Chapter Text
July 9, 2023
The Dutch national anthem is starting to sound like a ringtone you chose when you were sixteen and now you'd do anything to change it but you can't remember the password to your own phone.
Max stands on the top step at Silverstone. Hands on the trophy. Smile on his face. The whole performance. He's done it so many times that the motions happen without him. You smile, wave, look at the trophy like it's the first time you've seen it and pretend the champagne in your eyes is joy instead of just champagne.
Lando's on the second step. Lewis on the third. The British boys, the home heroes, the ones the crowd actually came to see. Max knows this. He's known it for months. He could be lapping the field and the biggest cheer of the day would still be for whichever McLaren or Mercedes driver finished best.
Fine. Whatever. He's used to it.
The anthem ends. The cheering starts. Max raises the trophy, turns to the crowd, does the little wave that's become as automatic as breathing. Lando's already bouncing on his toes, ready to spray everyone within range. Lewis has that polite smile that means he's mentally reviewing where he lost time in sector two.
The champagne hits. Cold and sticky and exactly the same as every other time.
Max closes his eyes for half a second and wonders when winning started feeling like this.
And then he is in the press conference room that is always too cold. He sits in the middle. Lando on his right, Lewis on his left. The same couch, the same backdrop, the same FIA logo that's been staring at him for gods know how long. The same journalists in the same seats, though he's stopped trying to learn their names. What's the point? They ask the same questions anyway.
Lando's already charming the room. Because of course he is, Silverstone is his turf, his crowd, it's his moment to shine even from second place. He's talking about the start, the first few corners, the way the car came alive. Lewis nods along, adding thoughtful commentary about tyre degradation and strategy calls.
Max watches the questions flow toward the British drivers like water finding its natural level. What did it feel like coming through the field, Lando? How close were you to making a move, Lewis? Is this the kind of result that gives you momentum for the rest of the season?
Lando grins. Lewis reflects. The room eats it up.
Max sits in the middle, his trophy is somewhere in this room, and thinks about how strange it is to be invisible while sitting in the center of everything.
Finally—finally—someone remembers he exists.
A journalist near the back raises a hand. Max recognizes him. Middle aged, glasses, always asks about tyre management. He's been coming to these things for years. Max respects that kind of dedication, even if the questions are predictable.
"Max," the journalist says, "six in a row now. Eight this season. Over forty throughout your career so far. What's it like? Does it ever get old?"
The room goes quiet. Everyone turns to look at him. Lando's smile falters for just a second—the way it always does when someone reminds the room who actually won—before snapping back into place.
Max opens his mouth.
And nothing comes out.
Not because he doesn't know what to say. He knows exactly what to say. He's said it so many times. The team did an incredible job. The car was phenomenal. We're just taking it one race at a time.
The words are right there.
But something is stuck.
Six in a row.
He thinks about that number. Six. As if six is the impressive one. As if six is worth asking about.
He thinks about the real number. The one he's been counting in his head for… how long now? He's lost track. He stopped counting the days somewhere around the time he started memorizing the pattern of the yellow-shirted fan in section G, row 12, seat 4. Wave on the anthem, lower on the podium photos, wave again when Max lifts the trophy. Every single time. The man's name is Peter. Max knows this because, once, he walked over and asked, and Peter was so starstruck he nearly dropped his phone. Peter works in accounting. Peter has been coming to Silverstone for twenty-three years. Peter has no idea he's been waving the same flag at the same Dutch driver for what feels like eternity.
Max thinks about the Dutch anthem. About how it used to make him feel something, pride, maybe, or the weight of history, or just the simple joy of hearing his country's song play for him. Now it's just noise. Sound waves hitting his eardrums. A signal that the ritual is starting. He's caught himself humming it in the shower. Humming his own anthem. Like it's just another pop song stuck in his head.
He thinks about champagne. About how it used to taste like victory and now it just tastes like sticky. About how Lando's grin used to seem genuine and now it looks like the same GIF playing on loop. About how Lewis's post-race analysis used to teach him something and now he could recite it word for word, complete with the pauses, the thoughtful nods, the way Lewis always says "yeah, I mean" before every answer.
Six in a row.
Max laughs.
It's not really a simple laugh. It's something else. Something that's been building for so long it's lost its shape. It comes out of him like a cough, like a choke, like a sound someone makes when they're trying not to scream.
