Chapter Text
The air in Monaco tasted different.
Max Verstappen stood just outside the sliding doors of the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport arrivals hall, a worn duffel bag at his feet and a sleek, hard shell suitcase beside it. The Mediterranean sun, sharp and relentless even in late September, pressed against his skin. It was a dry, clean heat, unlike the damp, clinging chill of the Dutch autumn he’d left behind just hours ago. He breathed in, the scent of salt, exhaust, and expensive perfume filling his lungs. The first breath of free air.
It hadn’t felt like fleeing. Not in the moment. It had felt like a meticulously planned military extraction, executed with a calm, cold precision that had taken years to cultivate.
The planning started the day he’d received the acceptance letter and full merit scholarship to the Monaco University Institute of Technology’s Mechanical Engineering program. It had arrived digitally, a silent, weightless thing, but it had felt like a physical key in his hand. He’d been sitting in his childhood bedroom in Maaseik, the sound of a racing simulator blaring from the living room, Jos’s, never his, not anymore, when the notification pinged. He’d opened it, read the formal congratulations, and then methodically closed his laptop. He’d made no sound. He’d given nothing away. That was rule one show no outward sign of hope. Hope was a vulnerability his father could smell, could taste, and would inevitably crush.
From that day, every euro from his part-time job at the local garage, every covertly saved birthday gift from his mother’s sister, every odd bit of cash was funneled into a separate account his father knew nothing about. He’d researched apartments in Monaco online during library hours, his browsing history meticulously erased. He’d practiced the conversation with his mother in his head a hundred times, knowing it would be the hardest part.
The final confrontation with Jos wasn’t a shouted, dramatic scene. It was a statement, delivered in the sterile, fluorescent lit kitchen two nights before his flight.
“I’m leaving for university in Monaco. Tomorrow. The scholarship covers tuition. I’ve arranged my living situation.”
Jos had looked up from his newspaper, his expression one of mild, disdainful confusion, as if Max had announced he was going to farm mushrooms on the moon. “Monaco? What nonsense is this? You’re apprenticing at the Vanderwal’s engineering firm. It’s arranged.”
“I’ve declined the apprenticeship. I’ve accepted the scholarship. I leave tomorrow evening.” Max’s voice was flat, a recitation of facts. He kept his hands, hidden under the table, perfectly still.
The newspaper had rustled as Jos lowered it fully. The familiar, cold glint entered his eyes, the one that promised a storm. “You’ve declined. You’ve accepted. You think you make these decisions? In this house, I make the decisions. You are my son. You will do as I say.”
“I am your son,” Max had agreed, the words tasting like ash. “And I am twenty years old. And I am leaving.” He’d stood then, his chair scraping against the tile. The sound was final. “I’ve already packed.”
The explosion that followed was both predictable and terrifying in its volume. The accusations of ingratitude, of weakness, of being a “confused fool” whose head had been filled with stupid ideas. Max had absorbed it like a stone wall absorbs rain, standing silently until the torrent subsided into seething, furious silence. His mother, Sophie, had hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide and shining with tears, but also with a fierce, protective pride she dared not voice.
He’d packed his life into two bags that night. Clothes, textbooks, his own high-spec laptop bought with his own money, a few photos of his mother and his sister Victoria, a single, worn-out Red Bull racing cap from his childhood a relic from a time when the dream was shared, not weaponized. He left behind the sim rig, the trophies from karting, anything that tied him to the path his father had carved. It was a calculated amputation.
The goodbye with his mother at the small regional airport was quiet, hurried, her hugs tight and wordless. She’d pressed an envelope into his hand more of her own carefully hidden savings. “Be happy, Max,” she’d whispered, her voice thick. “Be yourself. And don’t look back.”
He hadn’t. Not once as the plane climbed, leaving the flat, green grids of the Netherlands beneath the clouds. He’d felt a terrifying, exhilarating lurch in his stomach. It wasn’t the turbulence. It was the velocity of his own escape.
