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Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since Max's father died and exactly one week since he chucked his phone in the ocean. Jos Verstappen died of a heart attack two days after Max placed fifth in Silverstone, and for a moment, when the news first reached him, Max had wondered if perhaps his bad result had been the final nail in the coffin for the old man. And if him dying hadn’t been bad enough, everyone finding out about it and making it Max’s problem certainly didn’t help the situation.

The constant notifications from people reaching out to him were driving him insane. Everyone wanting to know how he’s doing, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, where he is, if he wants anything, if he needs anything, and Max has no idea how to tell them that he doesn’t need anything.

He’s fine. He might have broken a trophy or two, a few plates, his TV, and one of his closet doors the hour after he got the call, but that all came to pass. He expected to feel more for someone who had raised him for most of his life, for the man who had been there for every step of his career and the one who had pushed him the most toward his dream, but Max felt numb.

Because despite all of that, he was also the man who was never truly there for Max. The man who had made Max’s childhood a living nightmare, the man who couldn’t give a compliment without following it up with at least two insults, the man Max spent most of his life trying to please and continuously failing to.

So Max is doing quite well, all things considered. He is convinced the staff on the boat are holding him on some sort of suicide watch and sending updates to his team, but as long as he’s not forced to update them, or talk to them, or talk to anyone for that matter, he’s content to simply lay on the sundeck and soak up the sound of the waves crashing.

He can’t, of course, avoid them forever, and he has no intention to. The Belgian Grand Prix is only one week away and Max is almost excited for it, his fingers itch with the desire to grip a steering wheel and his body longs for the rush of driving his heart out. But he feels apprehension seeping into him at the thought of the media circus that surely awaits him, the way he’ll be paraded around like a zoo animal for everyone to question and prob and dissect. And while he’s sure he could get out of media duty if he wanted to by playing up the emotional impact of his father’s death, he’s also sure that it’ll only cause him more trouble in the long run.

In the days before he chucked his phone he did manage to get a few phone calls in with his sister and his mother, and while Max remembers very little of the conversations that were communicated through tears and snot and crying and laughing, he does remember what his sister told him.

“Avoiding the press isn’t protecting yourself, it’s protecting him,” and Max is done doing that. He’s done defending his father and taking the blame for his mistakes, and he’s done burning himself for someone who wouldn’t piss on him to put the fire out. So he has already decided that he’ll do as much press as is required of him, he’ll answer people’s questions to the best of his ability, and he’ll finally be himself, even if he barely knows who that is anymore.

1.

From the moment he shows up everyone around him seems to give him a five meter radius of space, and Max would have found it funny if it wasn’t so blatantly obvious that it’s for the wrong reasons. Everyone seems afraid that he’ll lash out with anger or push them away if they try to get close, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

Free practice is alright, he has missed his car and it takes him a few trials and errors to get the corners right, but he’s confident he’ll do well in qualifying. And he does.

“Max, over here, please” Max shifts his gaze from the couch to a reporter to his left, “congratulations on third. This is understandably a very tough week and a tough race for you, do you think that affected your driving today and if so what are your thoughts for tomorrow? Thank you,” the silence that follows stretches for an uncomfortable amount of time as Max stops to think about his answer.

It would be a lie to say that he’s completely unaffected but does he think that's why he came in third place? No, and he tells the reporter as much. “What affected my driving the most today I believe was my steering, it wasn’t quite where I wanted it in terms of feeling, and the lock up in Q2 was a bit of a setback. As for tomorrow I’m thinking I’ll give my best, race hard, and aim for a better position than today.”

He puts the microphone down next to him on the couch and crosses his legs, hoping that the answer is enough to satisfy the reporter so that they can move on to other topics, but judging by the narrowing of the reporter’s eyes Max doesn’t think he’s quite out of the thick just yet. “If you win tomorrow, would you say that it’s for your father? in honour of him?” Max can’t help but let out a snort, thankfully with the mic still on the couch the sound doesn’t resound throughout the entire room, but Max can tell it didn’t escape his fellow drivers on the couch or the first row of reporters.

“Uh, no,” he chuckles awkwardly, he had prepared for many questions but stupidly enough this hadn’t been one of them. “I mean, if I win tomorrow it’ll be for myself and for my team, and of course all of the fans,” he glances over to the two others on the couch and quickly averts his eyes when he finds that they’re already looking at him. Oscar, like he can’t quite figure out where the conversation is going, and Lando like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“He wasn’t a very sentimental man, I wouldn’t say, so I don’t even think he would appreciate a win in his honour, to be quite honest with you.”

“Not even from his son? His greatest pride?”

Max looks down at his left hand that’s gripping his leg tight enough to hurt, “well, depending on the day I could be his biggest disappointment, too,” the words feel like they’re being forced out of his mouth but strangely Max doesn’t try to hold them back. This time when he puts his mic down he doesn’t have to pick it up again for a couple of minutes as the reporters mainly focus their questions on the two other drivers, but the energy in the room is different. Oscar’s answers are short and serious and Lando’s are long and bordering on rambling, a nervous trait of his.

Max worries that even when he’s trying to do things right he’s still causing trouble.

2.

Max sits in between Charles and Hulkenberg, with Ocon, Gasly, and Kimi to the side of them and for once he’s thankful to do an interview with multiple other drivers, if only to minimize the chance of the focus remaining for too long on him. He gets a few questions here and there, mostly about the upcoming race, his feelings regarding the championship and his position, and some questions about his cats. But the reporters avoid bringing up his dad, perhaps to avoid any more awkward silences and tense pauses.

It’s unfortunate that almost all roads lead straight back to him.

“Max, your nails are a bit of a hot topic today and they’re already trending on the official F1 tiktok page with many people liking the new look, care to comment?”

Max rubs his neck sheepishly, feeling his cheeks heat up from the sudden turn of heads on the couch. “Ah, it’s just something stupid I like to do sometimes at home,” he can feel his face turning the same colour as Charles’s race suit as everyone waits for him to continue, “it’s the first time I’ve worn it in public, today. They… uh, match my helmet.”

He smiles softly, waving his hand in front of his face to show off his nails before quickly tucking it under his thigh, hiding it away from any more prying eyes. “Did you take inspiration from anyone in particular? It’s quite a bold fashion statement from your side.”

He pauses before he speaks because he’s honestly unsure of how to phrase his answer. On one hand, it is new, and it is bold, but on the other hand it isn’t new at all, not to him at least.

