s a pretty terrible idea, but they also know it’s a choice most race drivers make at some point in their careers.

‘Come on, we shall go together.’ Pierre holds out an arm for the younger man, hugging him around the waist when they stand. They make their way to the medical centre, where the doctor grudgingly clears Charles to race. Charles only lies a little?

‘Do you want me to come back with you?’ Pierre asks, despite his phone ringing off the hook for the last ten minutes with people demanding to know where he disappeared to.

‘No, I am okay thank you Calamar. I need to go apologise to Carlos,’ Charles smiles slightly, feeling lighter in his heart, if not body.

‘He needs to apologise to you too Charles,’ Pierre calls in French as he walks away. ‘Don’t forget about his apology too!’

Charles chuckles at the antics of his oldest friend, before turning and heading back toward Ferrari hospitality. The pain increases significantly when he walks, so he almost finds himself looking forward to clambering into his cramped cockpit. At least there he can sit down.

‘Charles, I’m so sorry,’ Carlos is almost frantic. ‘I didn’t mean it, I swear, I would never throw that in your face.’

‘Carlos, it is okay. I know how you meant it. If I had been having a better day, I would have taken it for how it was meant. But I was having a dreadful day, and I took it out on you. So, I’m sorry too.’ Before he can finish his sentence, the Spaniard is throwing his arms around the younger man tightly, pulling him close.

‘We’re not allowed to fight, okay?’ Carlos’ words are muffled in his shoulders, as the two Ferrari drivers hold one another close. 'I don't like it.' Charles just nods into his neck, savouring the hug no matter how much it hurts. ‘Is it too early to ask if you’re still racing?’ Carlos asks hesitantly as he pulls away.

Charles just huffs, but he keeps his frustration under tight wraps. ‘Well, I’ve just been cleared by the medics. So, I’d say you’re probably going to have to deal with it.’ Carlos looks unhappy but doesn’t protest as they head back into the garage. Charles disappears to throw his race suit on, and then he is lowering himself into the seat of the car. The cramped space feels more claustrophobic than normal, and Charles has to focus on taking deep breaths through the helmet as they motion for him to leave. He drives out and tries to clear his mind, to focus on nothing but the track beneath his wheels and the roar of the engine.

Except his abdomen is alight, sparks of fire ricocheting around his lower right abdomen as the car jolts mercilessly. There is sweat dripping into his eyes, and even on the warmup laps, he can feel how this is all wrong.

‘You have a clear field ahead of you. You are clear for your first flying lap.’ His race engineer tells him. Charles pushes down on the throttle fully for the first time, and immediately regrets it. The pain increases another notch, and the nausea which has been simmering at a low level for the last few hours sharpens unbearably. He breaks hard for the first corner, locking up badly and only increasing his own misery.

He knows he is driving like shit, sloppy and slow despite his best efforts. His race engineer has been unusually chatty, clearly concerned by the inferior performance. He manages to complete his flying lap, and immediately falls to a lounging pace, barely pushing the car. The strain on his body however doesn’t let up, and he knows he has reached his limit.

‘Box,’ he manages to gasp into the radio, not listening to the response of his race engineer. He manages to take the car the last few hundred metres, turning into the pit lane as soon as he spies its entrance. He pulls up outside Ferrari, and motions to the engineers to haul him out. They do so, and as soon as he has cleared the car, he pulls his helmet off frantically, puking his guts up then and there, in front of the whole grid.

Charles doesn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed, too consumed by the unending heaving.

‘Oh Charles,’ he hears a familiar French voice, but can’t look up as another wave of sickness jolts through him. Fred gets to his knees beside him, a hand landing on his lower back. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

It takes another few excruciating minutes before Charles regains enough control of himself to move, at which point he struggles to his feet, the dizziness overwhelming him. The nearest engineers grab a hold of his arms, looping them around their shoulders in support.

‘Get him to the medical centre please,’ Fred tells them. ‘Tell the doctor I’ll be there shortly.’

Charles does his best to force his legs to move, he really does. But he’s just so tired, and everything hurts so much. The pulling on his abdomen as they move is unbearable, and he has to stop them halfway to puke again. There really is nothing left to come up at this point, and he dry heaves miserably for a few minutes.

Finally, they drag him through the doors to the medical centre, immediately lying him down on one of the cots without permission.

‘I thought I told you to take it easy,’ comes the voice of the same doctor who cleared him to race. Charles cannot make out her face through the dizziness, but he can imagine the glare she is currently pinning him with.

‘I did,’ he gasps, curling up on the bed to protect his agonising stomach.

‘Mhm,’ she hums, unimpressed. ‘Feel free to head off,’ She tells the engineers, who look reluctant to leave, but do so under her withering glare.

‘Will you let me examine you properly this time?’ Charles’ only response is to dry heave again, stopping any protestations he may have made in their tracks.

Everybody needs someone beside em'

Shining like a lighthouse from the sea

Charles has no idea how long he is in the medical centre, but it feels like mere minutes until there is a loud hubbub. Within seconds, Carlos and Lando are at his bedside, Carlos swearing in Spanish as Lando winces at the sight of him.

‘Charles, you stupid, stupid boy,’ Carlos scolds, carding his fingers through Charles’ hair. ‘I was so scared when they told me you retired.’

‘I’m okay,’ Charles croaks, burying his head in the pillow to suppress a cry of pain.

‘Right, yeah, you’re just peachy,’ Lando snorts, though Charles can hear the genuine concern beneath his words.

‘You most certainly aren’t okay, Mr Leclerc,’ the bossy doctor comes up behind them. ‘In fact, there is an ambulance on its way right now to take you to the hospital.’

‘Why? What is wrong with him?’ Carlos demands.

‘I’m almost certain he has appendicitis, though they will have to officially diagnose him at the hospital,’ the doctor responds.

‘Oh shit,’ Lando winces. ‘That’s bad.’

‘I do not know this word,’ Carlos huffs, frustrated at the language barrier. ‘Tell me what this means.’

‘Do you remember when Alex had to have surgery last year?’ Lando intercedes, before he can begin to cross-examine the doctor.

‘I… yes. Something inside him was infected?’ Carlos thinks back to the incident, struggling to find the English words to express himself.

‘Yeah mate. It’s like a tiny organ that get’s swollen and needs to come out?’ Lando looks to the doctor for confirmation, who nods with a grin.

‘Close enough.’

‘So, he needs surgery?’ Carlos asks, struggling to wrap his head around the words being thrown around.

‘Provided the hospital confirms my diagnosis, then yes,’ the doctor concedes. ‘But the procedure will likely be laparoscopic, and he won’t have to be at the hospital for longer than twenty-four hours.’

‘Small surgery,’ Lando breaks in, before Carlos can blow his top at the doctor. Charles is barely following the conversation, let alone any of the medical jargon, but he can see how agitated Carlos is. ‘It just means they don’t need to make large cuts, so it should hurt less and recover faster, right?’ Lando looks to the doctor for confirmation.

‘Yes,’ she nods. ‘I’m impressed by how much you know.’

Lando shrugs modestly, ‘I did some research before Alex had his surgery.’

‘I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you have any more questions. Otherwise, I will notify you when the ambulance gets here, and we are ready to transport him.’ The doctor takes her leave, for the best in Charles’ opinion, he can see Carlos growing angrier as the time goes on.

‘Charles, how are you feeling?’ Carlos perches on the edge of the bed so he can see the Monegasque better, though Charles suspects he won’t want to. If he looks half as bad as he feels, it’s not going to be a pretty sight.

‘It hurts, Chilli,’ Charles whimpers, done with trying to be strong. He just wants comfort from his favourite people.

Carlos frowns deeply, continuing to play with Charles’ hair soothingly. ‘Have Ferrari got all your up-to-date information?’ Carlos asks gently. Charles just nods, unable to find the strength to answer properly.

‘Lando, can you go get Charles’ information from Ferrari. Tell Fred I sent you and warn the others if you see them. I’m staying here.’ Lando doesn’t argue, getting to his feet and rushing from the room.

‘I’m going to stay with you, okay Charles. You’re not alone,’ Carlos puts his hand on his cheek tenderly, and Charles can’t suppress the single tear which slips down his cheek. It hurts, and he had resigned himself to being alone. Accepting comfort from the Spaniard fills his heart with warmth.

They stay like this for a while, Charles unable to keep track of time as his eyes slip closed, the pain and exhaustion sapping his body of strength.

‘The ambulance is here.’ The words shake Charles awake, the mattress shifting as Carlos gets to his feet.

‘Can I go in the ambulance?’ Carlos asks immediately, but it stopped by a gentle tugging on the sleeve of his race suit.

‘You don’t need to come,’ Charles whispers. ‘You smell. You need to shower, and get some proper clothes on, and sleep properly. I’ll be fine.’ The doctor walks away to give them some privacy.

‘I’m not leaving you alone at the hospital, Charles,’ Carlos protests.

‘You need to shower and change,’ Charles wrinkles his nose for comedic effect, even as the pain tears through him. It draws a laugh out of the older man, which makes Charles feel vindicated.

‘I know how much you hate hospitals, Lord Perceval. I’m not letting you stay there alone.’

‘All they’ll be doing is taking me into surgery. I’ll be asleep for most of it anyway.’ Charles lies through his teeth. He wants Carlos there with him desperately, but he cannot be selfish.

‘I don’t want you to be alone,’ Carlos whispers brokenly, though Charles can tell the logic is beginning to sink in.

