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His hands shook.
He turned.
He pressed down harder.
“What a fucking joke.”
He heard himself huff out as he drove back to the garage. His dark brown eyes had that obvious cloud of disappointment – this was the second time now, and that was another strike closer to what both he and Max dreaded. There was nothing worse than feeling power slowly slip out between our fingers. First it was Imola, and now, it was this.
Monaco.
Monaco in 2022 was a dream, it still felt like yesterday in all of its glory. The smiles, the cheers, the champagne, the adrenaline – it was one of the best feelings on Earth. Standing there with the world beneath his feet, with friends by his side, clapping and smiling as he raised the trophy. Yet, this was the new norm, apparently. Checo felt himself descending down the grid positions every single time the tires screeched more than they should, or when the car was practically slipping through the track… there was no way out of this. Sure, Imola was barely salvaged by how Max was able to win time and time again – but this time? Maybe even Max couldn’t save them. This was an absolute nightmare.
The team radiated with this sense of malice – or maybe that was just how Checo saw them. They stared at him, all eyes were on the double digit number that wasn’t supposed to be there. This lack of stability was terrible for the entire garage – it wasn’t that he couldn’t be P1 from time to time instead of Max, but he certainly could not drop down to P18. His sole purpose in this team was to guard Max, to keep the rest of the grid away from Max’s deserved first place. All he had to do was be second, stay there, and make sure that no one could get past him.
He has failed. Twice.
Checo was never one to go too hard on himself or demean himself, but it was clear as day. He was not supposed to mess up this badly. He was not supposed to perform at this level. A P6 for Max was still somewhat acceptable, there was a chance for him to still win, the same way Max always does, of course. But P18? Checo was unsure he could pull off the Sakhir stunt all over again, to win a race after nearly crashing and being in such a disadvantageous position was a miracle, sure, but miracles were nothing that they could rely on. There were no miracles, no “lucky moments”, no, there were just numbers. It was all about the seconds, all about how much he could push through the grid, how many points he could harvest for the team to be clear off second. He had a great relationship with Max, wonderful, wow, was that going to secure his seat? Red Bull wasn’t that type of team.
As he met the blond’s eye by the end of Q3, it was clear that neither of them really wanted to speak. There was a storm brewing in those clear blue eyes, a storm that Checo was oh so familiar with – and a storm that Checo did not want to interfere with. He knew that his teammate was disappointed in him, but even more disappointed in himself. That was just the way Max was wired – if he was given the chance, he fought to death for first, and anything under that would warrant a contained but wild tempest. This was always the unspoken between them, the silent agreement they had, in fact, this was also what had created the most trouble for them – Max was constantly bringing emotions off track, but they both knew that wasn’t good for anything, it could only make things so much worse. Obviously, they were working on it, but whether it was working was a whole other argument.
So all Checo did was stand there and watch Max approach him, fully aware of exactly what to expect. With the calmest of eyes, he met Max’s cold stare, to which he responded with a smile. The younger was clearly stressed, the way he took his steps, the way his hands were curling up and forcing themselves back open – what else could this be a sign for. Almost like an animal, the older driver stood there in the headlights, just waiting for the anxious cub to make his move first. And make his move he did. They both knew Christian was going to get on their backs very soon, so as impulsive as Max was, he took the quickest course of action he could.
Checo felt an abnormally warm hand grab onto his wrist, slither to his waist and began dragging and pushing him towards the driver’s rooms. The mechanics sure noticed the commotion, but they had clearly been taught to ignore it unless it was absolutely necessary — probably because of how often it happened. As the two of them made it to the back of the garage, Checo felt more and more unnerved by the tightening grip of the younger driver, but all he did was furrowed his brow a little and lower his head, distracting himself with thoughts. There was no exchange between the two for that minute, it was just moments upon moments of pure silence – silence Checo knew was prefacing whatever the hell Max had going on under the surface. A little more aggressively than appropriate, Max swung open the driver’s room door, and it didn’t take much strength to get his teammate into the room with him
Now, he wasn’t born yesterday, Checo knew what this was – knew what the locking door could entail, and yet, he knew he was to follow behind. Why? Because he assumed, no, he knew that Max would never try to hurt him. He had a hard, hard shell, but there was no chance Max would ever even try to hurt him. With a light push on his waist, Max let go, walking at his heel. Again, he sees the same icy blue in his teammate’s eyes as he instinctively walked towards the sofa, sitting down on the sofa.
It was only this time when he realised – this wasn’t his Driver’s Room. It was always his room. He never particularly appreciated the comfort of his own territory and familiarity until he was now deep in someone else’s space, facing uncertainties that he could only hope were not bad enough to leave him in a state where he can’t drive tomorrow. Even for those fleeting moments, he just sat there, looking at Max, observing his every move, waiting for him to talk. It was unusual that there was so much silence between them – but again, it was unusual for the two Bulls to lose such grip in any race.
“Max.” Checo spoke.
“Hm?” That was all Max could muster as a response. The look on his face was barely comprehensible.
