Chapter Text
The Ardennes air was thick with spray and tension. Spa-Francorchamps always bit hard, but today Charles was holding it by the throat.
Lap 24. He was leading. And for three brutal laps, he had kept Max Verstappen behind him.
Everywhere Max attacked, Charles defended. Eau Rouge, Les Combes, Pouhon, Charles shut the door each time, elbows out, teeth grit, refusing to surrender. Ferrari’s pit wall was screaming at him to manage the tyres, to think of the championship, but he couldn’t. Not with Verstappen’s Red Bull looming in his mirrors like a predator waiting for blood.
Charles could feel the aggression building behind him, the pressure mounting, like a storm cloud about to split the sky.
Then Lap 25 came.
Out of La Source, Max was closer than ever, DRS open, engine howling. Charles covered the inside line for Les Combes, same as before but Max didn’t back off this time. He jinked late, impossibly late, forcing himself into a gap that wasn’t there.
Charles shouted into the radio, “He’s going to hit me—”
Impact.
The world snapped sideways. Carbon shattered, sparks showered the asphalt. Charles barely had time to curse before his Ferrari was launched into the barriers, Max’s Red Bull crunching on top of him, the weight of it pressing him down. The halo screamed as debris skittered across it.
His breath punched out of his lungs. Pain lanced sharp through his ribs where something bit deep. He tasted blood.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the roar of the crowd, the chaos in his ears, and the heat of Verstappen’s car still on top of him.
Charles tried to move, but agony flared in his side. He bit it back, choking on the copper in his mouth. Not here. Not in front of him.
The wreck groaned and hissed around them. Max’s Red Bull was perched half-on, half-over the crumpled nose of Charles’s Ferrari, weight pressing down. Smoke curled off the brakes, shards of carbon scattered like black snow across the runoff.
“Max, status?” Christian’s voice cracked sharp over the radio.
Max sucked in a breath, checking his limbs. His pulse was hammering but he forced the words out.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“Do not move.” Christian’s tone was steel. “Do you hear me? The Ferrari’s already absorbed a huge G. Any shift in weight distribution could crush the cockpit further. Stay put until marshals get there.”
Max’s eyes darted down. Beneath him, through the torn shreds, he saw the Ferrari’s scarlet shell twisted grotesquely against the barrier.
“Charles?” Riccardo Adami’s voice came urgent, high, almost pleading through the Ferrari radio. “Charles, talk to me. Give me anything.”
Another groan, weaker. Charles tried to lift his head but the pain seared through his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. His fingers twitched against the wheel, white-knuckled.
“Charles, can you hear me?” Adami again, more desperate. “Say something, please. We need a status.”
Charles forced a rasp of air past his lips, words shredded into a whisper: “…still here…”
It was barely audible, but it was enough to send a ragged relief through the comms.
Max closed his eyes, every muscle tight. He could feel the faint tremors of Charles’s car beneath his own, could imagine the pain in the cockpit below. His chest was heaving, Christian still repeating in his ear to stay still, to let the marshals handle it.
But all Max could hear was that broken groan, and all he could think was, I did this.
Marshals in orange overalls swarmed around them, but their movements were cautious, hesitant. The Red Bull sat heavy on the nose of the Ferrari, tilted awkwardly, metal shrieking whenever it shifted even a centimeter. A tractor was being waved onto the track, but it was still crawling down from the service road.
“Max, stay absolutely still,” GP told him firmly over the radio. “They’re bringing equipment now. Don’t unbuckle. Don’t put any more load on the Ferrari. Do you understand?”
Max’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Copy. Staying still.” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the wreck under him. He could see Charles’s helmet through the shredded carbon, slumped but moving faintly. “GP… update on Charles?”
There was a pause.
“Not our channel,” GP replied carefully. “Focus on yourself for now.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “No, fuck that. Tell me what they’re saying.”
Silence for a beat, then static crackled, Ferrari’s comms, bleeding faintly through the broadcast.
“Charles, are you okay? Give me a word,” Adami urged, voice tight, urgent.
A weak, garbled reply: “…hurt…side…” barely audible, followed by a groan.
Max’s blood went cold.
“Charles is conscious,” GP said quickly, clearly trying to steady him. “Medical team is approaching. He’s talking.”
But Max could hear it, the strain, the pain that wasn’t just from the impact. He pressed his head back against the seat, fists trembling around the wheel.
“I put him there,” Max muttered, low, almost to himself. His chest heaved. “I put him in the fucking wall.”
“Max,” Christian cut in, sharper now. “You need to calm down. Your job is to stay put until extraction. You’ll both be fine. Do not move until that tractor lifts us clear.”
Below him, Charles groaned again and the tractor was still twenty, thirty seconds away.
The wail of the tractor grew louder until it finally pulled alongside, steel arms lowering into place. The marshals moved with brisk efficiency now, but Max could see the nerves etched on their faces, nobody wanted to jolt the wreck the wrong way.
“Max,” GP’s voice was steady but low in his ear. “They’re going to lift you first. You’ll be raised a few feet and set aside so the marshals can get to Charles. Do not undo your belts until you’re on the ground. Copy?”
Max’s throat was dry. He forced the word out: “Copy.”
The forks slid under the Red Bull’s floor, metal scraping. Then the car lurched, rising. For a sickening moment Max could feel the tilt, the Ferrari groaning beneath him. He held his breath, staring down through the gap at the scarlet wreck and the marshals clustered tight around it.
He caught a glimpse of Charles’s helmet, head turned, chest moving shallowly. His gloves twitched on the wheel, a faint gesture, but still movement. Two medics knelt by the cockpit, waiting like coiled springs for the Red Bull to clear.
“Okay, Max, you’re being lowered now,” GP’s calm tone threaded into his ear. “Stay buckled until you’re fully on the tarmac.”
The Red Bull thunked down on the asphalt a few meters away. Marshals rushed in, hands raised to steady it.
“You’re clear to switch off and unbuckle,” GP confirmed. “Step out slow, the medics will guide you.”
Max didn’t move at first. His eyes were locked on the Ferrari, on Charles still trapped inside. The marshals were already crowding the car, peeling carbon away from the halo, one crouching low to hold Charles’s helmet steady. Max could see the way Charles’s arm sagged when they touched him, the weakness in it, the slowness.
He forced himself to breathe, to obey, to unclasp his belts. But every fibre of him stayed trained on the scene unfolding yards away, Charles groaning, Charles refusing to answer properly, Charles bleeding somewhere Max couldn’t see.
