Max breathes in, coughs out. Pain flashes in his body, making him shudder. His ears ring, making the purr of his car almost a whisper. He grips his steering wheel tighter, trying to refocus on what was going ahead.
Qualifying was about to start. He'd gotten good times in the free practices; he knows he can grab the pole. Yet, he doesn't know if he'll be able to get out of his car to celebrate. He want nothing more than to cough, to get out of whatever was causing him pain.
Since that morning he feels an inexplicable pain in his lungs, as if someone was trying to rip them apart. He had coughed and coughed, but nothing would come out of him. As Covid was still a very much present thing to worry about, he decided to keep it on the down low, at least until the end of the weekend. He has a serious shot at the championship; he can't afford to get sick.
His engineer said something on his radio, but Max is too focused on not hacking his lungs out to understand what they wanted him to do.
"Come again?" he says, his voice definitely not sounding normal.
"I said we will roll out in a few seconds," the engineer repeats, clearly surprised by the request. "Are you OK, Max?"
Max is too busy desperately wheezing to answer. His throat is dry and it itches. No amount of water was making it normal again. He takes another sip from his drink, but it still does nothing.
"Yes," he manages to croak between breaths. Tears fill his eyes. He feels the car moving out of the garage, mechanics pushing it. He blinks hard, and manages to get a clear vision again. Deep breaths, he says to himself. Deep breaths and all will be ok. Max looks up towards the pit exit and pushes the throttle.
Somehow, he manages to grab the pole. It has been the most intense qualifying session he's ever had. You can only keep your breath steady for so long before the adrenaline messes up with it again.
As he gets out, the only thing he can feel is the pain deeply rooted in his lungs. He catches himself on his halo and scrambles to get out of his helmet. Once his balaclava is off, he makes a run for the water bottle. He drank all the water in his water pouch during the session and he is thirstier than ever.
He presses hard on the bottle, making water fall on his race suit too. Yet, it gets him where he wants. The fire in his throat is diminished – if only for a short moment. He notices Lewis is staring at him like he's gone mad or something. Max could have had a lot of thoughts about how his rival shouldn't look worried about him... but right now he needs more water.
Lewis hands him a new water bottle. Max couldn't thank him, too busy gulping down yet another litre of sweet, pure, nectar. Lewis is still looking at him when he finishes.
"What?" Max manages to say. "Got something on my face?"
It sounds way more aggressive than needed, and Max briefly feels a little sorry. Only a little though. Lewis was the enemy; you don't fraternize with the enemy.
"What? No, man," Lewis replies, shaking his head. "You look horrible, man. Like a train hit you."
Max can't see himself, but he guesses that description mustn't be too far from reality. From the corner of his eye, he can see his team coming to congratulate him. Christian's face is filled with concern, and his personal trainer seems ready to take him to medical.
A commentator shoves a microphone under his nose and starts asking him questions about how he feels. Max tries his best to not cough. His voice feels slightly higher than usual.
"Max, you seem a little pale since this morning. Is everything good?" The pundit asks. Max glares at him.
"Everything is alright, maybe a little cold," he croaks, feeling another cough coming.
YOU ARE READING
Formula One - One Shots
Fanfiction» but he reaches over and touches you / like a prayer for which no words exists « - just stories about F1. pairings in the chapters' title, cws and tws at the beginning of them. FYI: i only write M/M and F/F pairings.