‘He won’t be alone,’ a new voice breaks in. Carlos turns, allowing Charles to see past his form to the six new people, who have just entered the room, Max in the lead.

‘Carlos, Lando and Oscar are going to stay here with you. You’re going to shower, get changed, and then come to the hospital,’ the Dutchman takes control of the situation. Charles sees Lando hand the doctor a file in the background, clearly his medical information from Ferrari.

‘I’m not letting him be alone at the hospital,’ Carlos denies immediately, but Max’s reply is ready.

‘Which is why George, Alex and I will be going with him. Between the three of us, we can make sure he isn’t alone for a single second. And then you can join us at the hospital because I know to pick my battles with you.’ Charles can see Carlos is thinking it over, so he reaches out again, grabbing Carlos’ hand, warm against his own icy skin.

‘I won’t be alone, and it means that you won’t smell anymore.’ Carlos lets out another small huff of laughter, and the Monegasque can tell he is beginning to cave. ‘You won’t be on any help to me if you’re exhausted.’ The Spaniard must see the sense in this because he nods, standing from the edge of the bed.

‘Don’t let him be alone any more than you really have to,’ he shakes a finger at Max, who holds his hands up in surrender.

‘Not on my life.’ Carlos finally concedes, exiting with Lando and Oscar after saying a tender goodbye to Charles. The doctor approaches as soon as the three men leave the room.

‘They’re ready to transport you, Charles. Is anyone here coming with you? We can only take one I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll be coming,’ Max announces, watching Charles carefully to ensure he agrees. Charles offers a small smile of acceptance.

‘We’ll grab stuff for you both and head over to the hospital,’ George says easily. ‘Is there anyone you want me to call?’

‘Can you call my brothers? Just tell that you’re all here with me, and they don’t need to worry.’ Alex nods, squeezing his hand.

‘I’ll call them now. We’ll see you in, like, an hour, okay?’ Charles nods gently, eternally grateful for the friends he has.

The two Brits leave the room, giving the paramedics room to approach with a gurney. ‘This might be uncomfortable Mr Leclerc, but for your safety during travel, we’re going to need to get you on the backboard and strap you down. We can give you something for the pain, if laying in this way is aggravates your condition.’

Charles acquiesces, but he can’t suppress a deep groan when he uncurls and lays straight. Max grabs his hand without thinking about it.

‘Just squeeze my hand,’ Max murmurs under his breath, beside Charles’ ear. ‘When it hurts, just squeeze my hand.’ He does so, the pain spiking again as they get the back board beneath him and transfer him to the gurney. After that, it’s mere seconds before they are both in the ambulance. Max sits at his head, strapped into the metal chair which makes Charles wince at the look of it.

‘Are you okay?’ Max’s voice is so achingly soft, as Charles continues to cling to his hand.

‘Not really,’ Charles hisses between his teeth as they go over a particularly rough bump. ‘But hopefully soon it will be?’ It comes out as a question, and Max is quick to look over at the paramedic monitoring Charles’ vitals.

‘I think the doctor was right when she suspected appendicitis. Provided it’s not too far along, yeah you should be feeling better very soon,’ the paramedic tries for comfort, though his face gives nothing away.

Max looks like he wants to ask something else, but before he can, they are at the hospital. Max is torn away from Charles, the Monegasque’s hand feeling cold and empty. Without Max anchoring him, the increasing torment emanating from his abdomen takes over, and blackness descends.

Chapter Text

Max had been looking forward to this race. Saudi Arabia is one of the tracks he enjoys most, and after a long winter break, he has been itching to get back to racing. Just to make his weekend better, they managed to arrange dinner Wednesday night, before they begin racing properly. They meet up often during race weekends, but the nights before practice are always the best.

Except Charles walks through the door, late due to media duties, looking like he might keel over. Honestly, Max has never seen the man look so poor. He is pale and his eyes are drooping, as he gets to the table he staggers slightly before he can sit down.

They all joke about it, but Max can sense the undercurrent of worry around the table. Especially when Charles decides to fall asleep at the dinner table.

And then his weekend goes to hell. As soon as Charles begins to sway at the dinner table, he swears he can see his great weekend going down the drain. Literally, he can see it happening.

He ends up on the pavement outside the restaurant, clinging onto the Monegasque desperately just to keep him upright. The cherry on top of his shitty weekend is having to drive a Ferrari back to Charles’ hotel. 

They end up spending the night in Carlos' hotel room, despite the prior plans. Charles doesn't surface for a while, but once he does it is clear to them all how obviously poor he is feeling. He eats the pasta Max ordered for him slowly, slumping on the couch once he is done. He manages to stay awake this time, but he is unusually quiet and withdrawn the whole night. Max heads off early, giving Charles a gentle hug before he leaves. 

The night passes blissfully uneventfully, and he is at the paddock before he knows it. Max is lingering in the Red Bull garage, speaking with some of the engineers when he sees Charles and Carlos cross his eyeline. If he thought Charles looked bad last night, well, that’s nothing compared to today.

He is white as a sheet, trembling finely and there is a sheen of sweat across his brow. Carlos is supporting a significant amount of his weight, and he watches as Charles slumps into one of the Ferrari chairs. He curls up slightly around his obviously painful abdomen, seemingly unable to even sit straight. Max can see his own worry reflected in Carlos’ face, and it takes immense self-control to prevent himself from storming over there and doing something about it.

‘He looks rough,’ a familiar British voice says from his left, and Max turns to find George has wandered over.

‘He looks worse than last night, that’s for sure.’

‘There’s nothing you can do, mate,’ George claps his hand on Max’s shoulder. ‘Ferrari will make sure he’s okay.’

Max snorts derisively, ‘yeah, like they’ve done that so well in the past. You said it, “they’re sacrificing Leclerc.”’ He references a memorable incident over George’s radio.

‘That was when Binotto was in charge. We both know that Fred cares about him,’ George says comfortingly. Max just grunts, but he hears the truth in the words. He observes with George for a few more moments, before he is called from within the garage.

‘See you out there, mate,’ he gives George an unexpected side hug. Max isn't one of the more physically affectionate drivers, but the turmoil weighing down his mind is enough for him to reach out. George must understand how he feels, because the Brit wraps his arm around Max for a few moments before they each pull away. 

Thoughts of Charles plague Max until he gets in the car, and then his brain empties, his focus laser sharp. There is nothing on earth which can make him feel this level of peace.

Until he watches Charles Leclerc limp his car into the pit lane.

‘Was there an accident?’ He asks GP over the radio, trying to keep the desperation from his tone.

‘Negative, Max.’

‘What was Leclerc doing driving so slowly into the pit lane?’

‘He’s had to retire the car due to illness.’

Damnit. He knew Charles shouldn’t have gotten in that car. He should have said something. He thought Carlos at least would have been sensible enough to keep that idiot out of the car.

‘Is he okay?’

‘He has been taken to the medical centre. Don’t worry Max, he’s in the best hands. There’s only fifteen minutes left of the practice session okay. Just get to the end and you can go to him.’

Max appreciates the lack of judgement in GP’s tone. He knows he is acting irrationally, but this is Charles. Charles, who has been part of his life longer than Max can remember. Charles, who irritates Max more than anyone else he has ever met. Charles, who Max loves more than he has ever loved another person.

Charles, who Max thinks he might love more than racing.

The next fifteen minutes are some of the longest of his life, and it is the least he’s ever enjoyed racing. He cannot turn his thoughts off, constantly circling back to the younger man he knows is suffering.

‘Carlos has just returned to the pit lanes.’ GP’s voice comes across the radio, and Max has never appreciated his race engineer so much. Now he knows Charles is not alone.

He manages to finish the practice, before bringing the car back to parc ferme. Max leaps out, Christian meeting him as soon as he clears the halo.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s in the medical centre, he’s fine. Carlos is with him.’ Max immediately makes to exit the garage, but Christian grabs him before he can leave.

‘I swear Max, I swear, one interview. That’s all I need. But with Charles and Carlos missing, the media are frothing at the bit for information. We need you out there to do damage control, or the media are going to descend on the medical centre.’ Max glares at Christian, though he knows it isn’t the fault of his team principal.

‘Fucking vultures!’ He hisses, but he doesn’t try and escape again.

‘Calm down, Max. Don’t face them like this. Just take a deep breath, and the sooner you deal with them, the sooner you can go to Charles.’

Checo approaches at that moment, slinging his arm around Max’s shoulders. ‘Come on kid, let’s face the media pen.’ With the older man’s arm around him, and the knowledge that Charles is in safe hands, Max manages to control himself.

He stumbles his way through the interview, which goes no worse than it normally does. He manages to pluck up the courage for three interviews, more than he promised Christian, before he bolts.

‘Max, wait!’ A familiar voice calls out to him. He turns to find Oscar, George and Alex running after him.

‘Where’s Lando?’ He asks Oscar, not having seen him in the media frenzy.

'Ferrari HQ. He's going to be here in a few minutes. He went to get Charles' medical files.' Max hangs around for a few seconds until he makes out Lando, racing toward them. He barely waits for the boy in papaya to catch up to them before he is off, all but sprinting to the medical centre. There is a fury beginning to coil itself round his heart. At Charles, for racing when he was clearly unwell, at Carlos for letting him. At Ferrari and the FIA and the fucking Tifosi for all allowing it to happen. However, as soon as he steps into the medical centre, the anger melts away to make room for the panic settling in his gut.

Carlos looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, partly the helmet but also from repeatedly running his hand through the long, dark locks. He is perched on Charles’ bed, holding the man’s hand tightly. Max cannot see much of Charles, Carlos hiding him from view with the way he is hunched over the bed.