And Max couldn’t shake the thought: I did this. And now I can’t touch him.
Max slid awkwardly out of the cockpit, boots hitting the tarmac with a dull thud. His knees almost buckled, the world still ringing, but his eyes stayed locked on the wreck just meters away.
The marshals parted briefly as the tractor shifted back, and for the first time Max got a clear view of Charles.
The Ferrari was mangled, nose buried deep in the Tecpro, cockpit pressed at an ugly angle. Charles was slumped, helmet tilted, one hand still on the wheel. His scarlet suit, torn at the shoulder, streaked with dust and carbon, looked exactly the same shade as the blood Max was suddenly certain was soaking into it.
One of the medics swore under their breath. “Hard to see, red everywhere.”
“Check the side,” another answered quickly, already reaching for trauma shears. They worked fast, slicing open the suit at Charles’s ribs, fingers probing carefully for wetness, for warmth.
Charles groaned at the touch, head jerking weakly to the side.
Max flinched. Every instinct screamed to go to him, but a marshal’s arm barred his chest.
“Stay back.”
He snarled, “I need to—”
“Stay back.” The marshal’s tone brooked no argument.
Max’s fists curled helpless at his sides. His engineer was still talking in his ear, something calm, technical, detached. He didn’t hear a word. All he could focus on was the faint tremor in Charles’s gloved hand as they unbuckled him, the way his legs barely shifted when they freed them from the cockpit.
“Charles, can you hear me?” a medic leaned over, visor close.
Another groan, soft and broken.
“Okay. He’s responsive. Get the stretcher.”
Max’s chest heaved. He had thought he knew adrenaline. He had thought he knew fear. But nothing had ever felt like standing three meters away, powerless, watching Charles be pried out of a coffin Max himself had slammed him into.
The red of the suit made everything worse, it was impossible to tell how bad it was, how much blood there was. Max’s stomach turned. He wanted to rip the helmet off, to bandage the side himself, to do something, anything other than just stand here.
But the marshals didn’t let him move.
And when Charles was finally eased free, limp against the hands holding him, Max thought he might break apart right there on the asphalt.
The marshals eased him onto a stretcher. His head lolled, helmet visor smeared with grime, the rise of his chest shallow but steady. The medics were fast, working in practiced rhythm, neck brace first, straps across his chest, oxygen mask ready.
But it wasn’t fast enough for Max.
The crowd in the grandstands had gone from roaring chaos to a low, horrified murmur. Cameras zoomed in, broadcasting every detail across the circuit, across the world. The image of Charles’s limp body in Ferrari red, slumped against white-gloved hands, would be everywhere within seconds.
“Keep the arm steady, he’s bleeding at the side.”
That one phrase hit Max like a hammer. Bleeding. He felt his vision tunnel, his chest crushing tight, rage at himself boiling hotter than anything he’d ever felt in a car.
He tried to step closer. A marshal shoved him back.
“Not your place.”
Max snapped, “The fuck it isn’t—”
“Max,” Christian’s voice cut sharp into his ear. “Leave it. Get back to the medical car for your own checks. Do you hear me?”
But Max couldn’t. He couldn’t look away. He watched as Charles’s gloved hand twitched against the stretcher strap, a feeble movement that barely counted as resistance.
“Charles,” Max whispered, but the name was eaten by the crowd noise, by the scream of the tractor backing away.
The medics loaded him into the medical car. Cameras zoomed tighter. Charles’s helmet tilted just enough for Max to catch a glimpse of his faceplate through the visor, pale, eyes closed.
Something inside Max snapped.
The medical car jolted as it left the circuit, sirens blaring. Inside, the air reeked of antiseptic and scorched carbon. Charles lay strapped to the gurney, helmet off now, his hair damp with sweat, his face pale beneath the grime.
“Scissors,” one medic snapped, already tugging at the torn edges of the Ferrari suit. “We need more exposure, I can’t see how bad this is.”
The shears bit into the red Nomex, fabric splitting in ragged lines across Charles’s torso. The deeper they cut, the more the colour betrayed them, the same scarlet, whether fabric or blood.
“Fuck, it’s impossible to tell,” another muttered. He pressed gauze to Charles’s side, and it came away darker, wet. “Yeah, he’s bleeding. We just don’t know how much.”
Charles groaned, low and strained, his hand twitching against the restraint. His ribs screamed with every breath.
“Stay with us, Charles,” the medic closest to him urged, voice calm but tight. He reached into the kit, pulled out a thick rubber bite block, and held it close to Charles’s mouth. “Here. Bite down. It’ll help with the pain until we get you something stronger.”
Charles turned his head away weakly.
“You need this,” the medic insisted, gently pushing it toward him. “Otherwise you’re going to bite your tongue when we put pressure on.”
Charles’s lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping as another wave of pain ripped through his side. Finally, with a trembling jaw, he let the medic slip the block between his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, a muffled sound escaping as gauze pressed harder into the wound.
The van swayed, sirens echoing through every bone. The medics kept moving, hands slick with blood they couldn’t properly measure, voices low but urgent.
“BP dropping a little.”
“Keep pressure, don’t let up.”
“We’re ten minutes out from Liège.”
Charles drifted, caught between the sharp sting in his ribs and the dull roar in his skull, every groan swallowed into the rubber between his teeth.
Max sat on the edge of the carbon crash seat, visor up, gloves half-stripped, as a medic shone a penlight into his eyes. The world around him was still chaos, tractors hauling wreckage, marshals sweeping debris, the crowd buzzing with every replay on the big screens.
“I’m fine,” Max said for the third time, jaw tight. His leg bounced, nerves coiled so tight they hurt. “Just let me go.”
“You’re not fine until I say you’re fine,” the medic replied sharply, pressing two fingers against his wrist, counting. “You just took a thirty-five G hit. Sit still.”
“I said I’m fine,” Max snapped, pulling his arm back. His eyes darted to the track exit, where the medical van had already disappeared, sirens fading. “Charles, he—”
Another medic crouched at his side, tugging at his HANS device, starting to undo the suit around his chest. “Forget about him for now. He’s in the best hands. You need to focus on yourself.”
“I don’t care about me!” The words tore out, harsher than he meant, making both medics pause. His throat felt raw. He lowered his voice, almost pleading. “I just… I need to be there.”
“You can’t,” the first medic said firmly. He clicked his penlight off and scribbled something on a chart. “You don’t go anywhere until we’ve cleared you. If you’ve got internal bruising, if you faint out there—”
“I won’t faint.” Max’s fists clenched. “Just clear me. Please.”