The room stares.
He can't stop. The laugh keeps going, keeps building, keeps turning into something that sounds more like sobbing than amusement. His shoulders shake. His eyes are wet. He's gripping the edges of his chair like if he lets go he might float away.
One hundred and forty-nine. That’s how many times he’d done this.
The number pulses in his skull. One hundred and forty-nine times standing on that podium. One hundred and forty-nine times watching the same yellow-shirted fan wave the same flag. One hundred and forty-nine times listening to Lando's post-race interview where he says "we're getting closer" even though he's been saying it for one hundred and forty-nine Sundays and he's not getting closer, none of them are getting closer, they're all just stuck here with Max in this endless Sunday where the only thing that changes is the number of times Max has lived it.
He thinks about Peter the accountant. Wonders if Peter dreams about waving that flag. Wonders if Peter has any idea that somewhere in the fabric of reality, a Dutchman has watched him wave it one hundred and forty-nine times and has started to feel something almost like love for a stranger he'll never truly know.
He thinks about the pigeons in the paddock. He named them all. Geoffrey, Nigel, Beatrice, Colin. Colin is the aggressive one who always tries to steal food from the Mercedes hospitality. Colin has been trying to steal food from Mercedes hospitality for one hundred and forty-nine loops. Colin never learns. Max respects that.
He thinks about the water stain on his hotel ceiling. Gerald. He's had entire conversations with Gerald. Gerald is a good listener. Gerald doesn't ask about six in a row or eight this season or what it's like to win so much. Gerald just exists, mushroom-shaped and silent, the most consistent relationship Max has had in however long this has been.
The laugh is still going. He can't make it stop.
Lando is staring at him like he's grown a second head. Lewis has that expression that means he's cataloguing everything, filing it away for future reference, trying to figure out if this is a mental break or a strategy or something in between.
Max's face is wet. Tears or champagne residue or maybe just the sheer exhaustion of existing in a moment he's lived one hundred and forty-nine times before.
"Max?" The journalist's voice is careful now, like he's approaching a wild animal. "Is everything alright?"
Max wipes his face with the back of his hand. Tries to pull himself together. The laugh is finally fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in his chest.
"Yeah," he says, and his voice cracks on the word. "Yeah. Sorry. Six in a row." He laughs again, softer this time, almost to himself. "That's, that's a lot, isn't it? Six."
He looks at the journalist. Slightly balding, hunched, wearing a tie that's slightly too short. Max has seen this man one hundred and forty-nine times in that exact same spot. He's never asked his name.
"You know what else is a lot?" Max hears himself say. The words are coming out before he can stop them. "The Dutch anthem. Have you ever really listened to it? I mean, really listened? Because I have. One hundred and—" He stops. Catches himself. "A lot. I've listened to it a lot."
The room is dead silent.
Lando's mouth is slightly open.
Lewis is very still.
"You'd think after a while it would stop meaning anything," Max continues. He can't stop. The pressure valve is open and everything is spilling out. "But it doesn't. It keeps meaning something. Every single time. Even when you don't want it to. Even when you'd give anything to hear literally any other song. It still hits you right here—" He thumps his chest, right over his heart. "Every. Single. Time."
He's breathing hard now. The room is frozen.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it's over.
Max straightens in his chair. Smooths his expression. Becomes Max Verstappen, two-time world champion, the guy who always says the right thing in press conferences.
"The team did an incredible job," he says, perfectly calm. "The car was phenomenal. We're just taking it one race at a time."
The journalist blinks. Looks down at his notes. Looks back up.
"Right," he says slowly. "Thank you, Max."
The room exhales. The next question goes to Lando. Normalcy resumes.
Max sits in the middle seat, trophy on the table, smile on his face, and thinks about Peter the accountant and Gerald the water stain and Colin the pigeon who never learns.
He thinks about how many more times he can do this before the laugh doesn't stop.
He thinks about how many more times until he forgets how to put the mask back on.
And then he stops thinking, because thinking is dangerous, and he still has gods know how many more Sundays to get through.
—
Every morning starts the same.
He wakes up in the hotel bed. Sunday, July 9th, 2023. The ceiling is the same ceiling, the light through the curtains is the same light, that specific English morning grey that never fully commits to being either overcast or clear, just sits there being ambiguous. His phone says 7:14. It always says 7:14. He's stopped finding this notable.