“No, not really. I think I’ve always enjoyed it. I remember I did it once as a kid actually and my father hated it, of course,” he chuckles to himself, remembering the scene like it was yesterday, “it made him very angry at the time, said it was unbecoming of a man and least of all a race driver.”

Charles squirms on the couch next to him and he feels rather than sees how Hulkenberg turns his whole body toward him, giving him his full attention. “I couldn’t race for a week because my eye was swollen shut,” he shrugs with a tug of his lips, as if he hasn’t dropped a piece of information that requires several business days to be processed for everyone in the room. He looks up and catches the eye of Gasly on the end of the couch, and the older man simply shakes his head with a sad look on his face that makes Max's skin crawl. Pity, that’s what’s painted onto his face so clearly it might as well be branded onto him.

Max suddenly feels the need to defend his comment as the stifling silence becomes too much to ignore and he adjusts his cap while reaching for the microphone again, “you know how he was, he was a tough man,” his words sound choked even to him and he clears his throat and gestures for the journalists in front of him to do something, anything.

Thankfully a dutch reporter picks up on his distress and raises his hand, “question for Charles,” and so the press conference continues. No one asks Max any more questions.

3.

Max doesn’t know what he’s doing on this particular couch on this particular day. The goal is clearly some sort of karting reunion with Charles, George, Alex, Lando and himself being placed together for a joint interview and Max feels out of place the moment he steps in the room. They’ve known each other since they were kids but Max was never truly a part of the group, he was the odd one out, the weird one, the one that no one liked, and worst of all, Max finds that he can’t blame any of them.

They’re playing a true or false game and Max hopes he’ll be able to fake his way through most of the answers, but by question ten it becomes clear that he knows very little about the other men as a kids except for anything pertaining to their racing; the interviewer spares no time pointing this out.

“Well Max was never interested in friends as a kid,” George quickly replies and Max feels himself freeze, “I remember we asked him to play football with us a couple of times but then we stopped, you lose motivation after a while when someone continuously declines, you know,” Max wants him to shut up, needs him to stop talking.

“He was winning most races and I guess little Max was just too good for us,” he sends a smile Max’s way but Max doesn’t feel comforted by it. Instead he feels cold and disgusted by his own childhood behavior, “actually, I really wanted to play, but I couldn’t.” This garners some laughs from the rest of the couch and Charles throws his hands up in the air, “ey, come one mate we were ten, none of us were good at football but we played anyway.”

Lando’s laughing and Alex is pushing Charles, telling him to speak for himself because at least one of them was adequate at the sport. Max would have found it funny if he wasn’t so desperate to be understood, “no I mean, I couldn’t play, my dad wouldn’t let me,” the laughter dies down slowly and Max can see the other guys begin to fidget on the couch. “The first time you asked me I was so happy that I ran to my dad immediately to tell him, but he got so angry that I had to say no to joining,” George isn’t smiling anymore, neither is any of the others. Max thought they would be happy to hear that he really did want to be their friend back then.

“I cried the entire ride home but, of course, that only made him more angry,” he chuckles quietly while looking around the room, twirling the true-or-false paddle in his hands as he waits for someone to break the silence but none of them do, they just watch him as if he’s a puzzle to solve. Clearing his throat Max adds, “I would have liked to have friends, so I hope you don’t still think I said no because of you.”

It’s Alex that saves the day.

“Well, I’ve got a ball in my motorhome so how about a rematch before quali tomorrow?” Max almost feels like kissing the man because it immediately seems to break some of the tension as the others let out nervous laughs and nod their heads in agreement. “If anything Max might be the secret weapon, we have no baseline for his football skills,” George adds, charming as ever, and the interviewer seems to think that is the perfect moment to continue on with the other questions.

4.

“Never have I ever peed my pants outside of the car.”

“Outside the car?! No way!” Kimi exclaims with a laugh, holding up his ‘never’ sign.

“I can’t say that I have, mate, maybe before being potty trained,” Lewis holds up his ‘never’ sign, “but not even drunk, no.”

“Well no, that would be disgusting,” George pulls a face, “I’ll have you know I’ve never gone in the car either,” he says firmly, holding his ‘never’ sign up with an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me anyone said they have?”

“Everyone has gone in the car, but outside? no,” Alonso laughs. “Well actually, some people said they’ve never,” the interviewer responds and Alonso holds his sign up while shaking his head, “they’re lying. Anyone who says that is lying.”

“I have not, no, but I have helped someone who did,” Carlos holds his sign up with a cheeky smile, shaking his head when the interviewer asks who he helped, “I cannot say, I would like to survive the next race.”

“Yeah,” Lando doesn’t elaborate, only holds his ‘I have’ sign with a bashful grin and stares into the camera. “Care to elaborate?” Lando swings his body side to side, debating his answer before settling on, “...no.”

Max holds his ‘I have’ sign up without a word, thinking that will be the end of it. It is not. “You are one of two drivers who have answered ‘I have’ to this question, is there an embarrassing drunken story hiding behind that answer or…?” Max suddenly wishes he had lied, it’s not like they would have known.

“Uh, no, I was maybe around 16, I think. I made a mistake during the race that almost cost me the win- it didn’t, but it could have- and my dad wasn’t happy with me. We drove home in complete silence and I remember I really had to go to the bathroom but I didn’t wanna annoy him, you know. We were stuck on a highway because of a minor accident upfront and I just couldn’t hold it,” he laughs quietly and looks down at his feet, face heating up, “as soon as we were off the highway he told me to get out and I walked the rest of the way home. He was very upset but I get it, of course, it was pretty disgusting.”

Oscar holds his ‘never’ sign up, thoroughly unamused. “Did anyone say they did?”

“Lando and Max,” Oscar snorts and shakes his head, “of course Lando would say yes, but Max is quite the surprise. Was it a championship celebration?”

“No, he said his dad didn’t let him go,” Oscar hopes to god they cut this part out of the youtube video because he can feel his face drop as the words register. Slowly he lowers his sign as he looks over to the side where his manager is standing shaking his head, warning Oscar not to say anything stupid. “Well…” he pauses while trying to find the right words, “I’d say only one of those counts.”

5.

“Max, could you talk us through your latest instagram post? There’s been quite an extreme change of tone in them compared to the previous ones,” it’s a ridiculous question in Max’s opinion, who wants to know about his instagram when they can ask about his racing or his cats instead?
“I mean, of course I respect all drivers on the grid and I like congratulating them after a job well done by sending them a text, but it’s also nice to do something public, I think,” he looks over at the two others on the couch, sharing a smile with Lando when the other grins at him.