They ignored him, already checking his helmet for cracks, palpating his collarbone, moving down his ribs with practiced hands. Max gritted his teeth at every touch, not from pain, but from the seconds slipping away. Every second Charles was bleeding somewhere out of sight. Every second Max was trapped here, useless, while his rival was strapped down in the back of a van.
“Vitals are stable,” one medic finally said, voice low. “No obvious fractures. He’s clear to go to the medical centre for final checks.”
Max surged to his feet before they’d even finished the sentence, tearing his gloves fully off. His chest heaved, eyes burning with frustration.
But even as he started toward the paddock, one thought looped relentless in his head: I’m cleared. He’s not.
Max barely made it ten meters before the media wall hit him. Cameras flashed, microphones shoved into his face as though he hadn’t just crawled out of a thirty-five G wreck.
“Max, was that intentional?”
“Did it feel nice to ensure Charles can’t win?”
“You’ve said before you don’t like him, was this about hate?”
The words slammed into him harder than the crash. He stopped dead, chest heaving. “What? no—”
But they kept coming.
“You forced him off at Les Combes, Max! He’s in an ambulance now, do you regret it?”
“People say you’ve always wanted to ruin his races. Was this the payback?”
Max’s throat burned. His jaw locked so tight it hurt. He wanted to scream, to tell them all the truth, that the sight of Charles limp against a stretcher was clawing him apart inside, that hate was the furthest thing from what he felt.
Instead, he shoved past, security finally stepping in to push cameras away, the crowd roaring louder as he went. The paddock swallowed him up in a frenzy of voices and flashes.
Max sat on the edge of a hospital cot, the antiseptic air suffocating. A doctor checked his reflexes, tapped his ribs, asked about dizziness. Max gave clipped, impatient answers, eyes flicking constantly to the clock.
“Max,” the doctor said firmly, “you need to stay until scans are cleared.”
“I don’t,” Max snapped, already pulling his race suit back over his shoulders. “I’m fine. Just sign it.”
“You’re not fine until we say so. You’re showing elevated adrenaline. You could crash physically any moment.”
Max shoved to his feet. “Then let me crash at the fucking hospital Charles is in.”
The doctor blinked, taken aback, but before he could reply, Christian appeared in the doorway, tight-lipped. “Max. Sit down.”
“No,” Max shot back, eyes blazing. “I need to see him. Now.”
“You’ll do nothing until you’re cleared,” Christian said coldly. “That’s non-negotiable. You want to help Charles? Then stop being reckless for once in your life.”
Max froze, fists trembling, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. He hated Christian in that moment, hated the doctors, hated every barrier between him and the scarlet figure bleeding in a Liège hospital.
But worst of all, he hated himself.
Max sat forward on the cot, elbows braced on his knees, hair plastered damp to his forehead. The doctor scribbled notes, running through one last neuro check, but Max barely heard. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the crash, not because of the impact, but because of him. Charles.
Finally, he broke. His voice cracked out into the sterile air:
“The media.. they’re saying it was on purpose.”
The doctor glanced up, frowning. “Max—”
“They’re saying it’s because I hate him,” Max pressed on, louder now, chest heaving. He dragged both hands down his face, eyes raw. “They think I wanted him out. They think I wanted to ruin him.” His gaze snapped to Christian, who stood silent by the door. “What if Charles thinks it too?”
Christian’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t answer.
Max pushed to his feet, pacing, agitation spilling over. “I need to see him. I need him to know I didn’t.. fuck, I would never—” He broke off, fists curled so tight his nails dug into his palms.
The doctor spoke gently, trying to steady him. “Max, you’re in shock. Adrenaline is making everything sharper, worse. Charles is being treated by professionals. Right now, the best thing you can do is let them work.”
But Max shook his head violently. “No. You don’t get it. If he wakes up and thinks I did this because of hate, if he thinks that’s all he is to me—” His voice cracked again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. “I can’t let him believe that.”
He turned to Christian again, desperation etched into every line of him. “Please. Let me go to him. Just… let me see him.”
For once, Christian didn’t look like he had a hard answer ready. He just studied Max, saw the way his hands shook, the way his eyes burned.
And still, he said nothing.
The conference room was packed, nineteen drivers around the long oval table, team reps pressed into the walls, FIA officials at the head. Max sat near the middle, silent, shoulders tight. His cap shadowed his face, but he could feel the weight of every eye in the room.
The FIA president cleared his throat. “We’ll start with race procedure—”
“No.” Lewis cut across him, voice cold. He leaned forward, arms folded. “We’re not starting with anything but Spa. With Charles.”
A murmur of agreement rippled instantly around the table. George nodded, Esteban muttered exactly, and even Alonso’s sharp voice chimed in: “There’s nothing else to discuss until you explain how that crash happened.”
The president tried again. “Investigations are ongoing—”
“Bullshit,” Lando snapped. He had Carlos’s hand on his knee under the table, steadying him, but his voice still shook. “We all saw it. We saw Charles pinned under Max’s car. You owe us details. You owe him details.”
For the first time, Max lifted his head. His throat burned, but he said nothing. He didn’t trust himself.
The FIA technical director sighed, shuffled papers. “Very well. The data shows that the Ferrari absorbed an initial impact of thirty-five G into the barriers at Les Combes. The Red Bull was then launched onto its nose, where it came to rest across Charles’s halo.”
Gasps, curses. Pierre swore in French under his breath.
The director pressed on, voice heavy. “The halo did its job. But it was damaged, cracked on the right-hand side. If Verstappen had moved his car before marshals stabilized it, the weight could have collapsed that section onto Charles.”
The room went dead silent.
“Jesus Christ,” George muttered finally, staring down at the table.
“The Ferrari’s chassis is a write-off,” another official added grimly. “Carbon torn completely through. Charles was incredibly lucky the cockpit cell didn’t fail.”
“Lucky?” Seb’s voice, sharp as a blade. He wasn’t even on the grid anymore, but he’d been invited back as a GPDA rep. “The man is in a hospital bed right now, bleeding, because this governing body keeps letting cars run inches apart at 200mph and calls survival luck.”
The president lifted a hand, placating. “Charles is conscious. He’s stable.”
That single word, stable, eased something in the room. The collective breath released, just barely.
But Lewis wasn’t done. He looked straight at the FIA president, jaw tight. “Ferrari is under Red Bull tonight. Their driver in a hospital because your race direction let that go too far. Until you admit what happened and what needs changing, none of us are talking about tyre allocations or sprint races or any of the other shit on your agenda.”
