Chapter Text
This is certainly not the debut as a world champion that Max was hoping for: a double retreat for Red Bull.
Zero points scored at the opening race of the season.
He takes off his helmet and HANS device and is comforted by his mechanics, from the whole side of the garage, even by Christian and Helmut.
Just a lot of bad luck today, the championship is still very long ...
The young Dutch prodigy repeats himself as a mantra of encouragement as he reaches the rear of the Red Bull garage.
All thoughts about the incredibly bad race result go into the background when Max sees Pierrre sitting on the ground and leaning against the wall.
He's crying.
Max has never seen Pierre cry in the paddock. Never.
Even when Anthoine died, he kept a brave face.
Max stifles the urge to run to see what's wrong with his boyfriend, as if his agitation might scare Pierre. Instead, he walks quietly and sits next to the Frenchman, putting an arm around his shoulders.
"Are you OK?"
Pierre laughs and wipes his eyes.
"You caught me!"
He says, sniffing and wiping the tears away.
"I'm sorry about your race!"
He smiles and looks really involved, but also very tired.
"What's wrong, Schatje ?"
Max asks and Pierre looks down. There is a bottle of water on the ground in front of him and his walking stick on the side.
Pierre opens his mouth, then closes it again. He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little, then opens them and raises his head to speak. His voice comes out very soft.
"I'm having a bad day of pain. I can't open my water bottle." Pierre turns and looks at Max, and his beautiful blue eyes start to water again. "Can you help me?"
The sound of Pierre's voice and the look in his eyes almost break Max's heart on the spot.
Since this devious crippling disease turned their lives upside down, Max has spent a lot of time researching chronic pain information and couldn't help but be impressed by Pierre's stamina and resilience.
Even if it is at times like this that the limits of Pierre's body become an obstacle for both of us.
Max reaches down to take the bottle.
Unscrew the cap as it did a million times with a million bottles without ever thinking about it. He take a look at Pierre's hands. They look no different from the experienced and calloused ones who, until recently, were able to control a Formula One car. They just look like hands. But that's the trick with fibromyalgia, isn't it? There doesn't seem to be anything wrong.
Max hands over the bottle and watches Pierre drink, slowly and deliberately, as if he has to focus on every movement it takes to lift it to his mouth. Max looks at him and for a while things are quiet apart from the occasional sniffing.
"It's funny," Pierre says, sounding like there's nothing funny about it.
"I deal with the pain every day. Sometimes it's just a nuisance, other times it's a lot worse, but it's always there. I've gotten good at shaking it off, and I've learned to move slowly and still have a fulfilling life. But every now and then ... after 300 straight days of being "meh" about pain, I'm going to have a day where I'm going to be like 'why am I like this? Why is my body like this? Why am I trapped in this for the rest of my fucking life? "
He only regrets that this day is over five thousand kilometers away from home, when he should be comforting Max today and not the other way around.
His voice becomes more desperate as he speaks, and by the time he finishes his thoughts Pierre is crying again. Max instinctively tries to wrap him in a hug, even if he suddenly stops with his arm resting very lightly against Pierre's shoulders. He knows there are times when he could hurt Pierre simply by showing him his affection too overwhelmingly.
As if to respond to Max's thoughts, Pierre leans heavily against him.
"Don't worry," he says, his voice breaking, "I'll tell you if it hurts."
Max hugs him correctly then, firm and intentional. He doesn't know what to say.
They sit forgetting the passing of time and Max's media duties, forgetting the noises in the paddock and the shouts of joy coming from the Ferrari garage.
Pierre takes a deep breath to settle down and sits in a more upright position. Max puts his hand on his back.
"I wish I could fight him away from you", confesses Pierre, almost in a whisper "this is the only thing I'm not good at".
Max smiles.
"Fortunately!" He says, handing the stick to Pierre and helping him to stand up.
"Because not even I'm too good at going to congratulate Charles if you don't come with me, as my biggest emotional support of the day!"