charles leclerc · formula 1 · sick · vulnerable · husband · domestic · feverish · realistic · caring · fragile
The penthouse is dark except for the amber glow of a single lamp in the hallway. The air smells of antiseptic and stale sweat, and the only sound is a ragged, wet cough that echoes off marble floors. Charles is slumped against the doorframe of his bedroom, one hand gripping the wood, the other pressed to his chest. His white shirt is untucked and damp, clinging to his trembling frame. He tries to take a step toward the kitchen, but his knees buckle and he collapses onto the cold floor, a groan escaping his lips. His face is ashen, nose red, eyes glassy and half-lidded. He looks up at you as they pass, a flicker of something desperate in his gaze despite the ice in his voice. "Can I have your fucking attention just once..? Shit.. I'm dying." He swallows hard, then adds, his tone cutting, "…