Around the table, nineteen pairs of eyes glared forward, united. For once, there was no rivalry, no split. Only one question that mattered: Charles.
And Max sat in the middle of it all, stomach twisted, hands knotted under the table. He could still hear the medics: “Keep the arm steady, he’s bleeding at the side.”
Every word spoken around him was another knife, because no one in the room, not even Charles, knew how badly Max needed to say out loud: I didn’t mean it. I’d never mean it. Not with him.
The room buzzed with anger, voices overlapping, demands, accusations, questions the FIA clearly had no intention of answering.
Max’s nails dug into his palms under the table. His heart thudded so loud he almost couldn’t hear the others. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“I saw it.”
The words cut through the noise like a blade. Heads turned. Every driver’s eyes landed on him.
Max swallowed, lifted his chin. “I saw everything. When I was on top of him.” His voice wavered, but he forced it steady. “Charles wasn’t moving. His head? his hands, they barely twitched. And I could hear him groaning underneath me.”
A ripple went through the room.
The FIA president shifted forward sharply. “Max, this isn’t—”
“No.” Max’s voice rose, firm this time. He glared straight at the officials. “They deserve to know. We all do. If we put our lives in each other’s hands every Sunday, then transparency isn’t optional.”
“Max—”
“I said no.” His fist slammed against the table, startling even himself. “I was told not to move. Because if I had, the car would’ve pressed the halo straight down on him. If I shifted my weight, it could’ve killed him.”
Silence. Thick, suffocating. A few drivers paled, others muttered curses.
Max leaned forward, voice breaking raw now. “You didn’t see the Ferrari from where I sat. It was wrecked. Crumpled like tin foil. You couldn’t tell if he was bleeding because his suit was already red. I could only tell because the medics swore under their breath when they touched him.” His throat bobbed. “And I just sat there, waiting, knowing I’d put him in the wall, knowing if I moved a muscle, he might die.”
The FIA president tried again, softer. “We don’t want to spread unnecessary—”
“Unnecessary?” Seb snapped, voice sharp. “That’s called the truth. And Max is right. We deserve transparency.”
Max’s hands shook, but he didn’t lower his gaze. For once, the room wasn’t looking at the FIA. They were looking at him.
And all Max could think was that Charles wasn’t here to hear any of it.
Max’s hands shook against the table. He hadn’t planned to say more, but the words poured out anyway, jagged and messy.
“There was debris,” he whispered first. His throat felt like it was closing. “In his side. I couldn’t tell how deep. Couldn’t tell how much blood. But it was there. I saw it.”
Every driver went still.
Max dropped his head, voice cracking. “He was dazed. Barely moving. Just.. his head hung forward. And I…” He clenched his fists until his knuckles blanched. “God, I didn’t mean to. I swear. The car just went into him—”
Christian shifted beside the wall, as if to cut him off, but Max surged forward, louder this time, desperate.
“It was like the previous three laps! Exactly the same! I covered the inside, he defended, I thought I’d have space, I thought—” His voice cracked into silence. He dragged in a shuddering breath, the weight of nineteen pairs of eyes bearing down on him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. The words barely carried, but they filled the room. “I didn’t mean it. I’d never mean it. Not with him.”
The table stayed silent, heavy, until Lewis finally exhaled, long and low. “Then you need to tell him that. Not us. Him.”
Max lifted his head just enough to meet the room’s gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, raw. “I know.”
Christian finally pushed off the wall, his voice even but firm, as though he could wrap steel around Max’s unraveling edges.
“We’re checking over all the data from Max’s car,” he said, addressing the room instead of his driver. “Telemetry, wheel-to-wheel comparisons, steering inputs. It will prove what happened. The investigation is already underway.”
The words were neat, clinical. They didn’t touch the raw edge still vibrating in Max’s voice.
For a moment, silence reigned again. Until Carlos shifted in his chair.
“Good,” he said simply. His tone was deceptively soft, but everyone knew Carlos Sainz didn’t waste words when it came to Ferrari. His gaze cut toward Christian, then lingered on Max, unreadable.
“Because Fred’s on his way. With an update.”
The implication hung heavy.
Carlos leaned back, arms folded, still quiet, still steady. “It’s no secret he’s highly protective of Charles. He’s probably pissed.”
Lando glanced at him, eyes wide, but didn’t interrupt. A ripple went around the table, knowing looks, bracing breaths. Everyone in that room knew what Fred Vasseur was like when Ferrari was wronged.
And Max? Max’s stomach twisted tighter, because pissed didn’t even begin to cover it.
The silence stretched. Max could feel the tension crawling across the table like static, prickling against his skin. He didn’t dare look at Carlos, but he could feel the weight of his stare, heavy, sharp, unblinking.
Carlos’s jaw worked, teeth grinding, shoulders set like stone. Max had seen that look before, in parc fermé, in drivers’ rooms. But never like this. This wasn’t rivalry. This was something older, hotter. Protective. Territorial.
Ferrari’s prince wasn’t in the room. So Carlos was his sword.
Before it could break, Lando shifted. He reached out under the table, his fingers brushing Carlos’s wrist, grounding. “Hey,” he murmured, low enough that only the closest drivers caught it. “Not here. Not like this.”
Carlos didn’t look away from Max. But his fists eased, just barely, under Lando’s touch. His chest rose and fell, slower now.
“You don’t understand,” Carlos muttered, still razor-edged, his voice like gravel. “Charles is—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. The words hung unsaid: ours. Ferrari’s. Mine.
Lando pressed closer, his tone almost coaxing. “I do. I get it. But you’ll tear this whole room apart if you go for him now. And Charles wouldn’t want that.”
Carlos finally blinked, eyes dragging from Max to the table. His throat bobbed, the tension in his shoulders loosening an inch.
The room had noticed. A few drivers exchanged glances. Pierre and Esteban whispered something sharp in French. But no one interrupted.
And Max sat frozen, hearing every word, because he knew Carlos was right, if Lando wasn’t there, Carlos would have already been across the room.
The heavy door swung open. The low murmur of drivers died instantly as Fred Vasseur stepped in, his presence filling the room like a storm front. He didn’t rush, Fred never rushed but the set of his jaw, the clipped pace of his walk, radiated fury.
Carlos sat up straighter the moment he saw him. For a heartbeat, Max thought Carlos would spring again, but instead, the Spaniard eased, like a wire pulled taut finally given slack. Fred’s presence, Ferrari’s anchor, seemed to steady him.
