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Max felt like shit. Nope, that was an understatement. He felt as if he’d hit into the wall going 350km/h on purpose.
He had woken up that morning in bed, a pounding headache and a stuffy nose, thankful that Oscar had already left earlier that morning for some early team meeting before the race or whatever— Not that Max cared. He knew that if Oscar would have seen him in such a state he wouldn’t have been able to step a foot into the paddock.
He thought that maybe, just maybe, once he would’ve made it to the paddock everything would be okay and he’d be in perfect shape to race.
He was deeply mistaken.
Sitting in Redbulls garage, he could practically feel the stares coming from his mechanics and engineers. He couldn’t blame them, his face was flushed, he was blowing his nose at every five minutes and he groaned any time someone was speaking too loud near him. He only hoped the news wouldn’t make it to Christian, then he would really be screwed.
Luckily enough, his team knew how much of an asset he was and nothing was spoken to the higher ups, and even luckier for Max, he hadn’t seen Oscar once since his arrival.
The race went on… decently, if he could even say that. Yes, Max had won, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t struggle. His head pounded more and more every second he passed in the car, his driving was sloppy, he defended poorly, but he still brought home the win which was good enough for him. The part that wasn’t as good was that Oscar had gotten P2, which in any other circumstance he would be absolutely thrilled to have his boyfriend up on the podium with him and in the cooldown room to have their little yap sessions about the race, but today? Absolutely not.
Oscar was the only person who could look at Max for a singular second and know immediately that something was wrong. Max simply hoped he could play it off as a long race, or something along the lines.
Yeah. Max was wrong. He could feel Oscar looking at him on the podium, he could sense Oscar’s worried expression without even looking at him in the cool-down room, and of course, Max’s luck wasn’t in his side for P3 as well, which was taken by Lando. Loud, expressive Lando.
Max slumped into the chair in the cooldown room, his body heavy with exhaustion. His race suit clung uncomfortably to his damp skin, and every breath felt hotter than it should. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, swallowing against the nausea creeping up his throat. Not now. Not here.
Oscar sat beside him, eyes scanning the race’s highlight replays , but his gaze kept flicking toward Max. Subtle—Oscar was always subtle—but Max knew him too well to miss it.
“That last stint was brutal,” Oscar murmured, nudging Max’s knee with his own. “Tires dropped off fast, huh?”
Max forced a nod, keeping his face neutral. “Yeah. Just had to manage it.” His voice was rougher than he wanted it to be.
Across the room, Lando was sprawled dramatically in his chair, reliving the entire race with exaggerated hand gestures. “And then I sent it up the inside—oh my god , did you see that? Absolute masterclass !” He smacked the table for emphasis, oblivious to the way Max flinched at the sudden noise.
Oscar’s brow furrowed. He leaned in slightly. “Max,” he said, quieter this time. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Max replied too quickly. His stomach twisted as if to punish him for the lie. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay still, to breathe evenly.
Oscar didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, studying Max with that quiet intensity that always made lying feel impossible.
Lando, still in his own world, laughed loudly. “Oh, and when Charles tried to squeeze me—mate, I thought I was about to be launched into the next country !”
Max shut his eyes for half a second, the noise drilling into his skull. His skin felt too tight, his head too heavy.
Oscar reached out, fingers brushing against the back of Max’s hand. “You’re overheating,” he murmured, just for him.
Max exhaled slowly, finally allowing himself to lean into the comforting touch. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar’s hand tightened. It was Oscar’s tell that he’s really angry about something but doesn’t to show it directly on his face. It makes max proud a bit, remembering such tiny details, though that thought was quickly swept away when he felt Oscar standing up from his seat.
“I’ll get some water.” he muttered, not leaving any room for argument on Max’s side, all that Max could do was give a slight nod, holding his head in his hands as Lando continued to loudly exclaim his excitement from the race.
Oscar returned a moment later, handing Max a bottle of water without a word. Max took it, fingers brushing against Oscar’s just a second longer than necessary. The cool plastic felt like a lifeline.
Across the room, Lando was still going. “No, but seriously, you guys should’ve seen my onboard! I was—”
“Mate, we were all in the same race,” Oscar interrupted, finally giving him a look.
Lando blinked, clearly confused. “Yeah, but my perspective was—”
“Max, drink,” Oscar said, ignoring Lando completely. His voice was gentle but firm, the way he got when he knew Max was being stubborn.
Max sighed but obeyed, taking a slow sip. The water was cold, and it settled his stomach just enough to breathe properly again. But he could still feel Oscar watching him, his boyfriend’s sharp mind piecing everything together.
Lando, meanwhile, had returned to his dramatic retelling, apparently deciding that Oscar’s lack of enthusiasm was his problem, not Lando’s.
“And then when I nearly lost the rear—twice—oh my god, I thought I was gonna die, but I just caught it like—” Lando mimed an exaggerated steering correction, complete with sound effects.
Max groaned again, though it was quieter than before. He felt like shit and he knew he was going to get a stern talk from Oscar when they were back in the hotel room on how stupid his actions were. He just hoped he could endure Lando’s enthusiasm for a bit longer.
Max barely made it through the door of their hotel room before the exhaustion hit him like a wall again. His legs felt like lead, his head was spinning, and the moment he let himself lean against the doorframe, he knew he was in trouble.
Oscar, however, had been trying to save his patience since the Cool-down room.
“Okay, cool. Racing while sick is nice. Cool that you did that.” Max might be dead tired, but he can still hear the sarcasm dripping from Oscar’s voice.
Max groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he stumbled toward the bed. “Not now, Osc.”
“Oh, absolutely now.” Oscar was on him in a second, grabbing his arm and forcing him to sit down before he collapsed outright. “You had a fever before the race even started, didn’t you?”
Max didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of him. “Unbelievable. You could’ve passed out in the car. You could’ve—God, Max, do you even realize how stupid that was?”
Max sighed, leaning back on his elbows, his energy rapidly depleting. “Had to race.”
Oscar scoffed. “No, you didn’t. You have three championships under your belt already, Max, and a fourth coming. You could’ve sat this one out. Instead, you risked everything because what? You didn’t want to admit you were sick?”
Max shut his eyes. “Didn’t want you to worry.”
Oscar stopped pacing. He exhaled sharply, then moved forward, kneeling in front of Max. “That’s not how this works, Max. You don’t get to hide things from me just because you think it’ll make me feel better.” His voice softened, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it. “I worry because I love you. You scaring the hell out of me doesn’t change that.”
Max finally opened his eyes, meeting Oscar’s gaze. There was frustration there, but also concern, and something in Max’s chest tightened at the sight of it.
“Okay,” Max mumbled. “I get it.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Do you?”
Max let out a weak chuckle. “Yes. Next time I’ll tell you.”
Oscar studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Good. Now, lie down before you fall over.”
Max didn’t argue. The second his head hit the pillow, he felt himself sinking into sleep. The last thing he registered was the warmth of Oscar settling beside him, a hand resting gently over his forehead.
“You’re still an idiot,” Oscar muttered.
Max hummed, already half-asleep. “Your idiot, though.”
Oscar huffed. “Yeah. Unfortunately.” But he didn’t move away.