The brunet looked up from the sofa, fully focusing on the younger blond, he didn’t know what to say for a brief second – he didn’t even know if this was the same Max that he knew when he first joined the team. Of course, he had told Max many times to be less aggressive, less assertive and less blunt with his statements, to drive for for himself, but never in this way that Checo was convinced showed a clear drop of momentum. “What’s happening?” This was a question perhaps just about everyone was asking, but he was definitely the first one to ask it to Max’s face. Checo had seen Max’s statements just a little while ago, and he was beyond shocked — devastated, even. What in the Lord’s name was happening to his lion cub?
But where he expected an answer, there was silence.
Then, in a few moments and brief turn of thoughts, Max grabbed onto the bottom hem of his shirt, and swiftly pulled it over his head. His body was still pretty sculpted from the qualifying sessions that seemed so far away outside that door. His chest rose and fell. His face remained stoic, and his messy blonde hair after he had ripped his hat off his head with his shirt only framed him in a more childish light. Without a word, he approached Checo, his blue eyes were simply almost obsessively fixated on the older man. “Oh, not now, Max, we have a race tomorrow…” Checo frowned, his freckles scrunching with his facial muscles, but regardless, he sat upright and took off his own shirt with little hesitation – how was he ever going to say no? He was always standing in front of Max with open arms, silently accepting whatever the younger wanted to throw towards him. Always.
Max’s knee lodged up between Checo’s slightly spreaded legs, and without hesitation, he grabbed onto the older man’s face with both his hands, planting a hard kiss on his lips. There was nothing overtly romantic about this exchange, it seemed too shallow for either of them to actually mean anything with it. Checo was slow with it as usual, responding leisurely with Max’s constant biting and demand to kiss deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Finally, they pulled away, both gasping for air and panting as the hazel brown met with the purest shade of blue – the sea and land stood side by side, strong in the face of eternity.
“Can I give up?” Max whispered, as he held himself up on top of Checo with his hands now on the sofa cushions. “Have you ever?” Checo responded, warranting an escape of air that could barely be called a laugh from his younger teammate. “Maybe.” With that, Max’s arms snaked around Checo’s back and pulled him up from the sofa for an embrace. The temperature from two still sweating bodies radiated like the everlasting sunshine – every pump of their hearts meant another moment of comfort between the two. Checo was a little slower with reacting, but he didn’t hesitate to reciprocate the gesture, pressing his body up for more of the warmth.
If death was imminent right then and there, Checo would really prefer to die in the blond’s arms, withering into dust as his last glance into the world is a glimmer of gold that can only be defeated by sunlight. Arm to arm, chest to chest, this almost fetal and instinctually affectionate position sewed them together as they practically leaned onto the side, lying down on the sofa together. “Even if I don’t give up, there’s no difference.” His voice was huskier than before, but that unfamiliar and unsettling sense of weakness shone through.
“It’s okay.” He feels the older man’s hand brush against the back of his head, gently combing his hair and stroking them back into place. “It’s okay.” He hears Checo repeat himself. That’s what Checo always said. The gentle touch almost sedated him. Oh how much he just wanted to indulge in this moment until eternity – until forever wasn’t enough. The worst thing about this was truly how he felt himself melt into Checo, how he could truly give up everything he had just to be in his arms. Just to be here. With him. Deep down, he knew that this race was close to hopeless, perhaps Checo, being P18, knew that too. He was to win, to fight, to rip and tear his way through the grid until he got exactly where he needed – but could he? The past few years all indicated a very positive answer, but was this Max Verstappen? For the first several years, he drove for his father, then, he drove for himself, for his need to win — to prove to himself that he was the one above the world. He really thought he ruled the world, especially after he roped Christian into bringing Checo to him, after the championships, after all that dominance, after everything; And yet, now he had neither — he was sitting in a much lower position with the chance of Checo being by his side slipping away as every Grand Prix excruciatingly passed.
Yet, he could repeatedly find himself indulging in these fleeting moments of ecstasy. Perhaps then, his heart wasn’t beating because of adrenaline, the thrill or anger, but because of himself.
Because he wanted to. Because his heart was beating at his will.
He closed his eyes, enjoying the calming touch of his teammate as he only hugged tighter, awaiting the arrival of tomorrow.
…
Christian Horner did not expect nor wanted to see his two drivers walk out of the same room with messy hair and tousled shirts one after the other. But if both of them could walk, both of them could drive.
The moment they got into the cars and lined up on the grid, Max could already feel something terribly wrong – a gut feeling, although he never like to succumb to those. For those hours, all he could see in front of him was what the halo and height of the cockpit limited him to, it framed his world, and he was very much used to dominating this world. Not seeing a single other thing in front of him in this world. It felt unnatural being so far back, as if being abandoned and trailing behind, chasing for something that was no longer his. It was these short time frames where Max is able to really soak in everything and think – think hard. He had achieved everything his father wanted to, and now, he didn’t care what his father wanted him to.
But what did he want? Did he want to continue his invincibility? His streak of championships? Did he want seven? Eight? Nine? He was tired, yes, but he was not ready to suddenly lose all of his ambition, because, what then? What was he going to do then? Adrenaline coursed through his blood at all times, this was what he thought he was born to do, but what if he stopped being able to be what he needed to turn into?