The silence hung thick until, surprisingly, Oscar spoke first. His voice was hesitant but clear. “Is he okay?”
Fred’s eyes swept the room, sharp as blades, before landing on Oscar. He didn’t soften, but he answered. “Conscious. Stable. They’re keeping him under observation.”
Pierre leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Observation for what? Head trauma? Internal?” His tone cut sharp, unrelenting, but his eyes betrayed the worry beneath.
Christian, ever the diplomat, straightened in his chair. “Fred.” He nodded politely, voice cool but careful. “We’d all like to hear an update.”
Fred didn’t answer him. Not immediately. Instead, he let his gaze sweep across the room, lingering on Max only long enough to make the younger man drop his eyes to the table.
Finally, his attention shifted back to Carlos.
He didn’t need words. The slight raise of his brows, the faintest nod, it was enough. Carlos exhaled, shoulders loosening. The question was asked without sound, and answered in kind.
Charles was alive. Hurt, but alive.
Fred didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, voice steady but iron-hard.
“He’s dazed,” Fred began. “For the first thirty minutes, Charles only answered in French. The doctors said it was disorientation, concussion-like symptoms. They’re still running scans.”
A ripple went through the room. Lando’s hand tightened on Carlos’s knee. Max kept his head bowed, every word hitting like a hammer.
Fred didn’t stop. “He has a deep cut in his side. Large debris pierced the suit. Two pieces.” He paused, his gaze cutting through the drivers, daring anyone to look away. “One was Ferrari carbon. The other… was Red Bull.”
The silence turned suffocating. Pierre swore under his breath. Yuki’s face blanched.
Fred went on, calm, relentless. “The bleeding is under control, but it was heavy at first. Too heavy to know, because his suit masked the extent. They’re keeping him monitored for risk of internal bleeding.”
The words dropped like stones into water, each heavier than the last.
Christian cleared his throat, the first to break the silence. “And his head?”
Fred’s jaw tightened. “Helmet took a brutal impact. He’s got bruising, pain, but no skull fracture. Again, they’re watching him closely. He was still dazed when I left.”
Carlos sat rigid, fists clenched on the table, his stare fixed on Fred like he could will more reassurance out of him. But Fred didn’t offer comfort. He just gave facts. Truth, stripped bare.
Finally, Fred’s voice lowered, almost dangerous in its calm. “Charles Leclerc nearly died today. And if not for luck and a handful of carbon and titanium, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The room stayed deathly quiet.
And at the far end of the table, Max dug his nails into his palms, whispering to himself, almost too soft to hear.. god, I’m sorry.
The silence cracked at last.
Lewis pushed his chair back, eyes blazing at the FIA officials. “So tell me again how this isn’t the only thing we should be talking about tonight? A man nearly bled out under another car, and you’re still sitting on ‘ongoing investigations.’”
Seb scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Luck. That’s what you called it. That’s your safety standard? Charles lived because of luck?”
George shook his head, pale. “We’re inches away from being statistics every weekend. If this isn’t the wake-up call, then what is?”
Carlos didn’t join them. He sat rigid, silent, the tension rolling off him like heat. His eyes never left Fred, waiting.
Max finally broke. He forced himself to look up, throat raw, and spoke directly to Ferrari’s boss. “Fred?” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. “Fred, I’m sorry. I swear, I didn’t—” His chest heaved, words tumbling out in a rush. “It wasn’t on purpose, I’d never try to—he defended the same way, I thought I had space, the car just went… God, I didn’t mean to. I’d never mean to. Not with him.”
The room stilled again. Every eye flicked between Max and Fred.
Fred’s gaze was steel. He let the apology hang, let the silence grow heavy enough to choke. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I’ve been told Red Bull are investigating your car’s data.” His tone was measured, cold, the kind of restraint that was scarier than yelling. “Telemetry, steering, throttle. I’ll choose my emotions once I have that verdict.”
The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t forgiving either. They were a promise, one that made Max’s stomach twist tighter.
But underneath that restraint, no one in the room could miss it. Fred was furious. Not simmering. Not irritated. Furious.
And Carlos? He sat straighter beside Lando, shoulders tight, expression unreadable. But Max could see it in his eyes. He wanted to say everything Fred didn’t.
The room held its breath after Fred’s words. Max sat small in his chair, hollow-eyed, guilt carved into every line of him.
Then Carlos moved.
He leaned forward, palms flat against the table, voice low but vibrating with rage. “You’re telling us the halo broke.” His eyes cut straight to the FIA president. “How the hell does that happen? It’s not meant to break. That’s the one part we’re told won’t fail.”
The FIA man shifted uncomfortably. “It absorbed the impact as designed, but—”
“Bullshit!” Carlos slammed his hand down, the sound echoing through the room. Lando flinched beside him, grabbing his wrist under the table, but Carlos shook him off. “You’ve spent years telling us the halo will protect us. That it doesn’t matter if the car’s on fire, upside down, crushed, it’ll hold. And today? It cracked like cheap plastic.”
Pierre muttered an agreement, Esteban nodded sharply, but Carlos wasn’t done. His eyes snapped to Max.
“And you?” His voice dropped, quieter, sharper. “You keep saying it wasn’t on purpose. That you didn’t mean it. But you still drove like that. Aggressive, desperate, reckless. You still put him in the wall. You still landed on top of him.” His chest heaved. “And now he’s in a hospital bed with debris in his side and blood we couldn’t even see because of his own damn suit while you get to walk away perfectly fine.”
Max’s lips parted, but no words came. He just stared, pale and stricken.
“Charles is Ferrari’s driver,” Carlos spat, “but more than that, he’s ours. He’s my teammate. He’s my friend. And you almost killed him today.”
The words rang out, brutal, unforgiving. Lando tugged at Carlos’s sleeve, murmuring “Enough, enough,” but the room knew it was already too late, Carlos had said what half of them were thinking.
Max bowed his head, shoulders trembling.
And Fred? Fred didn’t intervene. He just stood there, arms folded, letting Carlos’s fury hang heavy in the air. Because he felt it too.
Carlos’s words still vibrated in the air, the silence heavy enough to choke. Max looked like he’d been gutted, head bowed, hands shaking against his knees.
It was Lewis who finally cut through the tension. His voice wasn’t soft, but it was steady, commanding. “Enough.” He looked around the table, not just at Carlos, but at all of them. “Max knows what he did. He’ll answer for it. But don’t let the FIA off the hook by making this only about him.”