‘He won’t be alone,’ Max breaks into the hushed argument they had walked in on. From the wild look Carlos sends them, it is clear that the man had not noticed their presence. He backs away from Charles as he looks at them, and Max is able to get a better look at the younger man.

He is white as death, curled up on his side, tightly clutching his abdomen with his left arm. His right hand is clutched in Carlos,’ and it is clear that the limb is shaking like a leaf.

Carlos argues against leaving for a while, but eventually he sees sense. Max swears he won’t leave Charles' side, finally convincing the man to leave the room. Max immediately takes Carlos’ place, holding Charles’ hand tightly as the paramedics approach. 

‘Just squeeze my hand,’ he mutters, as they begin their work. ‘When it hurts, just squeeze my hand.’ The Monegasque’s grip is weak, his fingers barely curling around Max’s hand despite the pain Max knows is wrecking him. He's so weak.

‘Are you okay?’ He asks once they are in the ambulance. 

Charles’ eyes are glazed over, but his bottle green irises meet Max’s after a moment. ‘Not really,’ he hisses as the ambulance jerks over a pothole. ‘But hopefully it will be soon?’ his eyes are wide as he looks up at Max. His every instinct is screaming at him to hold Charles tight and swear the pain will end soon. That everything will be okay. But he has no control over this, so all he can do is glance helplessly at the paramedic.

They hooked Charles up to a few monitors as soon as they got in the ambulance, and the man in monitoring the machines. ‘I think the doctor was right when she suspected appendicitis. Provided it’s not too advanced, yes, you should be feeling better as soon as we get you into surgery.’

The expression on the man’s face is grim, and Max has to keep a tight lid on his own emotions to keep his own panic suppressed.

It feels like hours before they arrive at the hospital, but finally the ambulance is stopping. Immediately, chaos descends. They are wheeling him out, yelling orders to one another, and Charles’ hand is snatched from his grasp.

Max stumbles from the back of the ambulance blindly, following as they wheel him inside. They take him into a room, Max trying to follow. He finds himself being body checked by a five foot nothing nurse.

‘Sir, you can’t go in there, you need to let them assess his condition.’

‘No, he’s afraid of hospitals! He needs me!’ Max cries, fighting to get passed her. She might be a head shorter than he is, but the panic dulls his reflexes as she denies him access.

‘Sir, I will let you in there as soon as I possibly can. But right now, you’re going to do more harm that good. Now please, there is a private waiting room down the hall. Stay there,’ the nurse pushes him away, and he finds his legs leading him numbly to the room she specified.

Max has no idea how long he sits there, stewing, until finally the door opens.

It’s the same nurse from before, but she is smiling now. ‘You can see him briefly, before we take him up for surgery.’ Max jumps up instantly, practically running into the room he had previously been barred from.

Charles looks awful, but marginally less dreadful than he did previously. He is at least laying straight now, and the lines of pain around his eyes are slightly less pronounced. Or maybe Max is imagining it to make himself feel better.

‘Charles,’ he gasps. ‘Are you okay?’ He goes to take the other man’s hand, but there is an IV poking out the back of it.

‘Better,’ his voice is raspy. ‘I think they’re taking me up for surgery soon.’ The doctor chooses that moment to enter the room.

‘We’re taking you up in less than five minutes, Mr Leclerc.’

‘How is he?’ Max demands immediately.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Mr Verstappen, not great. The appendix is, I suspect, very close to bursting. That makes it a bit more complicated, but I believe you got him here in time, and it hasn’t burst yet.’ Max blinks wordlessly, digesting the information.

‘What sort of complications?’

‘Max, it’s fine,’ Charles takes his hand, careful of the needle.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Leclerc, it’s good that the people around you are worried for you. The hope is that we will be able to go in laparoscopically, so several small cuts which are quicker and easier to heal. However, because of how close to bursting we suspect the appendix is, it may be necessary for us to perform a more open procedure.’

‘How does that change anything?’ Max asks, pleased that the doctor is using terms he can understand.

‘For the most part nothing,’ she answers, smiling gently. ‘It increases the risk of blood loss somewhat, and the recovery will be longer. But there is still minimal risk involved.’

‘Take a deep breath,’ Charles says to Max gently. The Dutchman does as he orders without thinking about it.

‘I’m sorry to push you, but the sooner we get this show on the road, the better.’ Max nods mindlessly, turning away from her.

‘I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘You don’t…’ Charles protests weakly, but Max cuts him off.

‘I will.’ He kisses Charles on the top of the head tenderly, before exiting.

Oh god, what did he do? He had been acting purely on instinct, not thinking through the action before he did it. Shit! Fuck! Well done Max, way to keep your feelings secret.

‘He should be in surgery for about an hour. I’ll come and let you know when he’s ready for visitors,’ the same kindly nurse as before informs him, as he stumbles back into the waiting room.

He is such an idiot.

An indeterminable amount of time passes, before he is finally disturbed from his reverie.

‘How is he?’ George’s sharp voice breaks the fog in his brain.

‘They um, they took him up for surgery about…’ Max checks his watch. ‘Twenty minutes ago. With any luck they’ll be done in forty minutes.’

Alex and George sit opposite him, dropping the bags they brought onto the floor. ‘Did they say if they were going for the laparoscopic approach?’ Alex asks, and Max has to remind himself that Alex had this exact surgery less than a year ago.

‘They said they were going to try. But the appendix is close to bursting apparently? So, they might need to cut him open?’ The brutality of the words turns them to ash on his tongue, and for a moment he thinks he might vomit.

‘Worse than mine was,’ Alex winces.

‘But he’ll be fine,’ George intercedes, kicking his best friend hard in the shin.

Max stays silent for a few moments as the men opposite him engage in a muffled argument. ‘I kissed him on the top of the head. Before they took him for surgery,’ he lifts his eyes to watch their reactions. ‘That’s weird, right.’

George shrugs dismissively, ‘I think it’s weird if you want to make it. But no, not that weird.’

‘I wouldn’t kiss you on the head!’ Max blurts.

‘But we aren’t you and Charles,’ he counters. ‘The two of you are… close.’ Max shoots him a horrified look, at the lack of sense the man is making. For someone so loquacious, George has chosen this moment to turn into a teenager texting.

‘Look, you kissing me on the head would be weird. George kissing me on the head? Less weird,’ Alex breaks in, his analysis infinitely more sensible that George’s. ‘At the end of the day, there’s stages of closeness.’

Max decides to take them at their word, closing his eyes and leaning back against the chair. He rests for less than ten minutes, when the door bangs open again. His eyes shoot open, immediately coming to attention. All he sees is a very harried Carlos Sainz, closely followed by Lando and Oscar.

‘I swear to god Carlos, you jumped out the car while it was still moving!’ Oscar calls after him, clearly continuing a previous argument.

‘You’re being dramatic,’ Carlos waves him off.

‘He’s not,’ Lando tells them, grinning maniacally. ‘It was awesome.’

‘Tell me how he is,’ Carlos intercedes, pinning Max to his chair with a glare.

‘They took him up to surgery. They said that he should be back in thirty minutes,’ Max tells him, after consulting his watch again.

‘But he is okay?’

‘He’s okay,’ Max confirms, accepting the hug that Carlos wraps him in with more than a little relief. He is glad not to be here alone.

They wait together, sometimes under heavy, impenetrable silence. Sometimes Lando cracks a joke, and they laugh hysterically for a few minutes. Sometimes a few tears escape someone’s eyes, and the nearest person will wrap them in a hug. But they do it all together.

‘They definitely said an hour, right?’ Carlos asks, his knee jiggling non-stop.

‘Yes,’ Max checks his watch for the thousandth time.

‘And you’re sure you got the time right?’

‘Yes. They told me he would be an hour, like, an hour and fifteen minutes ago,’ Max responds tensely.

‘Are you sure?’ Carlos pushes again.

‘Yes!’ Max cries, equal parts frustrated and worried.

‘Hey, it’s okay guys. Surgery overruns all the time. It’s probably nothing to worry about,’ Alex tries to intercede, but there is no disguising that he is just as scared as they are.

‘Yeah, maybe they took out the wrong organ or something,’ Lando attempts a joke, but it falls flat. Oscar pats his back gently, reassuring his teammate the best he can.

‘I’m going to get answers,’ Carlos declares, getting to his feet. He throws open the door, and on the other side is the doctor who spoke to Max.

‘Ah good, you’re all here, I was just coming to update you.’ The doctor doesn’t appear at all taken aback by the crowd of people on the other side, or the suddenness of Carlos’ appearance. Carlos backs up, allowing her into the room to take a seat.

‘It went well. His appendix is out, and there will be no lasting damage except for some scarring.’ They all breathe a sigh of heady relief at the words, the atmosphere lightening for the first time since they arrived at the hospital.

‘However,’ Max’s heart sinks so fast and so hard he thinks he might get whiplash. ‘There were some complications. The appendix was incredibly inflamed, remarkably close to bursting. As a result, we had to open him up, rather than perform the procedure laparoscopically as we were hoping.’

‘But he’s okay?’ Max demands immediately?

‘He’s fine,’ she smiles softly. ‘He lost a bit of blood, and he’s still unconscious from the anaesthetic. But he will be waking up within the hour, and there will be no lasting effects.’

‘Can we see him?’ Oscar asks, since everyone else seems overcome with emotion.