Now, standing in the Monegasque sun, he let the reality settle. He was here. He had four nights booked in a modest, clean hotel near the university, paid for in advance. He had his scholarship, his savings, and a list of potential flat-shares to view. He had a plan.
A text buzzed in his pocket, a welcome anchor.
Oscar (MUIT MechEng): Hey mate. Alex and I are at the cafe just opposite the main uni gates. ‘Le Raccard’. You made it through customs yeah? Come find us. Orientation group’s mostly here.
A small, genuine smile touched Max’s lips. Oscar Piastri. They’d connected over the university’s online portal for incoming engineering students, bonding over a shared, sarcastic disdain for the overly cheerful welcome videos. Oscar was Australian, sharpwitted, and had a dry, understated humor that Max appreciated instantly. He’d mentioned moving to Monaco to be with his boyfriend, who was already studying here. There was a casual, unapologetic normalcy to the way Oscar said it that had struck Max with a quiet sense of awe.
Max hailed a taxi and gave the address. The drive was a blur of winding coastal roads, impossible cliffs adorned with gleaming white architecture, and glimpses of the absurdly blue sea. The taxi dropped him outside a charming, slightly rustic looking cafe with wooden tables spilling onto a shaded patio. And there they were.
Oscar waved him over from a corner table where he sat with another guy. Oscar was as he’d pictured from their video chats tousled dark hair, an intelligent, calm face, dressed in a simple polo shirt. The other guy Alex, presumably was lean, with a friendly, open smile and an air of relaxed competence.
“Max! You survived,” Oscar said, standing to clap him on the shoulder. “This is Alex Albon. Alex, Max Verstappen.”
“The Dutch master of mechanical systems, as per the forum,” Alex said, his voice warm with a British accent. He shook Max’s hand firmly. “Good to finally meet in the flesh. How was the flight?”
“Long. Fine,” Max said, sliding into a chair, stowing his bags carefully beside him. The simple act of being greeted, of being expected, sent a warm current through his chest. “This place is… intense.”
“Tell me about it,” Alex laughed, gesturing at a Lamborghini purring past. “I’m from London, thought I knew ‘wealth’, but this is another level of cartoonish. I’m here on an exchange program. Couldn’t pass up the MUIT name on the CV, even if it means I’ll be eating instant noodles for two years to afford a coffee here.”
Oscar nodded. “Same, with the exchange. Well, mostly. The… um… proximity to certain distractions didn’t hurt.” He rolled his eyes at himself, but he was smiling.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Distractions?”
“His boyfriend,” Alex supplied cheerfully, sipping his espresso. “Lando. He’s a second year here, Business and Finance. Human Golden Retriever, chaos incarnate, utterly devoted. Oscar here moved continents for him. It’s disgustingly sweet.”
Oscar shoved Alex lightly. “Says the man who FaceTimes his mate back in London, George, for three hours every Sunday to talk about hydraulic system modelling. You’re one to talk.”
The easy teasing, the casual mention of boyfriends, the complete lack of any weight behind the words… It was a world away from the suffocating silence of his father’s house, from the careful filtering of every word. Max felt his shoulders, which he hadn’t realized were tensed near his ears, begin to drop.
A waiter came, and Max ordered a sparkling water. The bustle of the cafe was a pleasant hum, chattering students, the clink of cups, the distant roar of a high-performance engine somewhere on the hill above.
“So, Max,” Oscar began, leaning forward. “Big move from the Netherlands. What brought you to the lion’s den? Besides the obvious stellar reputation of our soon to be alma mater.”
Max took a slow breath. The practiced, vague answers rose to his lips wanted a change, good opportunity, the engineering program. But he looked at Oscar, who had so openly claimed his truth, and at Alex, who watched with no agenda, just friendly curiosity. They felt like an airlock, a safe space between the vacuum he’d left and the unknown he was entering.
“The scholarship was the main thing,” he started, his voice even. “But… it was also distance. From my family. My father.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. A subtle shift occurred at the table. Alex’s friendly smile softened into something more understanding. Oscar’s sharp eyes grew perceptive, noting the careful neutrality in Max’s tone.