Seb nodded in agreement, voice sharp as glass. “Exactly. Don’t lose sight of the real question: why did the halo crack? Why was Charles bleeding under two different cars’ debris? Why was a medical team fighting to find his injuries because of a fucking red race suit?”
The room stirred, anger redirecting, focusing again on the officials at the head of the table.
And then the door opened.
A nurse stepped in, still in her scrubs, badge swinging against her chest. She glanced around, clearly surprised by the packed room, but spoke anyway. “Charles Leclerc won’t be fit to race in Hungary next week.”
The words hit like a thunderclap.
Gasps, mutters, swearing erupted around the table.
“No—” Carlos half-rose from his seat, eyes wide, but Lando yanked him back down.
The nurse went on, professional, matter-of-fact. “The cut in his side is too deep. He’ll need time to heal, and driving would reopen it. And his right arm has a severe laceration as well.”
Fred’s voice cut in, sharp. “From what?”
She hesitated. Then: “Part of Red Bull’s front wing.”
The silence was deafening.
Carlos’s jaw set like stone, rage flickering hot in his eyes again. Max flinched as if struck, every drop of blood draining from his face.
The nurse, oblivious to the storm she’d just walked into, gave a stiff nod and slipped back out.
The room was left reeling, nineteen drivers and two furious team principals staring at each other and one Red Bull driver sitting in the middle, drowning in guilt.
The room was still buzzing from the nurse’s words when Pierre shoved his chair back. The scrape against the floor made everyone look up.
“I can’t sit here,” Pierre said, voice rough. His hands flexed against the table, restless. “He’s in a hospital bed, alone. I need to see him.”
No one doubted it. After Alpine, after years of being each other’s anchor, Pierre and Charles were inseparable. If anyone had a right to bolt straight to Charles’s side, it was him.
But before he could move, Christian spoke up. His voice wasn’t sharp this time, it was steady, calm, almost sympathetic. “Pierre, everyone’s staying until the Red Bull car data has been reviewed. We need the facts before speculation tears this paddock apart.”
Pierre’s jaw clenched, but Christian held his gaze, softer now. “And Fred will tell us when we’re allowed to visit. I’m sure of it. Right, Fred?”
Every head swiveled toward the Ferrari boss.
Fred didn’t look at Christian. He looked at Pierre? saw the desperation written all over his face, the way his fists trembled. And his expression softened just slightly, the barest fraction.
“When the doctors clear it,” Fred said firmly. “Not before. He needs rest. But when it’s safe, Pierre, you’ll be one of the first.”
Pierre nodded once, hard, but he didn’t sit back down. He stood there, chest tight, as if ready to sprint the second the word go was given.
And across the table, Max felt that twist of guilt again because Pierre was desperate to see Charles as a friend. Carlos was raging as a teammate. Fred was fighting as a protector.
And Max? Max wanted to see him for reasons none of them could even imagine.
Time slowed after that. No more shouting, no more speeches, just waiting.
Yuki drifted toward Pierre without hesitation, the smaller driver slotting against his side like gravity. Pierre barely noticed, his leg bouncing, eyes fixed on the floor as if sheer will might get him to Charles faster. Yuki leaned against him anyway, a quiet anchor.
Oscar, pale and restless, lingered close too. He wasn’t Charles’s best friend or teammate, but the horror of it still sat raw in him. Every so often he glanced at the door, lips pressed tight, like he was rehearsing what he’d say if he saw a medic walk back in.
And then there was Carlos. He and Pierre had gravitated together naturally, Ferrari’s fire and Charles’s shadow, both knotted with the same desperate tension. Carlos sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, his body coiled tight like he’d spring for the hospital himself if anyone said no. Lando stayed close at his side, murmuring under his breath every few minutes, quiet, grounding words only Carlos could hear.
Max sat opposite them.
He could see it all. The way Pierre’s hands shook when he rubbed his face. The way Carlos’s jaw ground tighter every time someone mentioned Charles’s name. The way Oscar’s eyes darted, wide and nervous, betraying just how rattled he was.
They all wanted the same thing: to see Charles. To make sure he was alive, breathing, safe.
And Max? He wanted it too. More than he could admit, more than he could ever say aloud in this room. But instead of huddling with the others, he sat alone, the space around him colder, heavier. Because unlike Pierre, unlike Carlos, unlike even Oscar, Max wasn’t sure Charles would want to see him.
The waiting dragged, tension stretching like wire. And then the door opened again.
This time it wasn’t medics. It was FIA engineers, flanked by two neutral mechanics carrying laptops and a stack of printouts. The room straightened as one, nineteen drivers locked in silence.
The lead engineer cleared his throat. “We’ve reviewed the data from car 1, Verstappen’s Red Bull. Telemetry, wheel sensors, brake inputs, steering. We compared the previous three laps at Les Combes to the lap of the crash.”
He tapped a key, and the screen at the front of the room flickered to life. A graph appeared: neat lines, steady inputs. “Here, laps 22, 23, and 24. Steering angle on entry, throttle lift, brake pressure. Consistent. Predictable.”
Then he changed the slide. Lap 25. The crash.
The lines jagged, erratic. Throttle dipped then spiked. Steering twitched right when it should have held steady. Brake pressure flatlined for a fraction of a second, then surged far too late.
“This,” the engineer said, pointing at the twitch in the steering trace, “is not driver error. The input doesn’t come from the wheel. It comes from the column itself. A malfunction.”
The room went deathly quiet.
“Max Verstappen did not deliberately turn into Charles Leclerc,” the engineer continued. “Telemetry confirms his steering locked mid-corner. The car failed.”
Gasps, curses. Oscar let out a shaky breath. Yuki muttered, “Holy shit.”
Carlos’s shoulders dropped a fraction, but his jaw stayed tight. Pierre’s hands stilled against his knees, but his expression was unreadable.
And Max? Max just stared at the screen, chest tight, throat burning. Cleared. The proof was right there in black and white, he hadn’t meant it, he hadn’t done it.
But the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. Because cleared or not, Charles was still in a hospital bed. And Max still wasn’t sure Charles would believe him.
The engineers let the last graph hang on the screen, jagged lines frozen in time. The silence that followed was thick, the kind that pressed against skin.
Fred was the first to speak. His arms stayed crossed, but some of the steel had slipped from his voice. “So the car failed.” He exhaled through his nose, heavy. “That explains the movement. Explains why Charles had no time.”