The doctor hesitates for a moment. ‘Look, we don’t usually let this many people in the room.’ Max opens his mouth to protest, but she continues before he needs to. ‘But as I can see how worried you all are, I will let you see him, on the condition that you’re quiet, and you let him get all the rest he needs.’

All the drivers break into wide grins, and she laughs at them. ‘Come on troublemakers.’ They stand and follow her dutifully. 

‘I’ll grab some spare chairs for you all,’ she promises, before leaving outside the door to a private room. They linger outside for a moment, before Carlos takes the initiative, swinging the door open. They push and shove their way through the entrance, until finally they are all gathered in the small hospital room.

Charles might be better than before, but he certainly doesn’t look it. If it is possible for him to be paler, than he has achieved it, the blood loss the doctor mentioned more than apparent. There is a hospital bracelet around his left wrist, as well as the IV which had previously been there. There is now a second IV line in the crook of his right elbow, and the leads monitoring his vitals are still pressed to the now bare chest. Max can see the gauze swathing his abdomen poking out from under the covers, and there is a hissing oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose.

‘He looks terrible,’ Lando says. He probably meant it as a joke, but his voice is small and scared. The ever-stalwart Oscar pulls Lando into his arms, allowing the Brit to bury his head in his teammate’s chest.

Carlos settles himself in the chair on Charles’ left side, taking his hand carefully around the IV. Max mirrors his actions on the right side, though this hand is thankfully unencumbered.

‘I know he doesn’t look great right now,’ the doctor has reappeared with the promised chairs, setting two of them down with surprising strength. ‘But the oxygen is just a precaution until he wakes up. If all goes well, he’ll be discharged tomorrow.’

Alex and George sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs she appeared with, Oscar leading Lando to the sofa at the back of the room.

They all sit in silence as the hours tick on, none of them moving, barely daring to breathe. Lando has fallen asleep against Oscar, the young Aussie allowing his shoulder to be used as a pillow. Alex and George have also curled up in their respective chairs, holding one another tight, even in sleep. Carlos and Max, however, are barely even blinking as they watch the young Monegasque who means so much to them.

A few hours have passed when he shows the first signs of waking. Max notices it first, the small uptick in the sound of the heart monitor. He has been studying it intensely for the last three hours without pause, so when the number increases, he notices instantly.

‘I think he’s waking up.’ Carlos leaps to attention, leaving closer in his chair.

‘Charles, do you hear me? Lord Perceval? We’re here. We’re here, and you’re not alone. I swear, you’re not alone.’ Carlos continues to murmur beneath his breath, as slowly, painstakingly, Charles peels his eyes open.

Max immediately presses the call button by the side of the bed, as Charles blinks languidly.

‘Charles, hey, hey, we’re here. I’m here,’ Carlos is whispering sweet nothings to the boy in the bed, who looks so scared until he finally meets Carlos’ eyes.

‘Carlos,’ he says, the word barely audible and garbled beneath the oxygen mask.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore,’ Charles breaths. At that moment, the nurse walks in, startling both George and Alex from sleep. They bolt upright, hair all over the place, adorably mussed and confused.

‘Ah, Mr Leclerc, I’m glad to see you awake,’ the nurse smiles brightly, bustling to his side. She removes the oxygen mask quickly, which makes Max feel better. Charles somehow looks less ill without it covering his face, obscuring his features.

‘I just need to check your incision site, and then I’ll let you rest.’ She draws the blankets back gently, revealing the gauze beneath. She peels it from his skin cautiously, his face contorting in pain at the gauze lifting from the wound. Beneath the pink tinged gauze is a three-inch-long incision, closed by at least a dozen stitches. The skin around it is bruised, all colours of the rainbow.

The sight makes Max wince. It looks somehow worse than he even imagined. The nurse pokes around at the stitches for a second, eliciting a agonised groan from the young man in the bed.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she coos gently. ‘I know it hurts. I’ll stop in one second.’ She keeps her promise, quickly covering it with another piece of gauze before lifting the blankets higher. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Now try and get some sleep. That’s the best thing for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Charles smiles gently, dimples on full display. Max swears he can see the moment the older nurse’s heart melts, and he can’t suppress a snort. The sudden noise wakes Lando. Startled, he falls instantly off the couch, Oscar not making a move to save him. Max barks a laugh, the others in the room quickly joining him. Charles is smiling widely, but he doesn’t laugh. Max suspects it would hurt too much. The nurse leaves in the hubbub, reminding them once more that Charles needs sleep.

‘Wake me up with your stupid loud noises,’ Lando grumbles, as he picks himself up off the floor. ‘Stupid loud Dutchman. Stupid Australian teammate not catching me.’ The rest of the room continues to laugh at Lando’s expense.

‘How do you feel, Charles?’ Carlos asks gently once the noise has returned to a low hum.

‘It hurts,’ the man in question grimaces as he shifts slightly in the bed. ‘But I feel less ill than I did before.’

Carlos smiles gently, keeping his hand intertwined in Charles’ as he settles back into the bed.

‘Thank you all, for being here,’ Charles’ smile is somewhat dopey from the pain medication no doubt currently being pumped into his veins.

‘Where else would we be?’ Oscar smiles widely, and Max feels a rush of affection for the youngest member of their cadre. It wasn’t long ago that Oscar wasn’t even on the grid, and now Max cannot imagine life without the staunch young man.

‘You need to go home now,’ Charles says sleepily, his eyes already beginning to droop. ‘You need to drive tomorrow.’

Even high on morphine, already half asleep and clearly in a significant amount of pain, Charles is worrying about them.

‘Oh no, you don’t get to play that card tonight,’ George chuckles, settling into his plastic chair as though it is a throne. ‘You sent us away last night, and you ended up here.’

‘Hey,’ Carlos protests the implication. ‘That was not my fault.’

‘No, he was an idiot,’ George rolls his eyes. ‘But my point stands, and we’re not leaving. It doesn’t matter what you say.’ He directs the words to Charles, but Max just grins at him.

‘He’s asleep.’

‘So is he,’ Oscar motions toward Lando, who has once against curled up like a child and rested his head back on the young Aussie’s shoulder. Lando is snoring gently, and Max cannot stop the grin that covers his face.

They all spread around the room, George and Alex quickly following Lando to dreamland, sprawled in their armchairs. Max and Carlos are the final ones awake, still clutching Charles’ hands between them. Slowly, gradually lulled to sleep by the beep of the heart monitor that convince him Charles is still alive, Max allows sleep to take him.

Face down in the desert now

There's a cage locked around my heart

Carlos is jolted from a deep sleep by a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m awake!’ He gasps, shooting upright. ‘What’s wrong? What happened?’ When he finally manages to pry his eyes open, he doesn’t spot anything amiss. Max is half slumped on the bed, Lando and Oscar asleep on the couch, while Alex and George are snoring heartily in their chairs. Charles, meanwhile, is looking at him from the bed, grinning widely.

‘You’re awake.’

‘You’re not,’ Charles fires back, laughing gently. Despite the gentle laughter, his smile fades quickly, morphing into a wince as his hand comes to hold his wound. Carlos examines him carefully, concerned at his much pain he appears to be in. He seems more alert today than he had been last night however, his eyes bright and clear.

'It’s too early for you to be this happy,’ Carlos grumbles, though he cannot suppress his smile. Seeing his teammate in better spirits is a balm for his soul.

‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but you need to leave in, like, ten minutes to get to the paddock in time.’ Carlos looks at his watch in confusion.

‘Oh god, why didn’t you wake me earlier?’ He jumps to his feet in alarm. Charles just chuckles lightly, leaving his hand cupped against his wound as the movement jolts the clearly tender abdomen again.

‘I didn’t even realise you were all still here,’ his grin is glowing with joy, and Carlos knows the novelty of having friends is not lost on him.

‘Like we’d trust you to stay alone,’ he smiles back, brushing off the deep appreciation he can see in the other man’s gaze. ‘Before I wake them all up, how are you feeling? Truthfully.’

‘Truthfully, it hurts,’ Charles’ voice is stronger than the previous day. ‘But I feel so much better. The doctor was saying before you woke up that I can probably be discharged later today.’

‘Seriously?’ Carlos asks, feeling the concern twist in his gut.

‘Ask the doctor before you go,’ Charles smiles gently. ‘I swear, I have no plans to end up back here.’

Carlos feels the weight lift of his shoulders more and more as he observes the younger man. He is still pale and languid, the pain evident in every line of his body. But he is smiling, joking, taking the piss out of Lando’s bedhead. Carlos listens to the young Englishman squawk in outrage, Charles chuckling softly, Max ruffling his hair so it looks even worse. The sense of contentment grows, knowing all is right in the world once again.

Charles watches them all gather their belongings in amusement, appreciating every second that they are here. Every single person in the room checks on him individually, wrapping him in a tight but gentle hug before they all have to leave.

‘We’ll be back later, okay Perceval.’

Charles just nods, ‘I’ll be watching the qualifiers.’

I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were

Now my hands can't reach that far

Qualifiers goes as well as can be expected, Carlos coming in second, with Max clinching the lead at the last second. Oliver Bearman outperforms every expectation and comes in P11, only narrowly missing out on Q3.

Carlos hangs around in the garage for a few moments to congratulate the boy, before he grabs Lando.

‘Can you tell the others to wait for Max and I in the car park? We can head over together.’ Lando nods, promising to pass on the message as Carlos heads to post-qualifiers media. He wants with every fibre of his being to head straight back to the hospital. But he cut out on media yesterday and knows that today is not the day to repeat his antics.