“Quite a change in mindset from before, don’t you think?”

“No, not really,” Max frowns at the reporter, “I’ve always thought this but there wasn’t much I could do before,” the reporter looks down at her notes before leveling Max with a look that borders on a glare. “In 2021 you wrote ‘a rocket ship can take anyone to P1, doesn’t make one the best driver or deserving of their place’, and you were of course referring to the Mercedes at the time. However, yesterday you posted after Norris’s P1 position in qualifying ‘a good car can only take you so far, the driver is the one with the ability to make it or break it. Congrats, mate’.” Max gets the slight feeling that the reporter doesn’t like him.

Max simply shrugs and looks over to Lewis who looks pensive to the right of Lando, “well, yes, but now my instagram is my own so I can write stuff like that,” this throws the reporter for a loop and she looks at him confused, tilting her head as if to figure out what angle Max is going for here.

“Your own?” she prompts and Max lets out a heavy sigh, wanting to get this conversation over with, “I had no access to my instagram up until recently, I of course saw the posts and the comments but I couldn’t change anything,” he lets his eyes wonder over to Lewis, “some of the posts are very unfortunate,” he adds, his cheeks flushing and turning red as his eyes dart around the media room.

Lewis shifts on the couch as he reaches for his own abandoned microphone beside him, “so the post after Silverstone? in 2021?”

Max grimaces and shrugs helplessly, “that was my father,” his voice is quiet, almost meek and he hates how weak it makes him sound, “I would never say stuff like that to you or any other driver, and like I told you last year, I don’t blame you for the crash.”

Lewis’s gaze feels like it’s burning a hole into Max’s temple but Max is too much of a coward to look at him, to meet his eyes and tell him he was too scared to stand up to his father even as an adult. “I’ve removed that post from my account now. That was one of the worst and I always hated it, but the one time I tried to tell him it was too much and should be deleted he pulled my hair so hard I had a bald spot at the back of my head,” he laughs nervously, reaching up to rub at the back of his head where he swear his hair is still thinner than the rest, “that’s why I almost had a bit of a mullet going on afterwards, so I could comb over the spot.”

This time he does meet Lewis’s gaze tentatively, but he sees none of the irritation or animosity that he’s expecting, “I looked ridiculous, no?” he continues, wishing and hoping to bring a laugh out of the older, or a simple huff of amusement, just something, anything to erase that worried crease between his brows. The typing in the room grows louder and Max is acutely aware of the fact that his every word is being recorded in every way possible, recorded on every device imaginable and transcribed in word documents and with pen onto paper. 

He looks away from Lewis and settles his gaze on Lando instead who looks like he’s frozen on the couch, his gaze locked on Max’s head as if he can see the spot and everything else that lies underneath. “Don’t- don’t knock the mullet, mate,” Lando tries to joke and Max is grateful for the exit. “Nah, yours was good,” he tells him with a smile and lightly taps Lando’s shoulder. The younger barely even lets his lip twitch, Lewis remains silent.

Chapter Text

6.

For some unexplainable reason the rookies tend to flock around him more than any other driver. He doesn’t feel like he does anything differently from the others on the grid, but still wherever he goes there always seems to be a kid two steps behind him.

The others quickly picked up on it and he’s endured a great deal of teasing because of it, not only from them but also from the fans, the admins that run all the pages, and even the rookies themselves. Still he finds himself enjoying the comfort it brings him to know that he’s needed by someone, even looked up to by someone. He likes making sure that they’re doing alright both on and off the track, likes to know that they’ve got things handled, are eating properly, sleeping properly, and not stressing too much over comments made online. “Everyone’s an expert behind a screen” he tells them whenever a mistake is pointed out or a move is criticized, selfishly he feels better after caring for them. 

The reporters have picked up on it too, unfortunately. 

“Max, you’ve become somewhat of a mother hen to the rookies, wouldn’t you say?” it takes all of Max’s willpower to not groan out loud at the question, he doesn’t think his manager would appreciate that, or anyone for that matter. Instead he simply shrugs, awaiting a question actually worth answering. “Are there any of the older drivers on the grid, current and former, that you try to emulate in your behaviour? Anything from your own rookie days, perhaps?”

Max picks up his microphone, “ahh, no, not really,” he answers honestly, much to the amusement of Lando on the other side of the couch who believes he’s being sarcastic. “I mean,” he quickly adds, “the other drivers all hated me when I first joined, and even some years after that,” he laughs timidly. “I didn’t really have a good experience back then so I’m trying to make things easier for the current rookies, I would hate for them to feel how I felt.”

Lando isn’t smiling anymore, instead he looks downcast as he fidgets with a ring on his finger. Neither is Oscar, who’s looking at Max with an almost worried look. “Are you saying you were left out of the grid by the other drivers?” the reporter asks incredulously, not willing to believe that the previous legends of the grid would be outright mean to a teenager. 

“Yeah,” Max begins delicately, picking his words carefully, “but this was of course my own fault. I was awful when I first got signed,” he laughs a little self-deprecatingly and adjusts his cap- a nervous tick he really needs to get under wraps. “I was rude to them and ignored them often, some I even insulted in interviews or to their face. My father didn’t want me making friends with any of them, they were of course my rivals and so I had to stay away.”

Lando and Oscar exchange nervous glances, feeling that the worst is surely yet to come. 

“But you did some things with them, no?” Max chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks back on his start in formula 1. “I snuck out to go to dinner with them once,” he confesses with the same glee a child would have while telling a friend they did a bad thing, “I only knew about it because I overheard them making plans in the paddock, so it’s not like I was actually invited… it was clear they didn’t want me there,” he says with a chuckle. 

“They sat me at the corner of the table and mostly just ignored me all dinner, but at least I got to go out for a bit, I even got to have a beer!” he exclaims joyfully, “I don’t think they let me on purpose but no one really paid attention to me so I just ordered what I wanted,” he throws a glance over at the other two on the couch and is surprised to see that none of them seem amused by his underage drinking and delinquency, in fact, they seem disturbed. 

“It’s not the most fun story, maybe,” he mumbles apologetically, thinking that his answer was so boring that none of the others even want to give him a reaction, “but it was a good night, I think. It was even worth skipping dinner for the rest of the week.”