He is Max Verstappen, Red Bull Racing, current Drivers' Championship leader by—he does the math automatically, the way you check a clock without deciding to—81 points. Pole position yesterday, his fifth consecutive. The RB19 is the best car on the grid by a margin that has stopped being interesting to discuss and become simply the condition of the sport, like the weather, the thing that's just true. His teammate Checo qualified fifteenth. Again. Five consecutive Q3 exits now for the man sharing the best car in Formula One, which is the kind of statistic that would be a crisis on any other team and at Red Bull is just a Tuesday. Or a Sunday. It's always Sunday.
He showers. Gets dressed. Goes through the motions of being a person who is experiencing this day for the first time.
The walk to the paddock is a study in repetition.
Same security guard checking his pass. Same cluster of fans by the gate, waving the same Dutch flags, wearing the same orange shirts. Same middle-aged man with the same camera asking if he'll sign the same photo from last year's win. Max signs it. He's signed it one hundred and fifty times. The man's face lights up the same way every single time. Max wonders what it would feel like to be that consistently happy about anything.
The paddock opens up before him, and fuck, Silverstone really is something else.
It's one of those circuits that makes you understand the full scale of the circus. The main straight could fit a small village. The grandstands climb toward the sky like they're trying to reach god. And the people, there are so many of them. A hundred and sixty thousand, give or take, crammed into every available space, waving flags and wearing merch and shouting themselves hoarse for drivers who will never know their names.
Most of them aren't here for him.
Max has made peace with this. He's been making peace with it for years. The British crowd loves their British heroes, and right now that means Lando and Lewis. Max is just the guy who happens to be fastest. He’s at best the villain in their story and at worst that one piece of furniture everyone wants to get rid of but can’t.
The one driver they boo during the driver presentations.
He doesn't mind. Really. The boos have become background noise at this point. Like the engines or the helicopter overhead.
He walks in the Red Bull motorhome, nods at the familiar faces, takes his usual seat. His trainer is already there with the warm-up routine. Same stretches. Same activation drills. Same encouraging words about "today's the day" as if any of these days are different from the last one hundred and forty-nine.
GP appears with a tablet full of data. They go through the strategy.
"Forecast is damp but not enough for inters. Should stay dry enough for slicks throughout."
Max nods. He knows. He's known for one hundred and fifty Sundays.
"Qualifying was strong. Pole by three-tenths. Checo—" GP pauses, the diplomatic pause he always does when discussing Max's teammate. "Checo's P15. He's struggling with the balance."
Max nods again. Checo is always struggling with the balance. The RB19 is a monster that only Max can truly tame, and every loop he watches his teammate qualify fifteenth and thinks about how lonely it is at the top when there's no one to share the view.
"Any thoughts on the start?" GP asks.
Max almost laughs. Thoughts on the start. He's done this start so many times he tried every variation—aggressive, conservative, somewhere in between. He knows exactly how Lando will launch, exactly where the gap will appear, exactly when to close it.
"Standard," he says. "Cover the inside. Let Lando burn his tyres trying to keep up."
GP nods, makes a note. Max watches him write and thinks about how GP doesn't remember any of the previous one hundred and forty-nine times they've had this exact conversation.
No one does.
The drivers' briefing is the same circus it always is.
Same room. Same white chairs. Same stewards at the front looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Same drivers filtering in, grabbing the same spots. Lewis in the front row, Lando somewhere in the middle making jokes, Checo in the corner looking like he's already resigned himself to another Sunday fighting from the back.
Someone asks about track limits. Someone else asks about the new curbing at Copse. The stewards give the same answers they always give. It's like watching a recording. Max could mouth along with every word.
Then the engineering meeting, which is also a formality.
Final strategy. Tyre choices. Pit windows. All of it is locked in, even when it's all pointless when your car can pull a gap big enough that you can literally do whatever you want. Max could pit on lap one and still win. Could start from the pit lane and still win. Has, actually. Loop eighty-three. Just to see if he could.
He could.
The meeting ends. GP claps him on the shoulder. "Good luck out there."
Max nods. "Thanks."
He's said that one hundred and fifty times too.
The drivers' parade is the one part of the day Max genuinely enjoys.
They've got something special, the pre-war Grand Prix cars, the kind that look more like motorcycles with extra wheels than actual racing machines. Each driver gets their own car, driven by someone else, and they're paraded around the circuit while the crowd goes wild.