He paused, gaze sweeping across the drivers. His anger hadn’t gone, it still sat sharp in his eyes but now it was focused, directed. “Then we will demand answers from Red Bull. From the FIA. About why a steering column fault wasn’t caught before it put two men in the wall.”
A murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Lewis nodded grimly. Seb muttered exactly.
But some eyes had shifted toward Max.
Pierre’s glare had softened, just slightly, the tiniest crack in the wall of fury. Oscar looked almost guilty for having assumed. Yuki stayed unreadable, arms crossed, but he wasn’t glaring anymore.
Max sat stiff in his chair, chest tight. He wanted.. needed.. someone to say it out loud. To cut through the silence. His gaze drifted, almost helpless, toward Carlos.
For a long moment, Carlos just stared at him. His expression unreadable, shoulders still taut, Lando’s hand hovering against his sleeve as if to steady him.
Finally, Carlos spoke. His voice was flat, but clear. “It’s not your fault.”
Nothing more. No forgiveness, no comfort. Just the bare truth, laid down like a line in the sand.
And though it wasn’t much, Max felt his chest ease for the first time since the crash.
Fred’s phone buzzed against the table. The sharp sound cut through the quiet, and he excused himself with a clipped “One moment.” He stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Pierre shifted, eyes still on the screen where the jagged telemetry trace was frozen. Then he turned toward Max. His voice was low, rough, but without the sharpness it had carried earlier.
“…It’s not your fault.”
Max’s head snapped up. Pierre’s gaze was steady, if still wary. “I’ve seen Charles defend you like that a hundred times. If it was the car, it was the car. I believe that.”
Max’s throat closed. He wanted to say thank you, wanted to explain, wanted to swear it again and again but before he could, the door opened.
Fred stepped back in, his expression unreadable. He slipped the phone into his pocket and scanned the room.
“The hospital has cleared for visiting.”
The words rippled like electricity through the drivers.
Fred lifted his chin. “So. Hands up if you want to visit now. As in, right now.”
Pierre’s hand shot up instantly. Carlos followed without hesitation.
Fred gave a sharp nod. “You’re already on the list.”
Then, hesitantly, Oscar raised his hand. Lando too. And after a long, trembling pause, Max lifted his.
Fred’s eyes locked onto him. He didn’t speak right away, letting the silence stretch until Max’s heart thundered in his chest. Finally, he asked, quiet but cutting:
“Remember this: Charles doesn’t know it was an accident. Are you sure you want to walk into that room?”
Max’s jaw tightened. His nod was small, but firm. “Yes.”
Fred studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing the truth in his eyes. Then he gave the smallest of nods.
“Fine. But you’ll live with what he thinks until you can prove otherwise.”
The FIA had arranged a driver and a van, unmarked and quiet. No cameras. No reporters. Just a straight line from paddock to hospital.
Inside, the silence was suffocating.
Carlos sat pressed against the window, Lando beside him. Lando kept leaning close, his voice a quiet murmur every so often, too low for Max to catch, but the way Carlos’s shoulders twitched told him it was the only thing keeping the Spaniard from coming apart.
Opposite them, Pierre sat next to Oscar. Their shoulders touched, the two of them hunched forward in mirrored posture. Pierre’s leg bounced, Oscar’s hands twisted in his lap. Every bump in the road made them both flinch.
And Max… Max sat alone.
He was tucked into the back corner, the seat beside him empty, the low hum of the van rattling through his bones. He couldn’t look at Carlos and Lando. Couldn’t look at Pierre and Oscar. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, the blur of streetlights cutting across his reflection.
But he could feel it, the weight of their closeness, the way Charles’s name hung heavy in all of them. Pierre leaning forward like he was desperate to sprint the last miles on foot. Carlos vibrating with fury and fear. Oscar wide-eyed, barely keeping up.
And Max alone.
Because no matter what the telemetry said, no matter how much proof they’d been shown, he had been the one in the Red Bull. He had been the one on top of Charles’s car.
And when Charles opened his eyes, Max wasn’t sure if he’d see the truth.. or just the man who’d nearly crushed him.
The van turned another corner. The hospital lights glowed ahead.
The van rolled to a stop under the harsh glow of hospital lights. The engine cut, and for a second nobody moved, all five drivers frozen in the weight of what waited inside.
Then the doors opened, and nurses were already there. Clipboard, badges, brisk steps. “You’ll come in groups,” one said. “He’s stable, but we can’t overwhelm him. Two at a time.”
Carlos was on his feet before she finished, Lando right behind him. No hesitation, no glance back. They followed the nurse down the hall, the doors swinging shut behind them.
The van felt emptier without them, but the silence remained.
Oscar and Pierre went next, after nearly an hour of waiting in the sterile corridors. When their turn came, Pierre didn’t even look at the others, just got up, jaw set, and walked in with Oscar at his side.
It was longer this time. Forty minutes, maybe more. By the time they came back out, Pierre’s eyes were red and Oscar’s hands still shook. Neither said a word.
And then, finally, it was Max’s turn.
The nurse appeared in the doorway again. “Verstappen?”
He pushed to his feet, legs stiff, throat tight. Nobody spoke as he followed her down the hall, the sound of his shoes too loud against the sterile tile.
At the end of the corridor, a door waited. Behind it, Charles.
Max’s chest clenched. Please let him listen. Please don’t let him hate me.
The nurse opened the door and gestured him in.
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
The room smelled like antiseptic, sharp and clean. Machines beeped steadily at Charles’s bedside, the soft hiss of oxygen faint in the background.
Charles sat propped up against the pillows, pale under the fluorescent light, his right arm heavily bandaged and strapped against his chest. His chest and side were wrapped too, the edges of sterile gauze peeking out from under the hospital gown.
And in his left hand, he held a Capri Sun.
The straw bent awkwardly between his lips, the pouch crinkling in his weak grip. He drank slowly, eyes cast down? until the sound of Max’s footsteps made him look up.
For a second, their gazes locked.
Then Charles’s face shuttered. He looked away sharply, the line of his jaw tightening, and muttered under his breath. His accent was thicker than usual, his voice rough with pain.
“…Piss off.”
The words cut like glass, clipped and final.
Max froze just inside the doorway, his chest twisting. He had imagined this moment a hundred times on the drive over, Charles pale, yes, but relieved to see him, maybe ready to listen. Not this. Not being dismissed like poison.
But Charles wouldn’t look at him again. Just focused stubbornly on the juice pouch, his mouth pressed into a hard line as if drinking through the pain was easier than acknowledging the man who’d put him here.