Oscar’s head snaps his way so fast Max worries that even with all the training they do he’ll give himself whiplash, “why’d you skip dinner?” his voice is firm, almost harsh, and Max feels properly chastised by his tone even though he’s unsure what he’s done wrong. “It was my punishment, of course,” Max says matter of factly, “I did a lot of things wrong that night,” he feels like he has to clarify because Oscar is still looking at him like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, and also kind of like he wants to kill someone. 

“Your father withheld dinner from you for a week?”

Max doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, not when it has clearly upset Oscar, “I broke his trust…” Max trails off, voice going quiet as he fumbles for the right words, “I deserved it.”

7.

“Max,” Charles comes to an abrupt halt on the street as he sees the man in front of him, “Charles, hey!” Max reaches out to grab his hand and pulls him into a half hug. Charles’s eyes are wide as they stare Max down from head to toe and Max feels himself frown as he looks down at himself, his fly is up and there are no stains on his jacket, he thought his look was fine for a quick errand. 

“Sorry, it’s just… you’re not wearing a single red bull item,” Max snorts in amusement and shakes his head as Charles continues to stare, he does own other clothes too. “Your scarf is in red bull colours, though,” Charles pulls on one end of the scarf wrapped around Max’s neck and he flushes slightly at it being so obvious. “Yeah, well…I gotta rep it somehow,” he justifies and Charles laughs brightly, playing with the tassels at the ends of the scarf. “Where did you get this? It is very cosy.”

Max hopes it isn’t obvious how flustered he is by this, “I… I made it,” he admits shyly and Charles’s gaze snaps up to meet his own in shock, “you made this? How did you make this? You ordered it?” 

Max shakes his head and puts his hands in his pockets, “no, I made it. I knitted it this week,” Charles stares at him blankly, letting go of the scarf but letting his hand remain outstretched, “like with a machine?”

Max throws his head back in disbelief and lets out a surprised laugh, “no, Charles, I knitted it with my own hands with two sticks and some yarn, is that so hard to believe?” Charles shakes his head before he’s even truly registered the question. Because no, if he’s being honest with himself it really isn’t that shocking that Max would be good at something like this, too. Max rarely wastes time on something he doesn’t excel in. 

“No, I was just surprised. You’ve never mentioned it before,” Max shrugs and shuffles his feet, “I haven’t done it in a while, wasn’t really allowed to, so I needed to start with something easy,” he gestures with a nod to the scarf wrapped around him and Charles looks at him warmly, like he’s not really sure what to say, or sure of what he can say.

“Will you make me something?” is what he settles on and it’s worth it to see Max’s surprised expression, “you could make me a ferrari scarf,” he says happily while already imagining the colour scheme he would choose. “That would be blasphemous,” Max deadpans, shaking his head as if the very thought of handling red yarn for the purpose of something ferrari is a sin, but Charles does not give up that easily. “I will pay you!”

Max prepares to tell him how stupid that sounds when there is nothing he needs that he can’t provide for himself but then Charles cuts him off, “I’ll buy all the supplies! and sponsor your cat food for three months,” that is a very good deal, now that Max really thinks about it. He doesn’t cheap out on his cats. 

“Six months.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Deal,” they shake on it in the middle of the street and it reminds Max of just how ridiculous this is, they’ve just brokered a deal where one of them gets a knitted scarf and the other gets cat food, this must be the most unserious conversation Max has had in a long time.  

“I’ll send you a link for the food,” Max tells him as he takes a few steps back and Charles grins, “I’ll send you my colours,” and with those final words they part ways on the streets of Monaco.

-

Charles shows up in Canada with a new scarf keeping his neck warm, one that looks suspiciously similar to the one that Yuki’s wearing, and almost identical to the one Max is wearing save for the colours, the Red Bull tiktok admin wastes no time making a video about it, tagging it #lestappen and #craftymaxy. The internet goes crazy within minutes. 

“I promise! It’ll be a quick video, you just explain your hobby, when it started, maybe talk about some of the projects you’re working on and if you have any planned for the future, it’s simple, really!” Max appreciates her enthusiasm as he watches her adjust the lighting in the room but he really finds this whole thing unnecessary, no one has ever cared about this particular hobby of his before. 

“Ready?” he nods quickly, feeling oddly nervous about this as her hand counts down from three. 

“Hello, everyone!” he greets warmly to the camera with a wave, “some of you were wondering about the scarves on the grid. Um…they’re very simple, I haven’t done this in a long time so I would still consider myself a beginner,” he pauses to think and sees a thumbs up behind the camera. “It was my mom who taught me when I was much younger, but she knits like actual stuff, you know, like sweaters and big heirloom blankets and such.”

Max smiles, “I haven’t had a lot of time to finesse this particular skill yet, and I only made one for Charles because he cornered me in the street and forced me to!” he laughs brightly, shaking his head at the memory, “and Yuki?” she prompts from behind the camera, “well, he needed one,” is all Max says to that. 

“How come you haven’t done anything until now?” Max’s smile dims a little as he recalls what made him put away the knitting needles for what he thought was for good, “I made a hat for my dad when I was… I can’t remember but probably nine or something, it wasn’t a very good hat but I spent a lot of time on it,” Max pauses, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron. “He burnt it in the backyard, he said it was a girly hobby and that he didn’t raise a-” he cuts himself off before he says something he shouldn’t, throwing a nervous glance at the tiktok admin behind the camera, “well, he was wrong, of course. But he was right in saying that it was a distraction to my driving and that I had other things to worry about, so I stopped.”

She pauses the videoing and puts the phone down, “eh…alright Max, how about we end on something uplifting, yeah?” her smile looks painful to Max and he wonders if she maybe wants to get this over with just as much as he does. “Everyone drop your own knitted projects down below in the comments and I’ll take a look, but only red bull things of course, otherwise we’ll block you.”

“Max, no-” the video ends there and Max practically shoots up from his seat on the couch, he rubs his hands together as he meets eyes with the tiktok admin who’s looking at him like she wants to throttle him but also kind of give him a hug, “that was good yeah?” he asks, almost sounding a bit nervous and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that that was disastrous. So she simply nods and reaches out to shake his hand, “it’ll definitely cause some engagement in the comments.”

-pov you’re in a “I hate my son” competition but Jos Verstappen is your opponent

- #craftymaxy admin I love you 

- it’s not a max video if there isn’t some random trauma dumping involved 

- not max starting a side hustle

-i love my men nerdy 

- how much of a distraction could it be when he’s still a four time world champion???

            - maybe he wouldn’t be one if his dad didn’t set his head straight about stupid hobbies

-something so undiagnosed about him

-dad was right wtf is this

-i made a red bull scarf for my cat! *picture*

Liked by creator

            -AHHHHHHH

8.