‘How is Charles, Carlos?’ The dreaded question is fired at him instantly.

‘Charles is doing well. He had his appendix out yesterday, and there were a couple of complications, but he is feeling stronger today.’

‘What are the chances that we see him in the Australian grand prix?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ Carlos deflects immediately. ‘Charles is in peak physical condition, and his surgery went well. But he is in a lot of pain, so it may be that he needs more time. That is up to the doctors to decide.’

The journalist lets it go after that thankfully, keeping the press conference on the qualifiers. It takes too long in his opinion, but finally they are cut loose. He and Max strip off their race suits, before rushing to the car park, where the four men are waiting for them.

‘You took forever,’ Lando calls as they approach.

‘We were as quick as we could,’ Max responds, breathless from all the running.

‘Well, you didn’t need to hurry,’ George deadpans. ‘Considering he isn’t even in the hospital anymore.’

‘What?’ Max exclaims.

‘If either of you actually read your texts, you’d see that he messaged in the group chat three hours ago warning us that he’s back at the hotel.’ George rolls his eyes.

‘Surely he’s not ready to be discharged?’ Max asks, his tone frantic.

‘To be fair, he did mention they may discharge him if they think he’s doing well,’ Carlos admits, thinking back to the conversation they had that morning. ‘I just didn’t think it would be this early.’

‘Let’s just go,’ Oscar says simply, preventing any further argument from breaking out.

They pile into two cars, Oscar behind the wheel of one and Alex the other. They make it to the hotel in record time, Carlos taking charge and leading them to Charles’ suite. He knocks gently, waiting for a response.

But none comes.

‘He’s hurt,’ Max says after a few minutes have passed. ‘He must have fainted or fallen or something. He can’t get to the door, and we’re going to have to take him back to the hospital, and..’ his tirade is interrupted by the door swinging open.

Charles is leaning heavily on the doorjamb, staring at them in tired amusement. ‘I’m fine, just slow.’ He leaves the door open as he retreats into the hotel room. He is moving at snails’ pace, right arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen, slightly hunched to accommodate his clearly painful incision.

‘How are you feeling?’ He asks as the Monegasque lowers himself onto the couch with agonisingly slow movements.

‘It hurts, but I’m fine,’ Charles’ smile is wan, but genuine, his face still pallid from the blood loss. They all drop into chairs dotted around the room, leaving Carlos to lower himself gently onto the sofa beside Charles, careful not to jolt him too much.

‘I watched qualifying today, you all did great,’ he grins widely. ‘It was weird seeing you all on TV.’ They all groan in unison.

‘Don’t tell me how bad my interviews were. I was rushing, okay,’ Max pouts as they all laugh at his expense.

‘I hate to break it to you Max, but it doesn’t matter how long you’re in front of the camera. Unless Danny is around, it doesn’t go well,’ Charles grins wickedly.

‘Oh, I see how it is, you lose the appendix and gain a sense of humour.,’ Max quips, throwing everyone in the room into hysterics.

‘Already the appendix jokes start,’ Charles smiles widely, but Carlos watches the pain lines around his mouth tighten, the way his hand hovers over his wounded abdomen. The huge hoodie he is wearing, one of Seb’s if Carlos is right, hides the thick padding he knows is lying beneath the clothing.

‘How did you get home?’ He asks once the laughter has died down somewhat.

Charles’ smile fades slightly, and Carlos can already tell he isn’t going to like the answer. ‘The doctor said she would release me this afternoon, so I called a taxi.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for us?’ George asks, exchanging glances with Alex. ‘We could have picked you up.’

‘You were busy at the track, and I just wanted my own bed,’ Charles shrugs with only his left shoulder.

'Your own bed. Which is in Monaco,’ Oscar deadpans.

‘I preferred you last season, when you had respect for your elders,’ Charles grouches.

‘You were not one of my elders,’ Oscar laughs. ‘We both know that I’m more mature than you.’

Carlos cackles at the look of outrage on Charles’ expressive face. ‘You are so cruel to me. And when I’m injured too.’

‘Okay, well I don’t know about anyone else, but I am starved!’ George announces. ‘What are we doing for dinner?’

‘Room service..?’ Lando suggests when no one speaks up.

‘You guys should go out,’ Charles counters. ‘I ruined dinner last night, go and enjoy it. I’m just going to go to bed.’

‘Hey, you in no way ruined last night,’ Alex protests immediately. ‘In all honestly, I had a nicer time last night than we would have done at the restaurant.’

Everyone else voices their agreement, but Carlos can tell that his teammate is sceptical. ‘Honestly, all I want to do is sleep,’ the Monegasque protests. ‘I’ll get something to eat later.’

‘You guys go,’ Carlos offers. ‘Bring us back some food, so we don’t need to have room service two nights in a row. Charles and I will just chill here for a bit.’

‘Carlos…’ Charles begins to protest.

‘This is your best offer, Perceval. Either I stay or we all stay. It’s your choice.’ Charles smiles tenderly, taking Carlos’ hand and squeezing it.

‘Thank you,’ Carlos catches Charles’ green eyes with his own, trying to convey his sincerity. ‘Now, you guys go. I want to sleep.’ The boys grumble, all of them hugging the Ferrari drivers before they take their leave.

Once they are finally alone, Carlos turns to face the younger man. ‘How are you really feeling?’

Charles sighs deeply, and even this small motion causes him pain. ‘I do feel better, I swear. Yesterday I felt so bad, and I don’t feel ill anymore. It just hurts,’ there are tears glistening in his eyes when he looks up at Carlos. ‘I didn’t think it would hurt like this.’

Carlos motions the Monegasque closer, opening his arms for Charles to climb into. With small, aborted motions, Charles adjusts so he is leaning against Carlos’ chest. It takes a few seconds for him to relax, but eventually he is fully reclined against Carlos. The Spaniard begins carding his fingers through the younger man’s hair, and in no time at all, he feels his breathing even out, as sleep takes him.

In truth, Carlos is incredibly uncomfortable. Charles is heavier than he appears now that he is deadweight, but Carlos just smiles down at the brunette head on his chest. He grew up in a large family, full of cousins, uncles, and aunts. The one thing he has never had is a little brother.

Until he walked into the Ferrari garage at the start of the 2021 season. Charles was there, fresh from losing Seb as his mentor and teammate. Charles may have been at Ferrari longer than Carlos, but it was apparent from the first day how he looked up to the older man. He was wide eyed and desperate for a love Carlos was only too willing to give. It took less then three seconds of meeting the boy for him to worm his way into Carlos’ heart.

He might not be driving for Ferrari in 2025, he might not even have a seat in Formula 1. But he will not lose his little brother.

I ain't made for a rivalry

I could never take the world alone

Carlos doesn’t realise he has fallen asleep until he is disturbed. He forgets the precious cargo he is carrying, until he tries to sit up and cannot move. Charles is still fast asleep, his left hand tangled in Carlos’ shirt.

The sound of an iPhone camera going off causes Carlos to raise his head, realising that the other drivers have returned. He uses his one free arm to put a finger to his lips, the boys grinning widely but nodding. He expects them to go home, but of course, he can never be that lucky. Instead, they take up positions around the room, Lando managing to find a game of football which they watch quietly.

The time goes faster now there is football to watch, and Carlos almost misses it when Charles shifts slightly, a sure sign that he’s waking up. Carlos stays very still, though he resumes running his fingers through Charles’ hair. It is a few more minutes before Charles wakes up completely, and Carlos can tell instantly.

The Monegasque’s body goes from lax to taut with pain within seconds, his hand shooting to his wound site. A strangled cry tears from his lips, and Carlos realises the pain meds must have worn off while he was sleeping.

‘Mierda,’ he curses in Spanish. ‘Max, his meds are on the countertop, in the brown bag.’ The Dutchman darts away, as the others watch with wide eyes.

Oscar is the only one level-headed enough to approach. ‘Charles, hey,’ he kneels beside the couch. ‘Hey, look at me, okay.’ His eyes open a crack before screwing up tight. Oscar takes his hands, squeezing them as Charles curls up around his wound. ‘Just hold my hands and listen to my voice. Max is getting your meds now, and they will take the edge off. I know it hurts, but this pain is temporary. It will go away, Charles.’ Carlos listens to the young man, wise beyond his years, soothe Charles with gentle words.

Max practically throws the bottle of pills at Oscar, who lets go of Charles’ hands briefly to unscrew the cap. ‘How many, Charles?’

The Ferrari driver is sweating, tense as a bow ready to fire, working desperately to suppress his sounds of pain. ‘Two,’ he manages to grunt, wringing his hands now they are unoccupied. The Australian removes the pills and helps Charles take them before he repeats his earlier routine. It takes long minutes until the pain meds begin to kick in, Charles’ body uncurling gradually.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, voice broken and strained.

‘Hey, no apologies,’ Oscar taps his head gently. ‘Let me help you up.’ Charles takes a few deep breaths, Oscar waiting patiently with his hands held out. Moving carefully, inch by inch, Oscar pulls Charles to his feet, taking the majority of his weight for a few minutes as the other man reorients himself.

Now free from Charles’ burden, Carlos can feel the aches and pains springing to life in his own body, Racing tomorrow is going to be hell. It’s worth it though.

‘Bathroom?’ Oscar asks, his facial expression not changing in the slightest.

‘I…’ Charles is clearly hesitant. He needs the support, knees visibly trembling as they strain to support his weight, but he does not wish to burden the younger man.