He watched each of the red lights switch on one by one, this familiar feeling washed over him as his wide blue eyes stared intensely into the flurry of light.
Lights off. And there he went.
From the moment the car started, he could already tell the result of the race, but still, there was always that roaring in him, harmonising with the engine that begged him to continue and fight. Realistically, there was not much he could do on this track, so his best bets was on the start, the traffic and that stupid tunnel were for sure going to set him back, if not pushing him further down the grid–
The beep from the radio was always easily picked up by his brain.
“Red flag, Max, red flag, crash up behind with uh, Checo, a Haas and the Alpines. Back to the Pitlane, they’re cleaning up the track.
Max paused, his eyes turned as he slowed the car down, seeing the clear effect of all the other team radios the drivers in front of him.
“Checo- Is Checo okay? Is he alright?” His still adrenaline-filled system swiftly caught on to the same familiar syllables, instantly reacting as he drove through the track.
“We are checking- The car is not in good shape, but Checo is fine. He is fine.” The engineers seemed more concerned than him, but nonetheless, this answer was comforting enough. He navigated his car back to the pit lane, a little irked out by the feeling of being the only car to pull into the garage. On his way back, the clear image of Checo’s destroyed car entered his vision – his eyes widened. The car was beyond just “beat up”, it was missing half its components, practically contorted into an ugly shape, a new rendition of its formally gorgeous and aerodynamic form. As soon as the mechanics signalled it was okay, Max clicked off his arrangement of seatbelts and practically jumped out of the car. “Where’s Checo?” He heard his own muffled voice through the helmet as he didn’t even wait before ripping it off his head and taking strides into the garage like he owned the place (in reality, he did, he had ever since he set foot in here).
“Uh, he’s somewhere in the back, got checked with the medics. Christian wants you to wait in the lounge and watch some replays until the race restarts.” Matt answers, tilting his head to gesture for the lounge. “Right, thanks.” Max concluded the conversation, quickly jolting up along the back of the garage.
No matter how much he truly knew that Checo was fine, the state of the car terrified him. If he were any less strong, he would see himself on the ground of the goddamned garage by now.
Faster.
Faster.
Max made his way around the scurrying mechanics and staff members.
Faster.
Finally. Finally, he saw that silhouette. That oh so familiar silhouette.
“Checo, are you okay?” That was all Max could say as he wrapped his arms as tightly as possible around his teammate, burying his head in the nook of the brunet's neck, the scent of burnt rubber brushing his senses as he just stood there. If he listened harder, he could even hear and feel the reverberations from every single fluttering beat from the man’s heart. He was living, breathing, pumping blood. He was still here. Max breathed out, not even trying to shield his relief as he closed his eyes, breathing in the moment.
“I’m here. I’m fine, Max.” Once again, Max found himself in this near fetal state, his brain blanking under the older man’s touch as he was almost hunched over him with this overpowering embrace. “Thank god.” That was all Max could force out as he just stood there, maintaining this tight hug. It seemed to always be this way – hugging was, a lot of the times, even more intimate than sex. It was just the two of them pressed up against each other, holding each other, locking each other up into this long-lasting cell of pure sensation and emotion. But of course, it had to end.
“I won’t be racing — impossible to repair the car, but I’m fine, Max. All in one piece.” His teammate spoke with a small, almost comforting smile. Max didn’t want to meet his eyes.
This race was doomed to fail, but Max had to drive it.
There was never giving up, or backing down.
As expected, the race wasn’t particularly favourable for the Bulls, or rather, Bull – hell, Max had to go ask the mechanics if anyone remembered how many points P6 was worth, but nonetheless, a part of him was happy for his long-time childhood rival for finally winning his home race, and that was enough. Above all of the disappointment, it was a boring race, and that was truly what made this hour so excruciating. It wasn’t like the team could not recover from Monaco, after all, it was so early on in the season – he was just a little bummed that they didn’t get to use the pool. Well, P6, eight whole points for the team, such an achievement.
That was all he could think to make it feel better, anyways.
So, in the crowd beneath the podium, they stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked up on the stage. Neither of them tried to look at each other. There was no point. They just stared up at the platform with all the champagne, silent, but most definitely observant. Best part? They were by each other’s side. As the golden liquor splashed around, Max couldn’t help placing himself up there with them – he usually didn’t have to imagine these things, but he was being washed over with the realisation that invincibility didn’t exist for the first time in a long time.
“I’ll be up there.” Max whispered, not turning his head.
“I’ll be up there, with you, next week. I promise.” He repeated. This time with a firmer, but still quiet voice – in fact, he didn’t even know if what he was saying was louder than mumbling, not to mention if his teammate actually heard him. His blue eyes turned slightly, attempting to subtly capture any expression he could see on Checo’s face – Was it going to be annoyance? Assurance? Amusement?
All he got was a smile he saw from his peripheral vision, and a kiss on the cheek.
The wind of Monaco was sweeter than he remembered.