“What is Max Verstappen’s morning routine”?

“Ah, but this one is so boring! I wake up, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I don’t do anything specific like a vitamin c infused face mask, you should ask George this,” Max says with a coy smile as he presses send on the tweet. When his team told him he’d be doing a youtube video with only a few hours to get ready, he’d groaned and moaned and complained to the heavens, but he finds that he does quite enjoy it. Some of the questions are very amusing and he finds himself laughing along with the crew as he reads some of them. 

“If you could be an animal what would you be?”

“The most obvious answer is a cat, I think, because I love cats and I would know how to care for myself as a cat, but I’m not the biggest fan of cat food, even the smell is bad, so maybe I wouldn’t enjoy that. So maybe I would be a bird instead cause then I could go fast, I imagine flying along the track and-”

“There’s a character limit, Max,” one of the crew members interrupts his tangent and Max huffs and shakes his head, his explanation is of course crucial to his answer, in his opinion. “Then I’ll just say a bird, cause then I can go fast.”

“Who was your first celebrity crush?” this one throws Max for a loop as he scrambles for an answer, racking his brain for a face from his childhood but finds none. “I don’t think I had one,” he answers truthfully, shrugging as he looks around the room at the crew and his manager, “I was very busy and so focused on racing that I didn’t really consume a lot of media,” he continues, feeling sorry to have failed to answer the question. 

“It doesn’t have to be from childhood, maybe from when you were a teen or maybe even recently,” someone in the sea of cameras prompts and Max settles his chin on his hands, elbows propped up as he pauses to think. “Probably Daniel, then.”

“Daniel…?”

“Daniel Ricciardo, of course, we were teammates for a long time,” Max clarifies with his eyebrows raised, as if this should have been obvious to everyone in the room. “Right,” no one says anything for a while and Max doesn’t really know what to say to break the silence. “...Is that not a good answer?” he asks worriedly, confused as to why this seems to be something he shouldn’t have said but the crew are quick to wave away his concerns, “no, no, of course not! I just don’t think anyone expected that.”

“Did you ever tell him that?” Max snorts with a grin and shakes his head, “no way! Can you imagine? A snotty teen with pimples saying ‘I like you, you’re so cool’,” that would have been embarrassing for sure,” Max types out his tweet and adds a smiley with a tongue sticking out at the end, “plus I think my dad would have actually killed me,” he laughs and presses send. 

-

Daniel sees the video first thing in the morning when he wakes up to so many notifications that he immediately thinks someone has either died or leaked his nudes, the reality is both a relief and simultaneously more terrifying.

Max is happy to answer his face time call in the middle of a meeting. Max is confused why Daniel looks on the verge of tears. 

-

“Max, you’ve shown quite a lot of support for pride this week with your instagram posts and your sticker on your helmet, is this something important to you?”

“I mean, yes, of course. I think it’s important to show support and remind people that love is love,” Max states, adjusting his position on the couch. George nods along with him and Lewis shifts to turn his body toward him, giving him his full attention. 

“Is it fair to say this is a fairly new development for you?” the reporter continues and Max is shaking his head before he’s even done asking, “no, I’ve always thought this,” he confesses, voice firm and leaving no room for misinterpretation. The reporter takes a moment to look down at his notes with a frown forming between his brows and Max can already tell that he’s not going to like the next thing out of the man’s mouth, “the only time you’ve expressed ‘support’ before- if you can even call it that- was in 2016 when you posted a rainbow emoji on twitter. And it should be noted that this was later deleted,” Max was right, this guy sucks. 

Swallowing loudly he adjusts and readjusts his grip on his microphone as he feels Lewis studying him from where he’s seated beside him, “uh, yeah,” is the only intelligent thought he can muster and the reporter’s mouth turns into what can only be conceived as a spiteful grin, “some support.”

Max hates this guy. And he also can’t help but take note of the silence from the rest of the couch, he doesn’t know why he expects them to say something in his defense, it’s not like they’ve ever done that before, but this feels cruel. He hopes he doesn’t look as much of a fish out of water as he feels, he struggles for another few seconds to find the right words, “it earned me a punch so hard it caused a rupture in my eardrum.”

The reporter’s grin is wiped out as Max’s words land, “I had tinnitus for a couple of weeks after, and I had to get my ear drained. I almost looked like a boxer for a couple of days,” he says it joyfully but even Max can tell that no amount of jokes or laughter is gonna recover the mood of the room. George is looking over at him with a horrified expression, and if Max wasn’t too busy focusing on how to get out of this situation as quickly as possible he would have made a joke about this being the most expressive George has been in his presence for a long time. 

Lewis is quiet next to him, breathing deeply as if holding something back. “They said you had an ear infection,” Lewis mumbles quietly, remembering the part of the 2016 season where they were told the rookie had a persistent ear infection, he found it dubious back then, he feels nauseous now. 

“They couldn’t exactly tell the truth,” Max chuckles and leans back against the couch, “I just assumed most of you knew,” Lewis shakes his head hastily, lifting his hand as if to reach out for Max but he stops himself before he makes contact. “None of us knew,” he states firmly and Max actually startles at that, “it’s fine if you did, even in karting most people looked away.”

“Max, mate, no one in karting knew, either,” George is quick to clarify. Max sighs heavily and runs a hand along his jaw, “I think maybe the kids didn’t but most adults knew, I think. But it doesn’t matter anyway, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Lewis is on the verge of getting in his car and driving to whatever grey and depressing graveyard Jos Verstappen is buried in only to dig up the man, resurrect him, and kill him again. “Max, if we had…if we had known we could have done something,” Max simply shrugs and turns his gaze away from the other driver, “it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Chapter Text

9.

Max knows as soon as he attempts the move that he’s made a severe miscalculation, not only does he fail to overtake George in turn 5, but he also receives a five second penalty for it. 

He can also tell he’s fucked his race when GP simply relays the penalty information and refuses to say anything else. Everyone is clearly pissed at him, probably not more pissed than he is at himself though, and certainly not more pissed than George who goes on to win the race but still finds a way to be an ass about it is. 

Max accepts the clap on his back from GP as he pulls his balaclava off and looks over at where George is parked, standing on his car basking in the cheers of the crowd. It was a good race in Max’s opinion, despite the little mishap, and he waves to some of the fans in the stands who don’t seem to currently hate him. 