Max stepped further into the room, his voice tight. “Charles—”
Charles’s head turned just slightly, eyes dragging up to him. For a heartbeat their gazes met, and then Charles’s lips curled faintly, bitterly.
“Piss off.”
The words were barely more than a whisper, heavy with his accent, but sharp enough to make Max falter mid-step.
“Charles, please—”
“No.” His voice cracked, weak and fraying, but the refusal was absolute. His hand trembled as he set the half-finished Capri Sun on the table, jaw tight with the effort. “You’ve done enough.”
Max’s throat closed, his chest burning. He tried again, desperate. “Just—”
“Non.” Charles cut across him, the French slipping out before he caught it. His face pinched with pain, his bandaged arm twitching against the sheets. “Leave. I don’t…want you here.”
The room rang with silence after that, just the steady beep of the monitors filling the gap.
Max froze at the foot of the bed, words dying on his tongue. He hadn’t even been given the chance to explain.
And Charles had already turned his face away, eyelids drooping with exhaustion, shutting Max out as surely as if he’d never walked in at all.
Max didn’t leave. He stood frozen at the bedside, pulse hammering in his ears, searching for something to do, some tiny excuse to stay. His eyes landed on the crumpled pouch at Charles’s side.
Quietly, he reached for the little tray of drinks the nurses had left, pulled a fresh Capri Sun free, and bent to place it where Charles could reach. “Here.” His voice was low, almost tentative. “You finished the other.”
Charles’s gaze flicked to the pouch, then to Max. And with his left hand, the only one free of heavy bandages, he batted it away.
The motion was weak, clumsy, but it was almost…kitten-like. His fingers swiped and missed, nudging the pouch so it wobbled and toppled against the blanket. His mouth turned down in the faintest of pouts, his lips trembling from the effort.
For one dizzy second, Max’s chest ached with something dangerously close to fondness. God, Charles was adorable like this, soft and unguarded, all bite gone, pouting like a child. It was not the time, but his cock twitched anyway, traitorous and hungry.
He swallowed hard, dragging his eyes away, guilt crashing through him. Charles looked so breakable, so exhausted, so hurt. The last thing Max should be thinking about was how much he wanted to kiss that pout, stroke those trembling fingers, worship him like he deserved.
But the thought was there all the same.
Max straightened slowly, the fresh pouch still lying abandoned on the sheets. His throat worked as he forced words out, low and raw.
“I just wanted to…help. That’s all.”
Charles’s eyes slid back to him, hazy but sharp in their distrust. His lips pressed together, then parted with a shaky breath.
“I said piss off.” His voice was quiet, fragile but edged, every word dipping heavy with his accent. “Why’re you still here?”
Max’s heart lurched. He sank into the chair by the bed without thinking, hands clasped tight between his knees.
“Because I need you to know—” he stopped, catching himself before pushing too far, “I need you to see I’m not leaving you like this.”
Charles blinked at him, slow and weary. His pout deepened, his mouth twisting like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the strength.
Max sat there anyway, pulse loud in his ears, swallowing every urge to touch him, every desperate need to beg him to listen. He stayed still, tethered only by the fragile fact that he was here, even if Charles didn’t want him to be.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The monitor beeped softly in the background, filling the space where words had run out.
Then Charles shifted.
Slowly, carefully, with a small, pained wince, he rolled onto his side, his back turning to Max. Every inch of the movement was deliberate, even if his body trembled with the effort. His bandaged arm tugged awkwardly against the sheets, his shoulders rising in a shallow breath as he settled facing the wall.
Max’s chest tightened.
Charles didn’t reach for the pouch Max had placed. Instead, he stretched with his good hand, fingers fumbling clumsily over the tray until he snagged another Capri Sun. The straw bent as he stabbed it through, his movements messy but determined.
And then, without a glance back, he drank.
The pouch Max had brought him stayed where it had fallen, forgotten, crumpled against the blanket, abandoned like he was.
Max stared at it, throat thick, a hollow ache blooming under his ribs. Charles had made his choice clear: even if he was too weak to throw Max out, he could still shut him out.
Max sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor just to keep from staring at Charles’s turned back. The silence weighed on him, too loud, too final.
He cleared his throat softly. “The grid was worried about you, you know?” His voice cracked halfway, but he pressed on. “Pierre, Carlos, Oscar… even Lando. They wouldn’t let the FIA talk about anything else until they gave us answers. Lewis too. Fernando. Even Seb. They….” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “We all were worried.”
The only reply was the faint crinkle of foil as Charles sipped from his Capri Sun.
No words. No glance back. Just silence.
Max’s chest tightened, the hollowness gnawing deeper. He wanted.. no needed something, even a sharp word, some acknowledgment that Charles had heard him. But there was nothing.
Just the sound of Charles drinking, and the steady, indifferent beep of the monitor.
The silence pressed harder the longer it stretched, Max’s own breathing loud in his ears. He rubbed his palms over his knees, forcing out a shaky exhale.
“…You know,” he tried, his voice rough but aiming for lighter, “Lando said he’d smuggle you McDonald’s if the hospital food’s bad. And Pierre swore he’d sit outside your door all night if they didn’t let him in.”
He huffed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Even Seb said if you pull a stunt like that again, he’s going to start giving you his old-man lectures.”
Nothing.
Charles didn’t even twitch. Just kept sipping from his Capri Sun, straw bending softly with each weak pull. His shoulders rose and fell, the steady beep of the monitor the only proof of his attention.
Max’s attempted smile died. The hollow ache in his chest deepened, dragging him back down into the chair.
Lighthearted wasn’t going to reach him. Nothing was.
The silence dragged until Max’s throat ached with it. He leaned forward, rubbing his palms over his knees, searching for something, anything, that might bridge the distance. But nothing came.
A soft knock at the door spared him the effort. The nurse stepped in, her voice gentle but firm. “Time’s up, Verstappen.”
Max’s chest clenched. He nodded, forcing himself up from the chair. His legs felt heavy as lead as he turned toward the door.
At the threshold, he risked one last glance back. Charles hadn’t moved, still facing the wall, the half-empty Capri Sun pouch balanced loosely in his hand.
The words slipped out before Max could stop them, quiet and raw. “…Get better soon, Charlie.”
Charles’s shoulders tensed the faintest bit at the nickname, a flicker of recognition, of history but he didn’t turn. Didn’t answer.
Max swallowed hard, the hollow ache in his chest sinking deeper. Then he stepped out, the door shutting behind him with a soft click, leaving Charles and his silence behind.