‘Come on,’ Oscar doesn’t wait for a response this time, looping his arm around Charles’ waist and steering him delicately toward the bathroom. It takes them a while to get there, Charles clearly struggling despite the support. Carlos appreciates the McLaren driver more than he ever thought possible, at the tender but matter-of-fact way he cares for Charles.

‘How is he?’ Alex asks, keeping his voice hushed as the bathroom door swings shut.

Carlos stretches, every bone in his body cracking in unison as he stands. ‘He’s definitely better, just in so much pain.’ He looks at his friends properly for the first time since they entered the room. They are all pale, Max’s hands are shaking, George and Lando uncharacteristically silent.

‘I promise, he’s okay. We’ll get him through this.’ He feels the need to reassure them.

He meanders to the kitchen to examine the food they brought back, finding two pizzas waiting for them. Carlos scoops up two slices immediately, stacking them atop one another and shovelling them in his mouth.

By the time he’s made it through half of his double stacked pizza, the bathroom door opens again, Charles and Oscar stepping out. Despite the ordeal they have just gone through together, both are grinning widely, and Carlos feels his heart lighten at the renewed joy in his face. Oscar deposits Charles in the kitchen, hustling to the living area.

‘Come on, time to leave.’ Carlos watches in bewildered delight as Oscar packs everyone up and out of the room in record time. Before he knows it, peace has descended once again.

‘Remind me how we ever got by without Oscar,’ Carlos says in amazement.

‘Honestly I don’t think we did,’ Charles grins, taking his own slice of pizza. He eats it slowly, but Carlos is so pleased he’s eating at all he doesn’t comment.

‘Are you okay now?’

Charles nods slightly, ‘yeah, I’m sorry I worried you earlier. The pain just… without the meds.’ The mere thought makes the other man wince. ‘I’m sorry I’m being such a baby about it.’

‘Charles, you lost an organ twenty-four hours ago in open surgery, and you’re like a million miles away from home. Be as dramatic as you wish.’

They finish the pizza in companionable silence, before the two of them head to the bedroom to turn in for the night, Charles not even protesting when Carlos announces he is staying. Carlos checks his phone before he goes to sleep, finding he has been tagged in a story. He opens Instagram, to find the picture of Charles asleep on his chest that George took earlier. Fans are losing their minds, both relieved that Charles is okay, and enjoying the behind the scenes content.

If Carlos saves the photo, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

I know that in my weakness I am strong

But it's your love that brings me home

Max doesn’t see Charles before leaving for the race. They had been planning to hijack his room before they have to leave for media, but Carlos had texted, warning them Charles was still asleep and not to come. Max found himself unduly disappointed at missing the opportunity to see the Monegasque, especially since he won’t be racing. Oliver Bearman is impressive, there is no doubt. But Max cannot help but resent his presence, knowing it comes at the cost of seeing his favourite driver.

Race day doesn’t feel the same without Charles. He finds himself looking around, trying to spot the Ferrari red. Every time he turns up disappointed, finding only Carlos or Oliver.

Until he isn’t.

He’s lingering in the paddock with most of the drivers, waiting for the cars to be ready for the formation lap. He’s speaking to Lewis, Carlos, and Oliver just visible over the Mercedes driver’s shoulder. There is a glimpse of red in the distance, and Max instinctively follows it, preparing to be disappointed yet again. But no, that actually is Charles.

He’s shuffling toward them gingerly, one arm wrapped protectively around his afflicted abdomen, but looking a million times better than he had two nights prior.

‘Charles!’ Max calls, startled by the unexpected guest, abandoning Lewis entirely and rushing to meet him. ‘What are you doing here?’

Charles’ smile is radiant. ‘Fred called, asked if maybe I wanted to come to the race.’ Max frowns, concerned that he has been forced from his bed to come here by the ever-demanding powerhouse of Ferrari.

Max wants to interrogate him properly, but the other drivers crowd around them before he can, each of them hugging Charles tenderly.

‘You are meant to be in bed,’ Carlos frowns, clearly as worried as Max is.

‘And I have been in bed. All morning,’ the younger man basically whines. ‘The doctor said walking around was good for me.’

‘The doctor also said that you have a three-inch-long gaping wound in your gut, and you need to be careful.’ The drivers blanch at Carlos’ description.

‘It’s stitched,’ Charles rolls his eyes, though this doesn’t exactly make Max feel better. From the slightly green expressions, the other drivers don’t appreciate it either.

‘Oliver!’ Charles calls the young driver over from where he’d been hovering awkwardly in front of the Ferrari garage, having witnessed the entire interaction. He looks grateful to be acknowledged, and then truly terrified at approaching them all.

‘Hey,’ the young Brit won’t meet his eyes. ‘I hope you’re feeling better.’

‘Watching you in qualifying yesterday made me feel a hundred times better,’ Charles folds the kid into his embrace. ‘You’re going to kill it out there today.’ Most of the other drivers wander off at this point, leaving Max surrounded by his usual crew.

‘I don’t want to let you down,’ the boy says under his breath, shuffling his feet.

‘Hey, nothing you do tomorrow will let me, or anyone else, down. We’re already proud of you, for handling this weekend so well,’ Charles nudges Oliver softly. ‘Besides, I’m going to be there the whole time cheering you on. I’ll be on the other side of the radio if you need me.’

Carlos’ frown only deepens, the worry carving lines prematurely into his skin. ‘I really don’t think you’re ready to…’ Charles waves his team mate off, putting his arm around Ollie and leading him back toward the Ferrari garage.

‘Come on, kid. Uncle Carlos will follow us in a minute,’ he shoots a wicked grin at his teammate before turning away. Max finds himself marvelling at how Charles handles the kid. Max had spoken to him earlier, but the interaction had been stilted and awkward. Charles takes Bearman under his wing like he is his own little brother.

‘I swear, he is going to give me grey hair,’ Carlos groans, looking mournful at the thought of his thick mane of black hair turning salt and pepper because of his young and problematic teammate.

‘Imagine how bad Seb had it,’ Max grins, remembering the perpetual stress the older German was subjected to from his junior teammate.

‘He only had to deal with him for two years!’

‘Carlos, mate, Charles was still twenty-one when they were first teammates.’ Carlos winces at the thought, George clapping him on the back sympathetically.

‘Don’t worry man, you know your cousin will watch out for him, if no one else.’

Carlos huffs but bids them all goodbye and follows the younger men into the garage. Max snorts a laugh, watching him go. ‘Charles really is going to be the death of him.’

Lewis rolls his eyes playfully. ‘I didn’t realise babysitting was part of my job at Ferrari.’

And when you call

And need me near

Watching the race is painful for Charles. Far more than the building ache in his gut. Fred had greeted him warmly when he walked into the garage, giving him a pair of headphones, and setting him up with a padded seat in front of the screens. He is given strict instructions not to move, to leave whenever he needs, and Carlos insists on leaving his cousin as a babysitter.

As soon as the race starts however, Charles is on his feet, pacing as the stress of watching the race sets in. When he’s in the car, and the visor is down, there are no thoughts going through his head outside of the race. He doesn’t even consider how close the wall is, or how dangerous this sport can be. Watching his best friends narrowly skirt death as they hurtle around the track, however, is more stress than his heart can stand.

Watching Oliver, a boy who is younger than his little brother, just causes additional stress. Carlos’ cousin has given up trying to get him to sit down, and instead become fully engrossed in the race.

By the time it is over, Charles feels as though he has run a marathon. He is exhausted, far more so than had he been driving himself. He lowers himself into the seat, being careful not to aggravate the incision site any further than it already has been. Noticing that everyone else is distracted by Carlos’ podium and Ollie’s incredible finish, he takes the opportunity to peek at the gauze hiding beneath his red shirt.

It is tinged pink, turning progressively darker in the middle. He winces, lifting the edge of the medical tape and peeking beneath. A few of the stitches look a little irritated, and there is a small amount of blood seeping from between the sutures. Carlos is going to kill him.

Fred approaches him, having returned from the pit wall. ‘Do you want to come and celebrate with them?’ He poses the question gently, looking concerned.

‘I want to, but I think I might need to go to the medical centre,’ Charles winces, wishing he didn’t have to admit it. ‘I think I pulled my stitches a little bit. And it’s kind of leaking.’

‘I’m proud of you, kid,’ Fred smiles, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Head to your driver’s room. I’ll get a doctor to meet you there. Charles smiles gratefully at his team principal, accepting the hand the older man offers him to help him up.

The dull aching spikes to a sharp bolt of pain as he straightens, and he cannot let go of Fred’s hand for a moment.

‘Do you want help?’ The Frenchman asks quietly, doing a respectable job of disguising how much support he is offering Charles from the camera.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Charles smiles softly, leaving the crowded room. Returning to the peace of his personal space is heavenly, and he lowers himself down onto a bean bag with a groan.

The doctor appears quickly, tutting at the blood leaking from between the tight stitching. He packs it with new, thicker gauze, and wraps a bandage around it securely.

‘This time, please actually stay in bed.’ Charles promises to do so, not lying, but not regretting coming to the track tonight. He makes it back to the garage in time to watch Carlos take the podium. Ollie is already there, and Charles is quick to pull him in for a hug before he retakes his seat.

‘You were incredible out there.’

‘I came seventh,’ Ollie looks vaguely proud, but Charles can see the way he is looking for affirmation from the older driver.