“Max!” Max turns toward the booming voice that pierces the air and drowns out every other shout and cheer from the crowd, in the distance he can see George storming over to him while ripping off his own balaclava and Max prepares for a proper dressing down from the teacher’s pet. “You’re a downright bastard, Max, you know that?” George practically shouts, for once seemingly not caring about the thousands of cameras pointed their way. 

“You could have taken us both out,” he continues, voice harsh and unforgiving and Max takes a quick look around to find that half the grid is watching the scene unfold. "George-"

“No! You always do this! You always try to pull some stupid shit when things aren’t going your way and you don’t even seem to understand how infuriating it is,” Max frowns at this, he’s pulled a few (many) stupid moves in the past that would warrant this reaction, but this one really was an honest miscalculation and mistake on his end. “You race like you’re the only one on the track and you have no care for anyone else!” Max reaches out toward George, for what he doesn’t know, to stop him from talking? To stop him from advancing further? To stop him from making a further fool out of both of them?

Whatever he means to do doesn’t matter when George slaps his hand away harshly. Max feels himself physically recoil at the touch, taking a step back as he plasters the rejected hand to his side as fast as he can. Whatever vitriol George spews after that goes in one ear and out the other, his ears feel like they’re filled with cotton and his feet feel frozen to the ground. He knows he's messed up but he could have never anticipated this sort of reaction from someone who’s usually so composed, someone who rarely does more than roll his eyes and give a snide comment to the press.

He barely notices when George stops talking abruptly, or when he disappears from in front of him and is replaced by Checo, or when he’s led by his shoulders toward the paddock and away from the crowd. 

But he does notice when someone leads him over to a couch and crouches in front of him, grabbing him by the cheeks and gently caressing his cheekbones. “Come on, kid, look at me,” GP murmurs quietly from where he’s sitting on his heels in front of Max. He’s got a worried crease in between his brows and Max wants that smoothed out immediately, lord knows Max has given him enough to worry about for one day, he doesn’t need to worry about Max too. 

“Hey,” GP says when Max’s gaze meets his own, “you’re alright, bud,” he continues gently, hoping it’ll get Max to relax a little but it doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. Max’s eyes are wide as saucers and his hand is clenched so hard that his nails are digging into his palm, his shoulders set in a sharp line that’s bound to give him a tension headache. “It’s just us here,” GP tells him, lying through his teeth as he chooses to ignore the small audience of staff behind them, "and you’re safe here,” he continues, never having meant a sentence more.

Max closes his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose as his body shakes with the effort to not explode- in anger or tears he can’t quite tell the difference, maybe there isn’t one. He can’t believe he reacted like that in front of everyone, the fans, the media, the teams, and god, the other drivers; and certainly not over something as small as this. His eyes are stinging with unshed tears and his throat feels tight from choking back his cries, what the fuck is wrong with him? He’s an adult and a four time world champion at that, he should be better than this, stronger than this. 

He hunches over himself, forcing GP to lean back on his heels to avoid being headbutted, “fuck,” he groans despairingly, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes in a fruitless attempt to stop his tears from welling over. Checo throws an arm around Max’s shoulders and pulls him closer to his side in an effort to comfort the younger man, when he meets GP’s eyes he can tell they both feel equally as out of depth as the other. 

“That was so stupid,” Max mumbles to himself, so quiet the two men barely hear him at first, “so stupid, so stupid,” he continues, pressing his hands more harshly into his eyes as his breathing picks up, “you’re so stupid,” he mutters aggressively and slaps his palms onto his face. 

“Max! no-” Max goes to do it again but Checo is faster, grabbing him by his wrists with one hand and holding him steadily so he doesn’t hurt himself further, “stop, Max,” Checo says firmly.

Breathing deeply Max shudders at the thought of the media storm that awaits him, the questions, the looks, he can barely stand the very idea of it. “There’s no need to worry about any of that right now, Max,” GP tells him kindly, and whether GP read his mind or he spoke out loud he’s not sure. “Let’s just sit here for a while, hm?” Max doesn’t think he’s able to do anything else even if he tries, he feels weak in the knees and he’s still tense and trembling. He doesn’t even have enough energy to fully register that Checo’s sitting next to him in the red bull building despite security being strict, he must have looked terrible for them to oversee another driver being in the energy station. 

Slowly, and without really noticing it, Max starts to calm down a little, leaning into Checo’s side and relaxing enough for the older driver to deem it safe to let go of his wrists. The hustle and the bustle behind them has died down and when Max’s gaze snaps up he only sees a few of his trusted mechanics, Rupert, his personal trainer, and Yuki. He quickly averts his eyes down to his thighs where GP’s hands are resting before closing his eyes all together. Max can only imagine what they’re all thinking about him and none of it is good, not to mention what the other drivers must think. Most likely they’re already in the media pen laughing about it all.

-

George Russell is a man who prides himself on his composure and steeze, a man who knows what he’s capable of, where his limits are, and how to tackle most situations that he puts himself in. This is not one of them. Embarrassingly enough, especially considering the usual reaction time of a formula one driver, it took him way too long to realise that he’d messed up. After he’d slapped away Max’s placating hand he’d kept going, reaming him about the same old things he’s told him since karting, and only when Alex had come up to physically pull him away had he noticed what he’d done. 

Only then had he noticed how Max Verstappen, four time world champion and his rival since childhood, had cowered in front of him with his head bowed and his eyes screwed shut. He’d been given no more time to process it as not only Alex but also a flurry of Mercedes crew had dragged him away from the thousands of cameras pointed toward them, and away from Max. 

He’d managed to swivel his head just enough to see Max being led into the red bull building by Checo and GP, seeming to barely know where his own two feet were leading him. 

As soon as they had gone far back enough for the fans to no longer be able to spot them George had been released from everyone’s hold, found the closest wall, and leaned against it in hopes of keeping his stomach’s content on the inside of his body. It had felt like only seconds had passed before he’d again been dragged away only to come face to face with Toto, “you do the interview and you don’t say a word about any of what just transpired. You go on that podium and look proud, and then you can freak out, understood?” George had nodded, almost on auto pilot, and done exactly as instructed. 

But thank god Toto had scheduled in a freak out after the podium ceremony because that is exactly what is bubbling up inside of him as he gets down from the podium, covered in champagne but less sticky than he usually is; no one had been in the proper mood to celebrate. He’s practically sprinting out of there with Lewis and Carlos on his heels.

