Chapter Text
It had been a long time coming.
Ever since they had been in Karting, oh how he missed when they had been back in Karting.
Back when they were friends, back when they were Max-and-Charles instead of Max and Charles.
He could look back and remember those days clearly, as if they had been just yesterday, instead of years ago. He wondered if Charles remembered those days just as clearly, if he too mourned what had been lost, if he too wished it had been different.
He remembers one race in particular, Max had been p4 after a bad qualifying. He could still hear his father’s words as he climbed into the kart.
Disgraceful.
A waste of time and effort.
Can’t even get onto the podium, what good are you, then?
When the race began, the shouts were still ringing in his ears. He forced himself to focus, forced himself to see the other drivers not as fellows, or people, but only as competition. He made a gap between himself and those behind him, he was in P1, he had to be. After a few laps he saw a kart in his mirrors.
Number 16.
Leclerc.
Charles.
Charlie.
Max pushed it out of his mind, his father in his head.
Disgrace, a waste.
Should’ve invested in your sister instead.
He pushed the accelerator, Leclerc kept getting closer, right behind him.
Max’s world narrowed down to that moment, just 20 or so meters from the finish line, from finishing P1.
Leclerc passed him.
Max got P2. He didn’t win. His father wouldn’t look at him after that.
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On the podium, Leclerc smiled down at him from the top step.
Max couldn’t help but smile back, something akin to pride blooming in his chest, he was happy that Charles had won. That he himself had gotten 2nd so that he could share the podium with the wonder that was Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc. WIth the radiance that was his joy of winning pole.
How could that be?
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His father didn't speak to him.
The silence felt oppressive to Max, who kept his head down, not making eye contact and giving short answers to any and all questions.
Only when the day finished, and the two of them sat in the car, did Jos Verstappen speak.
“What was that?”
Max didn’t answer, his head hung low, helmet still on.
“Well?” his father demanded, voice rising, “Anything to say for yourself?”
Max couldn’t move, frozen in place. He needed out, needed for them to get back to the hotel. The trip there was maybe half an hour tops.
It felt like hours.
His father screamed at him the entire way.
“P2! P2! You think world champions get p2!? Do you?”
“Smiling on that podium like you got a ticket to F1, what was that all about? Huh?”
“Think you’ll get in with second place?”
“All you’ll end up being is a bus driver! Maybe you’ll get to drive that Leclerc around to his races.”
“What were you smiling at him for? Hope he’ll give you a second glance, want him to win?”
“Wanneer heb ik een flikker als zoon grootgebracht?”
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When they finally got to the hotel, Max shut himself in his room, helmet still on as he cried. Silent, so as to not give his father more to berate him over.
When his father knocked on the door, calling him for dinner, Max had changed into other clothes, the helmet still on.
He didn’t speak, picking at his food, he could feel his father’s eyes on him.
“Zet je helm af en eet, of blijf honger lijden.”
Max didn’t move to take off the helmet, it felt safe, he couldn’t hurt him while he had the helmet on.
With the helmet on, he was on the track, not with his father.
With the helmet on, he was Max Verstappen, the best of the best.
With the helmet on, he was something to be proud of.
With the helmet on, he was safe.
“Ga dan maar met honger,” his father said, “Waarom zou het me iets kunnen schelen? Jij bent mijn zoon niet.”
Max never really smiled after that, certainly not at Charles.
There was a question he kept caged away, never to see the light of day.
Did he ever have a dad? Or just a father?
He never quite felt like a son after that.