‘You exceeded every single expectation given to you. Just getting in that car and bringing it home was enough. You got points, that’s more than ten other drivers on this grid managed to do today,’ Charles smiles. ‘Plus, I think you’ll find that you’re sixth in the drivers championship.’ Ollie blanches, immediately turning to his father. The man nods, the pride emanating from his face so clearly that it makes Charles’ heart clench. He misses the days his father wore that expression.

Now that the race is finished, Charles finds himself finally able to relax, and enjoy observing the hustle and bustle of his jubilant team. He watches the press conference, where Carlos provides an update on his health, and the genuine concern is visible even through the TV screen.

Racing will always be Charles’ first love, winning coming in close second. But watching his teammates, his friend, on the podium, the joy painted on all their faces. Well, that might just be a close third.

Chapter Text

The two weeks between Saudi Arabia and Australia pass in the blink of an eye.

After the race, Charles spoke to Fred and made the decision to fly back to Monaco. He wasn't scheduled for a visit home, but there was nothing of use he could do for the team while he recovered.

Instead, he spends nine days in his mother’s house, being coddled and overfed. His mother worries that he’s not eating enough, so plies him with her wholesome home-cooked food every chance she gets. He basks in it, enjoying being fussed over, feeling his strength slowly returning to him.

But after nine days, he’s ready to be back on the road. His mother protests at first, wanting to keep him close. When he gets cleared by the doctors to race however, she understands that there is nothing she can do to stop him.

Charles spends a few hours on the phone to Fred making arrangements, and two days later he finds himself landing in sunny Australia.

He doesn't need to be at the paddock for his medical evaluation for an hour or so, but he asks the taxi driver to take him there anyway. After twenty-four hours on a plane, and days before they cooped up in his mother's home, he is itching to be back at the track.

When he gets out of the car, everything feels right in the world. The sun beating down on him, the faint smell of rubber and petrol hanging in the air. It feels like coming home.

The paddock is devoid of drivers, all of them probably tied up with media duties, so Charles escapes their inevitable fussing for the moment. Instead, he goes to the medical centre early. They conduct their tests, poking him with needles and making him climb in and out of the car to ensure he can do so within the regulated time. He does so, but is left panting and in pain.

'I don't love how much pain you're in,' the doctor regards him with her hands on her hips. 'But you've passed all the tests. So I cannot stop you from racing.'

'I can do it. I know I can do it. It just takes me a minute,' Charles breathes. His incision is aching, but the pain is at a constant level. This pain is good pain, reminding him of how far he has come. He accepts the doctor's note clearing him to drive with thanks, and the brightest smile he has given in a fortnight.

Upon his return to the paddock, he finds a small group of drivers milling outside the media centre. Danny Ric, Oscar, Logan and Checo must have been cut loose from their press conference mere minutes earlier. Oscar is the first to spot him, and the Aussie's usually inscrutable face lights up in delight.

‘You’re here!’ He calls, as Charles approaches the group. They rest finally realise he is there, Danny Ric cheering at the unexpected appearance.

‘I’m here,’ he grins, greeting them all with a brief hug, even Logan whom he does not know very well.

‘How are you?’ Checo asks, examining him closely.

‘Better,’ Charles smiles, and for the first time he really thinks that they all believe it.

‘You are cleared to drive this weekend, right?’ Danny checks, looking concerned. 'I know what Ferrari can be like, if it's too soon for you to come back, we'll figure something out.' Precisely what Danny thinks he can figure out Charles is curious, but the thought makes him smile.

‘I am clear and ready to go!’ Oscar and Logan are quick to congratulate him. 'Have you been to Ferrari yet?'

'Nah, I just came back from getting cleared at the medical centre. I only landed a couple of hours ago.'

Daniel laughs loudly at this, his worried mien finally disappearing. 'You've got a certain teammate who's pretty desperate to see you.'

'He's been driving us all nuts,' Logan groans.

Charles winces, knowing he is going to have to prove his fitness to his teammate if he has any hope of racing. 'I'd better go and face the music. Wish me luck.' They do so, and he frankly does not appreciate the shit eating grins on all their faces.

'Hey, Oscar!' He calls, just before he walks away. The younger man turns, approaching when Charles gestures him forward. 'Thank you. For everything you did in Saudi Arabia.'

'I didn't do anything,' he shrugs the words off immediately.

'You did a lot,' Charles presses. 'You kept your head on straight when I couldn't, kept me calm. Hell, you helped me to the toilet and managed to not make it weird.' Oscar chuckles lightly, but Charles can see the light blush colouring his cheeks, showing how much the words have touched him. 'I'm bloody glad you made it to the grid. I can't imagine it without you now.'

Oscar doesn't say anything else, just hugs him tight. This isn't one of their glancing hugs, that last only a few seconds and end with some back slapping. It's a proper hug, one Arthur would give him after a bad day. 'I'm glad you're okay,' Oscar murmurs as he pulls away. 'Now, go and find that teammate of yours. Stop procrastinating.' Charles frowns at the unfamiliar word, but he gets the idea and approaches the Ferrari hospitality slowly.

He walks into his half of the garage and is immediately mobbed by engineers. He can barely see through the sea of red as they all hug him and express how pleased they are to have him back. They all handle him as though he's glass, passing him from one set of gentle arms to another. Fans may grow frustrated by Ferrari, hell Charles has had his moments. But his team, all the people who genuinely care for him, how could he ever forsake these people?

'What's going on?' A very familiar voice asks, and the engineers part in one motion. Carlos comes into view, and Charles watches his jaw literally drop when he spies his teammate.

'Charles!' Within seconds, Charles finds himself pulled against Carlos' broad chest. He sinks into the embrace, his familiar scent and warmth so comforting it almost hurts. 'Fred did not tell me you were coming.' He pulls back, and the Spaniard begins to examine him closely with those soft, doe brown eyes. 'You look better.'

'I feel better,' Charles grins, handing over the piece of paper still clutched in his left hand.

'You're driving.' Carlos looks as though he cannot make up his mind between crying and grinning.

'I'm driving,' Charles nods, trying to reassure him silently. A loud cheer goes up from the engineers, but he cannot tear his gaze away from Carlos. A slow smile breaks over the older man's face, and Charles feels the wave of relief break over him.

'I missed driving with you.'

'I missed driving,' Charles retorts.

‘I’m not going to try and stop you racing. Just please, please Charles. Don’t push it. I know you’re still not 100%, and I can tell you’re still in pain,' Carlos pleads.

‘I promise,’ Charles swears, chuckling at the look of disbelief on Carlos’ face. ‘Honestly mate, this whole thing was awful, I have no intention of making it worse than it already is.’

'My drivers! Back together!' Fred cheers loudly, and Charles loses himself in the joy of being back where he belongs. With his team.

Saying where'd you go?

Brother I'm right here

Charles knew from the start of the weekend that racing was going to be hard, but god, it hurts worse than he anticipated.

The first few days following the surgery were excruciating beyond imagining. A level of physical pain he’s never experienced before, every breath, every movement pulling on the incision harshly. The stitches would shift, and he could feel the fibres grating against his tender skin. Eventually, it faded to a deep ache, which had been growing lighter over the recent days. It had yet to stop burning, but the agonising bolts of sharp pain were few and far between.

The first time he lowers himself into the cockpit, he knows the lower level of throbbing he has become accustomed to is to be a thing of the past. He has never appreciated so acutely how every muscle in his core tenses with every corner, working desperately to keep him seated.

After first practice, he clambers out stiff as a board, but exhilarated and high from adrenaline. Second practice sees some of the adrenaline high wearing off, the ever-present worsening pain sapping at his strength. Carlos has to escort him back to the hotel that night, Charles falling asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

Qualifying goes well, despite his exhaustion and inability to tie his own shoes. He manages to snatch P2, Max just beating him to pole at the last moment. Charles peels himself from the car, running on stubbornness alone. He can’t suppress the small cry, thankfully muffled by his helmet as the motion wrenches at his sensitive abdomen.

‘Are you good for dinner tonight?’ Carlos asks gently, eyes soft with concern. He has managed to keep the mother henning to a limit the last couple of days, though he has been described as Charles’ shadow by more than one media outlet.

‘Dinner, yes. Anything afterward? Absolutely not,’ Charles chuckles carefully. ‘I can already hear my bed calling me. I just need to do this interview, and then we can go.'

Carlos nods, promising to wait for him, leaving Charles to trek to the media briefing alone. Max catches up to him quickly, the Dutchman slowing his pace rapidly to match Charles' halting steps.

'Hey, I've not seen you around much the last few days.'

'Yeah, sorry it's all been so busy,' Charles smiles gently, enjoying the sight of the friend he has missed.

'You didn't come to the FIFA night last night,' Max says it gently, though Charles can hear the faint rejection in his tone.

'Carlos had to take me back to the hotel. I was so tired he didn't want me to drive back alone.' Max's misery instantly transforms to worry, examining Charles' face more carefully.

'I thought you were better.'

Charles shrugs with one shoulder, keeping his other arm firmly wrapped around his middle. 'I am. But better doesn't mean 100%.'

Max looks as though he is going to start fussing, exactly the way Carlos has been working so hard to stifle. 'Thank you, for coming to the hospital with me.'

He seems caught off-guard by the words. 'Of course, you don't need to thank me. I know you hate hospitals, I wasn't going to let you go alone.'

'Thank you for knowing I hate hospitals.' Max blushes lightly, the pink colouring his skin delicately and making Charles long to reach out and brush his fingers over those round cheeks.

'I missed you at the track.' Max says it like an admission, not looking him in the eyes once the words are out there.