He’s heading to the red bull building before he can fully register where his own two feet are leading him and when he gets closer he can see that the outside area is crawling with people, crew and drivers waiting outside like high school delinquents. The others look up when they approach and George sees their faces filled with pity and some with apprehension, like they expect George to go storming into the building and continuing his dressing down of the other driver. Charles looks fuming and George feels his own face pull into a grimace, “Charles-”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Charles asks incredulously as if he seriously cannot even begin to understand what George’s thought process was, George doesn’t even know what he was thinking himself, he wasn’t. “I wasn’t,” he begins while dragging a hand through his sticky hair, “I wasn’t thinking properly, I was just angry at him and-”

“And you thought that was the best response? Shouting and screaming and hitting his hand away?” Carlos puts a placating hand on Charles’s shoulder to try and calm him down but the monegasque man shakes him off angrily, “You’re not being fair, Charles, no one knew he was gonna react like that,” Esteban tries to step in but Charles practically snarls in his direction. It’s Lewis that tries to diffuse the tension this time, “in light of everything we’ve found out these past few weeks perhaps it was not the most appropriate reaction,” he sends a pointed look George’s way but continues on, “but Esteban is right, no one could have known it would affect him like this. It’s not like picking a fight is something new to Max.”

Despite the attempt at a joke no one laughs. Silence falls around them except it’s not really silent at all, there’s still media people milling about in the background but thankfully no netflix production with a mic hanging over them. Most likely thanks to the several different team managers that seem to be running around doing damage control. It’s Lando this time that speaks up, voice hushed almost like he doesn’t really wanna be heard, “it’s already gone viral,” George’s gaze snaps to him in a second. Of course it’s gone viral, of course everyone posted it from multiple angles, some with shit audio and some with such crisp audio you’d think you were standing right next to them, George knew this when he picked the fight and yet he feels nauseous now that he’s facing the reality of it. 

Lando’s got a video up on his phone with the audio blasting and George gets the urge to chuck his phone into the nearest wall. “Looks even worse than I remember it,” Lando mumbles and Carlos grunts and takes the phone out of his hands, shutting it off. “Come on guys, this is not right,” he says carefully yet firmly, handing the phone back with the screen black. 

Lando’s cheeks redden at being chastised but he puts his phone away and stays quiet, “we should probably go,” Oscar mumbles, adjusting the cap on his head, “I doubt we’ll be seeing Max tonight or even for a while, and we’ve got a plane to catch,” he says turning to Lando. “Yes, you should go,” their heads snap up to see Yuki standing in the doorway, he’s changed into normal clothes and his hair looks a mess, as if he’s been tugging at it anxiously. 

“How is he?” George asks, voice filled with stress, and Yuki’s gaze turns to him but his face is blank of emotion, he gives nothing away. “Asleep,” he simply answers, watching George shuffle his feet as he waits for more information, Yuki would have found it funny some other day but today it irritatates him. Max and him aren’t the closest of team mates but they still support each other and have each other’s backs, and watching Max’s old childhood frenemy and rival practically beg for information gives him a little sick satisfaction. 

“You can call tomorrow, I can’t promise he’ll pick up but…” Yuki trails off, realising that he can’t promise Max will ever pick up a phone call from George ever again, but it won’t hurt to try. 

“How angry was he?” George questions nervously, Yuki frowns in response. “Angry? he wasn’t angry,” George finds that seriously hard to believe and his whole face must be saying so because Yuki shakes his head. “He’s upset, he cried and he was sad but I don’t think he was angry,” George feels even more terrible with every word that leaves Yuki’s lips.

“He was worried you were laughing,” the pit in George’s stomach feels like it’s eating him from the inside out, “I’ll tell him you weren’t,” the relief on Yuki’s face is unsettling to George, to every driver standing there, and he needs Yuki- and Max, mostly Max- to know that no one is amused. “No one is laughing, no one. Please tell him that,” George prays the lump in his throat is because he’s getting sick and not because of something like him being emotional for his rival (friend). 

“Tell him yourself,” Yuki tells him, tone firm enough to shock George, “it won’t mean anything coming from me,” George nods and sends a helpless look Charles’s way which has the other driver narrowing his eyes before rolling them and looking away, “I’ll force him to keep his phone on, I won’t force him to pick up.”

“That’s all I ask,” George replies and Yuki shuts the door behind him before anyone has enough time to react and then it’s just them, standing there like fools still in their race suits. “Come on, Lando,” Oscar mumbles quietly and ushers the other driver away, the others start to disperse slowly as well and eventually it’s only George and Alex remaining. 

“George, you’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Alex says gently, worried his friend is about to do something stupid like break into the building. “Yeah, tomorrow,” George says more to himself than to Alex. He wants to be worried about the public’s reaction, the internet’s reaction and everyone who witnessed the little altercation, but he finds that he couldn’t care less about any of that, he just wants to know that Max is alright. If he wakes up tomorrow to people hating him for what he did he thinks he can take it, but he won’t be able to handle anyone hating Max for how he reacted.

“Let’s go,” Alex tugs on his arm and together they turn away from the building.

-

Inside Yuki sits on a cushion on the floor in Max’s room and tells Max all about how pathetic George looks when he’s worried and stressed out, Max doesn’t quite crack a smile but he’s not far off. 

Chapter Text

10.

Cold, emotionless, indifferent, ruthless, stilted, mean, cruel. These are words Max has been told throughout his entire career, his entire life, from anyone and everyone around him. From all the way back when he was doing interviews after karting races to the mass media hysteria when he first set foot in the world of formula 1, and from the other drivers on the grid past and present to the fans watching at home. He’s gotten used to being known as the emotionless, unmovable, force that simply shows up during race week, races like hell, and returns home as if he doesn’t care. It hurt like hell at first to hear what people were saying about him, to hear what people thought of his character, but with time he started to realise that, while painful, the words hurt far less than the words of his father. 

Weak, stupid, spineless, pathetic. Anything was better than those ice cold peaks. Max used to struggle to regulate his emotions when he was a child, he’d cry if he was overly frustrated or angry, and cry if he was giddy, happy and content; he’d go silent if he was sad and lonely. His father hated this side of him, this weakness of his. So with time Max learned how to bottle everything up, how to not show too many emotions, to not appear so childish.

It’s why he knows that in life Jos would have beaten Max for this, and in death Max is sure he’s rolling in his grave. 