Max's driver is Gerry.
Gerry's a retired mechanical engineer, somewhere in his seventies, with a magnificent white mustache and the kind of enthusiasm that hasn't dimmed in fifty years. He collects pre-war cars, restores them himself, knows everything about every nut and bolt in the machine they're sitting in.
They've had this conversation one hundred and fifty times.
Max loves it every single time.
"So," Gerry says as they putter along, the car making sounds that haven't been heard on a racetrack in ninety years, "what do you think? Handling to your standards?"
Max grins. It's the same joke. He delivers the same response. "Where's the radio button?"
Gerry taps the side of his head. "Up here. You shout very loudly and hope the universe hears you."
"Brake bias?"
"Your right foot and a prayer."
Max laughs. Actually laughs. It's the same laugh he's had one hundred and fifty times, but it's real every single time because Gerry is real in a way nothing else in this loop is. Gerry doesn't know he's repeating himself, but Gerry's joy is genuine, and Max has learned to treasure genuine wherever he can find it.
They putter past a grandstand.
The boos start.
Max ignores them. He's been ignoring them for one hundred and fifty parades. But Gerry glances over, mustache twitching.
"Bit noisy today," he says mildly.
Max shrugs. "Comes with the territory."
"Doesn't make it right." Gerry pats the steering wheel. "In my day, we cheered for everyone. Didn't matter what flag you flew. If you were brave enough to get in one of these death traps, you deserved respect."
"Things change."
"They do." Gerry looks at him and for a moment Max feels seen in a way he hasn't felt in—how long? "But some things shouldn't. You're a hell of a driver, son. Don't let the noise tell you different."
Max doesn't know what to say. He's heard this one hundred and fifty times. It hits him differently every single drive.
"Thanks, Gerry."
Gerry winks. "Now hold on. I'm going to take this corner at an absolutely reckless fifteen miles per hour."
Max laughs again. The boos fade behind them.
The parade ends. Gerry drives off with a wave, already forgetting Max exists, already resetting for the next loop's conversation.
Max heads back to the motorhome. Prepares for the race. The rituals are automatic now—suit, gloves, helmet, the walk to the grid, the national anthem, the moments of silence before the chaos begins.
He lines up on pole. Lando's beside him. Lewis somewhere behind. Checo's buried in the midfield where he always is.
The lights go out.
He has fixed his start.
It took five attempts—maybe ten, he was less methodical in the early days—but he has it now. The bite point, the clutch release, the precise timing of the getaway that means Lando Norris does not get a run on him into the first corner. Lando is fast off the line. Max is faster, now, because he's had enough attempts to map the exact sequence. He doesn't get jumped. He doesn't spend four laps watching the McLaren ahead of him while the crowd loses its mind. The race starts the way it should start: Max first, everyone else behind, the gap opening steadily through the opening stint.
The first few laps are damp but drying. No need for special tyres. Max builds a gap. Watches the battles behind him in his mirrors. Lando and Lewis and Oscar trading positions, fighting for scraps, completely unaware that the outcome is already written.
Lap thirty-two. Kevin Magnussen's Haas catches fire.
Max sees the smoke before the marshals do. He's been waiting for it. Virtual safety car, then full safety car. He pits. Fresh tyres. Emerges still in the lead while the rest of the field scrambles.
The restart is chaos. It always is. Lewis jumps someone—usually Oscar, sometimes George—and the order reshuffles. By the time it settles, the podium is set.
Max. Lando. Lewis.
One hundred and forty-nine times now. One hundred and fifty after today.
He crosses the line. Takes the chequered flag. Does the cool-down lap on autopilot.
Parc fermé.
He pulls in, kills the engine, and looks at the P2 board.
Lando. Of course.
He looks at the P3 board.
And stops.
It's not Lewis.
It's Oscar.
Oscar Piastri, the quiet rookie, the one who usually—always—gets jumped by Lewis in the safety car chaos, is standing next to his car with that polite half-smile, looking confused and pleased and slightly overwhelmed all at once.
Max stares at him.
Lewis didn't jump him. Lewis didn't make the move. For the first time in one hundred and fifty loops, something changed.
Oscar looks up. Catches Max staring. Tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to figure out why the two-time world champion is staring at him.
Max doesn't look away.
Something is different.
Something finally is different.