'I missed the track too,' Charles says easily, though he can see from the expression on Max's face that it had not been the reaction he was hoping for. 'I missed you too.' That delightful blush is going redder. 'You know, I was hopped up on some pretty strong painkillers. But I have a pretty clear memory of you kissing me before I went for surgery.'

'On the top of your head,' Max grumbles, though his face is now aflame, as bright as Charles' Ferrari shirt.

Charles decides to take a risk. 'You could try somewhere else next time.'

And on those days
When the sky begins to fall

Carlos signs deeply, looking across at his younger teammate. Charles is dead to the world in the passenger seat, having fallen asleep as soon as he sat down. The boy had reappeared from the press conference looking drained, and paler than he had been at the start of the weekend. Carlos had kept his promise over the last couple of days, managing to keep his fussing largely to himself, even if it’s not exactly inconspicuous. There have been more than a few stories on the ‘bond’ between the two Ferrari drivers, but none of the other drivers on the grid have taken the opportunity to tease him. It is growing harder to keep his instincts at bay however, as the younger man appears to be flagging more and more as the weekend progresses.

It only takes him twenty minutes to drive to the agreed upon restaurant, one that Oscar had insisted they visit. Something about it being the best Australian food around. Truth be told, Carlos has no clue what constitutes ‘Australian food,’ but they all decided to indulge the young man at his home race.

Pulling into a parking space beside George’s rented Mercedes, he leans over and shakes Charles softly, being careful not to jolt him too much. ‘Hey, Perceval, we’re here.’ Charles blinks awake, clearly trying to shake the heaviness from his eyelids as they threaten to droop closed once more.

‘Come on, all you need to do is stay awake for the meal, then you can go back to the hotel and spend the rest of the night sleeping to your heart’s content.’ Charles just hums, but begins the slow process of extracting himself from the car. Never in his life has Carlos hated the sports cars they are given more, having seen how his friend has struggled with the pain of manoeuvring in the absurdly low seats.

God Carlos feels old.

They approach the restaurant, finding everyone already there waiting for them. Carlos can tell instantly why Oscar loves this place. It’s on the waterfront and feels like it could be anywhere in the world. There are wide open doors, allowing the breeze in to cool the diners, with a wooden shack décor style which makes it seem more tropical than it is. Overall, it’s effortlessly cool, much like Oscar himself.

They each slide into their chairs, Charles lowering himself down gently before settling his arm across his incision site.

‘How is it?’ Alex asks sympathetically. ‘I remember how painful mine was, and it was like half the size of what yours must be.’

‘It hurts a lot still, Charles grins tiredly, not even attempting to play it off. 'It's getting better though.'

'Not with all the driving,' Carlos mutters beneath his breath, though all the drivers appear to hear him. Charles glares, and Carlos can only hold his hands up in surrender.

‘How many stitches was it in the end?’

‘Sixteen.’ There are a few whistles around the table, as well as a few winces at the number.

‘When do you get them out?’ Carlos asks, struggling to remember what the doctor had said the previous week.

‘Another few days at least,’ Charles shrugs. ‘The doctor said they should stay in for two weeks before they even look at taking them out.’

George shudders comically, looking slightly green at the topic of conversation. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’

There is a lot of chuckling at the expense of his soft stomach, but everyone complies without arguing.

The night passes quickly, conversation flowing easily as Carlos consumes his weight in burgers. He doesn’t realise Charles has fallen asleep in his chair until there is a soft snore to his left.

‘Christo,’ Carlos curses, watching him balance precariously on his elbows.

‘He’s not exactly back to normal is he,’ Lando states the obvious. ‘Maybe it’s naïve, but I thought he’d be better by now.’

Alex shrugs, tapping the table mindlessly. ‘It’ll probably be another few weeks before he’s completely fine. He lost a fair bit of blood, there were a lot of stitches… The whole thing took a toll.’

‘You’re sure he’s okay to race tomorrow?’ Max looks to Carlos for confirmation. ‘I know he did practice and qualifying, but he wasn’t in the car for half as long as he will be tomorrow.’

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, growing concerned that he may be bald soon if Charles keeps this up. ‘He’s been cleared by doctors, and he insists he’s ready. I trust him to know his own limits.’ In truth, Carlos is as worried as Max, who has been uncharacteristically silent all evening. He owes it to his teammate however, to support him. 

George looks doubtful. ‘We thought that before, and then he drove like three hours before his appendix burst.’

Carlos struggles to find an answer to this, harbouring these same concerns.

‘Trust him,’ Oscar advises them carefully. ‘I know that it doesn’t always seem like he can look after himself, but remember that his worst fear is being alone. I think he scared himself as much as he scared all of you.’

Carlos turns the words over in his mind, as well as the attitude Charles has demonstrated in recent days. He’s accepted all comfort Carlos has offered, even going so far as to ask him for help. Carlos' copious amount of fussing has been accepted easily, as well as all the inquiries Fred has made into his health. Charles is fiercely independent, a by-product of losing so many people so young. His behaviour certainly backs up what Oscar has said. 

‘You’re a genius, kid,’ he claps Oscar on the back. 

‘Come on, let’s get our problem child home,’ George suggests, pulling his chair out. 

Carlos wakes Charles up for the second time that night, all but manhandling him from the restaurant with Max’s help. The Dutchman was oddly reluctant to help, until Charles slung his arm over his shoulders dramatically. Max looks uncertain, and Carlos files the information away for another time. Something is clearly going on there, but that is an enquiry for another time. 

Especially since Charles passes out as soon as he is lowered into the passenger seat.

Carlos doesn’t remember adopting a child.

You're the blood of my blood
We can get through it all

The race starts well. Charles gets off the line cleanly, comfortably securing second position. He doesn’t allow himself to drop off, keeping the gap between him and Max tight. A couple of laps later, Max slows, and Charles is able to make his move. He swoops round for the overtake, Max unable to counter him.

‘P1 baby,’ his engineer crows from over the radio.

The race from that point on is almost boring. Exactly as he wants it. He preserves P1 throughout, even during his pit stops. Carlos is the closest driver to him and maintains most of the race over ten seconds behind.

Charles is so entirely focused on the race, that he just barely hears his engineer call to him. ‘That is the end of the race, final position P1, P1.’

It takes his lagging brain a few seconds to compute the words before he whoops loudly. ‘Yes!’ The elation washes over him, his first race win since 2022. After the shitshow of last race weekend, how hard Australia has been thus far. It was all worth it. Charles almost imagines he can feel Jules and his father patting him on the back.

‘Tell Carlos to come closer. We celebrate this one together.’ The older man deserves this podium more than he does. It is only Carlos’ persistence and care which have gotten him this far.

The red car appears on his left, and Charles lets go of the wheel to wave and to his best friend. Carlos reciprocates the gesture, and Charles can almost picture the grin currently hidden beneath his helmet.

Charles pulls into parc ferme behind the P1 spot.

He won. He won.

There is a presence beside him, and suddenly Carlos is there, patting his helmet and offering him a handshake. The surge of affection he feels for the older man fills his heart.

‘Can you help me?’ Charles asks gently. Carlos doesn’t hesitate, offering both hands to him. Charles removes the wheel before taking them. He leans on Carlos as the pain flares into agony when he straightens, taking a few seconds to recover before he steps carefully out of the car. Carlos is there for every movement, helping Charles slide from the top of the halo carefully, ensuring to keep his abdomen as straight as he can.

Lando is there as soon as Charles is upright, pulling him into a gentle hug. ‘You did so good.’ Carlos echoes the gesture, and then the three of them hold each other, appreciating the moment before the media circus descends on them.

Guenther Steiner of all people interviews them, and Charles’ muddled brain struggles to make sense of the accented English the questions are being asked in. Soon enough, he is released to the cool down room. Carlos and Lando are already there, having been called for interviews before he was.

Charles goes straight for the bottles of water and winners cap on the other side of the room, jamming the black hat over his sweaty, unruly hair. He perches delicately on the edge of the raised director style chair, unable to lift himself up completely to the height required.

Carlos and Lando are speaking over his head, but Charles doesn’t try to include himself in the conversation. He sits back, enjoying the win, surrounded by two of his closest friends.

If this isn’t heaven, he doesn’t know what is.

Lando is called out first, bounding from the room with the energy of a puppy to collect his third-place trophy. Carlos is quick to follow, and then Charles’ name is being yelled.

The darkness of the room is replaced by the blinding Australian sun, and the cheering is deafening. Charles knows how much this win means for the Ferrari fans, the first sign of hope they’ve had since that disastrous end to the 2022 season. Maybe they can actually do this.

But he also knows what a triumph this is for him personally. He went from curled up in a hospital bed, to the top step of the podium in less than a fortnight.

He grabs Carlos’ hand as he takes to the podium, partly because the large step pulls painfully at his wound, but mostly because he loves his teammate. Lifting the trophy above his head hurts like a bitch, but the cheering makes every second worth it.

He looks down at the paddock, and there is Fred, grinning like a proud dad as the engineers hang off of him, screaming up at the podium. Oscar and Danny Ric are stood to one side, cheering loudly as Danny toes his shoes off, probably to snag some champagne for an infamous ‘shoey’ in front of his home crowd.

Beside them are Lewis, Checo, Valtteri and Fernando, the older guys whooping loudly. 

Huddled on their left is Alex, George, and Pierre, all of them throwing their hands in the air as they scream for him.

As Charles sprays the champagne, revelling in this long-awaited victory, he stares out at those he calls family.

Brother, let me be your fortress

When the night winds are driving in 

Be the one to light the way

Bring you home