Max stands on the top spot on the podium, his first win in Singapore and his second overall this season after his father’s death, with Lando to his left and Charles to his right. He basks in the cheers from the crowd as the spotlight shines down on them and the cameras flash brightly. He’s absolutely soaked in sweat and his face is flushed red from exertion, the heat of Singapore feels like a physical force pushing down on him and if he wasn’t so high on adrenaline he thinks he would’ve collapsed a long time ago. The first note of the Dutch anthem sounds and he straightens his back by reflex, feet moving to shoulder width and his hands clasping tightly together behind his back just the way his father taught him- forced him. And it’s this action that has Max’s breath hitching and his stomach threatening to revolt, he feels the familiar yet so foreign feeling of his throat starting to close up and his nose starting to itch. No, he thinks, no, there’s no way.

He’s going to cry.

Max clenches his jaw so tight he feels the ache in his temples and he tries to force the emotion down. He has no reason to cry, none at all. It’s been months since his father passed and he’s been doing well, he’s been getting podiums, he’s been racking up enough points to still be a championship contender, he’s been performing- he hasn’t been slacking- and Red Bull have been happy with what he’s been able to do with the car. No one has expressed disappointment with him other than himself, and yet Jos Verstappen looms over him like a ghost unwilling to pass on to the other side. A haunting figure judging his every move, even now as he looks out at the crowd he feels his eyes on him, his prickling gaze of disappointment and resentment. 

What’s the point in all of this if the one person who cared even more than Max does isn’t here to see it?

The first tear trails down without Max noticing, he’s dripping in sweat and it’s hard to tell the difference. The second one trails down the outside of his cheek and tickles when it slides down his neck. But the third one gets mixed up with the fourth and the fifth one and suddenly he can’t stop. They keep coming and to his horror he feels his lips quiver the same way they used to do when he was a child being screamed at by the person he loved most, looked up to the most. 

His hands move frantically to wipe them away but to his absolute terror they keep coming faster than he can wipe them, in his panic he settles his hands on his face to cover the worst of it. For once in his life he opted to not wear his cap on the podium and he regrets it greatly now, he has no cover, nothing to hide what he’s feeling. Shame creeps up his neck and he’s glad for the race suit hiding the redness that he knows is covering his skin.

The tears keep coming while he hunches in on himself, the roar of the crowd and the anthem playing fades into the background as he lets his emotions wash over him. If you asked him to put a finger on exactly what it is he’s feeling he doesn’t think he’d be able to, sadness? Anger? Hurt? Loneliness? All of them at the same time, perhaps?

He gasps into his hands when he feels the steady pressure of a hand on his shoulder and as he turns his head marginally, just enough to peak through his fingers to the side, he catches a glimpse of red. Charles.

Charles who lost a father, someone caring, someone loving, someone kind and thoughtful and the very opposite of Max’s own father. Max feels guilt-ridden all of the sudden by his own sadness. What right does he have?

“Max,” Charles’s voice is quiet but loud enough to reach his ears over the music and the shouting around them, he sounds sad and so very gentle that Max wishes his shame would swallow him whole right then and there. “It’s okay,” Charles continues, his hand moving to Max’s other shoulder to pull him into a sideways hug, Max feels Charles’s breath tickling his ear as the other man rests his forehead on the side of Max’s head. 

“It’s okay,” Charles repeats and Max doesn’t know what to say to that, his chest feels tight from holding the worst of his sadness in and he wishes he could hide away somewhere far, far away and scream it all out, maybe then this overwhelming feeling would finally leave him be. A second person comes up beside him and Max doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Lando.

Lando puts a hand over Max’s heart and mimics Charles’s position by leaning his head on Max’s. Even with the race suit Max worries Lando can feel his heart jumping out of his chest.

A sob breaks out of him at the thought of his father seeing him like this, so weak and frail, falling apart in what should be his rivals’ arms for the whole world to see. He wonders what the others must think of him. Nico and Lewis who hate used to hate him, George who probably still does, Oscar the unwavering championship leader, the rookies who mistakenly look up to him, Sebastian and Kimi who never really warmed up to him, everyone he terrorised in karting, and the two next to him. 

Even the ones he would call friends on a good day have attributed some of his success on the track to his emotionless persona, his coldness, ruthlessness, and now it’s all falling apart whether he likes it or not. He can’t stop the tears from falling nor his emotions from bleeding out of him like an arterial wound. He feels cut open and turned inside out just for everyone to see exactly how ruined he is, how fragile his bones are and how paper thin his skin is. 

“Come on, Max,” Lando murmurs into his ear and for a split second Max thinks he’s being scolded for his crying, but a nudge from Lando and a pull from Charles tells him they’re actually asking him to walk with them, down the podium, off the stage, away from the spotlight, away from everyone. He wants nothing more than to do exactly that and then preferably disappear off the face of the earth, but one thought pulls him out of his misery for a moment as he remembers where they are. “No,” he croaks, “you should celebrate,” he tries to pull out of their hold to excuse himself, fines and media backlash be damned, but they won’t let him. 

“Screw that, mate. Come on,” Lando nudges him more insistently this time and he lets them lead him off the stage, dripping with sweat but for once dry from champagne. 

-

Things get weirder. People are being…nice. Too nice. After Las Vegas and his incident with George, and after Singapore and his breakdown on the podium people have been treating him oddly, strangely, almost as if they’re expecting him to completely fall apart at the seams. Which is weird considering a couple of months ago people would have expected him to lash out and scream at them. 

He doesn’t know what he dislikes more. 

Charles asks him to join him for walks with Leo as often as he can, Lando asks him to game well into the night, Alex asks him to play padel, the rookies call him for tips and advice- often asking him questions he’s already answered, they’re not being very stealthy. Sebastian asks him what he’s up to so much  that Max is starting to think he sits and waits by his phone, Oscar asks him to go running even though they both hate it, and even George is being an amiable colleague.

It’s almost like having friends. Max doesn’t know what to do with that. 

He posts a photo on instagram of him and his cats on a monday night where he has a rare evening with no plans, in the caption he writes a little birthday message for Sassy and in the picture they’re all wearing party hats. Max looks the happiest out of them all. It takes no more than an hour for people to comment on the post

@redbullracing congrats Sassy! don’t party too hard, it’s race week!

@charles_leclerc where was my invite? we’re neighbors!!!

@lando im coming over rn mate 

@f1 Sassy on pole with Jimmy P2 and Max P3

@mercedesamgf1 George wants to know your address 

@isackhadjar mignons! 🥰 the cats, not you

@kimi.antonelli divorce era over?

Max has just enough time to wipe away his tears before the doorbell rings.