“Right,” Oscar said, not pushing. “Needed your own space.”
“Something like that,” Max conceded. “He’s… not a easy man. Doesn’t approve of… a lot of things.” The understatement of the century. He traced a bead of condensation on his glass.
Alex nodded slowly. “My dad was… traditional. Took him a while to come around when I brought my first boyfriend home. Lots of ‘phase’ talk. Not easy.”
It wasn’t the same, Max knew. Alex’s story spoke of a hurdle eventually cleared. His own was a wall he’d had to scale alone, with no expectation of anyone on the other side. But the simple acknowledgement, the lack of shock or platitudes, was a relief.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Max found himself saying, the words quiet but clear. “Not the exact location. I changed my number. Blocked him on everything.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was absorbent.
Then Oscar leaned back, his expression turning fierce in a surprisingly protective way. “Good. Fuck him.”
Alex nodded in firm agreement. “Absolutely. You’ve got a place now. With us. The MechEng misfits. We look out for our own.”
A flash, then, sharp and unwelcome his father’s face, purple with rage, the sound of a fist hitting the wall beside his head, the spray of plaster dust. Max’s fingers tightened on his glass. He could almost smell the stale beer and bitter disappointment of that room.
“He can get… violent,” Max said, the admission leaving him in a rush, like pulling a thorn. “Not always. But when he’s angry. Which is often.” He looked up, meeting their eyes, bracing for a flinch, for a step back.
Instead, Oscar’s jaw set. Alex’s eyes hardened.
“Listen to me,” Oscar said, his voice low and utterly serious. “If that man ever steps foot near Monaco, you tell me and Lando immediately. And Alex. And we will handle it. You don’t have to deal with that shit alone. Not here.”
“He means it,” Alex added. “Lando may look like a puppy, but he’s connected in ways that are slightly terrifying. And I’ve got a mean right hook I’ve been dying to use on someone deserving.”
It was so far beyond what Max had expected. Not pity. Not discomfort. An immediate, fierce offer of alliance. A promise of a shield. The tightness in his chest, a constant companion for years, loosened a fraction.
“I… thank you,” Max said, the words inadequate. He managed a small, wry smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I just want to study, get my degree, and live my life. Quietly.”
“Quietly?” Alex grinned, the tension breaking. “With Oscar’s chaotic boyfriend and his entire circus soon to be our extended social circle? Good luck with that.”
Oscar groaned. “He’s not wrong. Lando’s friend group is… a lot. You’ll meet them. Charles, Pierre, Esteban, Daniel. They’re good people, but they’re energy. Charles especially. Thinks he’s the prince of Monaco, actually, his family might own a chunk of it, so maybe he is. Drives a Ferrari that probably costs more than this cafe.”
Max chuckled, the sound feeling strange and welcome in his throat. “I’ll manage. After my home life, a bit of loud energy might be a nice change.”
They talked then of easier things, the orientation schedule, the nightmare that was the MUIT online timetable system, their shared courses, the rumoured strictness of Professor Wolff and the legendary kindness of Professor Vettel. They made plans to hit the library together the next day to finalize their registrations.
As the afternoon sun began to mellow, painting the white buildings in gold, Max felt a strange, solid sensation in his gut. It wasn’t just the coffee. It was the beginning of foundation. He had a mission, get his degree, build a career, become utterly, unassailably independent. But for the first time, he saw that the path might not have to be walked alone in grim silence. It could have allies. It could have coffee breaks and sarcastic texts and the promise of backup.
Walking to his hotel later, his suitcase wheels clicking on the immaculate pavement, Max looked up at the hillside city glittering under the twilight. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, fear of his father’s shadow, fear of failure, the ingrained fear of wanting too much. But layered over it, bright and defiant, was a new feeling.
This hadn’t been an escape into the void. It had been a navigation to a new coordinate. And for the first time in a very long time, Max Verstappen allowed himself to think, with a cautious, stubborn hope This might have been the best decision I have ever made.