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Max is holding his breath, ready for take-off; awaiting the call. Two slightly trembling hands wrapped around the steering wheel, muscles taut and tense. Fingers tapping against metal rhythmically. His heart is racing and he’s trying to clear his mind because there can’t be any distraction right now. Max is on pole position, and he knows he can’t afford to screw this up. Deep breath in. Ready.
The piercing shrill of a whistle cuts through the air, and they’re off. The red mist descends on them and Max instantly reacts—always does, those reflexes in him; and—
He loses it. Panic sets in and it’s as if someone dumped a bucket of adrenaline into his bloodstream, sending it coursing through his veins. More than anything else— Max knows that he’s already fucked up and he knows Papa’s going to be mad at him regardless of whether he wins or not. Tunnel vision. That’s the thing he fears most; but he should probably focus on regaining the lead right now. He swallows, grips the steering wheel tighter and makes every turn; sharp and smooth and most of all, efficient. Commands the car to his will and fuses with it, dancing with it. He’s in the zone now and no one can stop him from winning. His heart thrums against his chest.
And then on lap two, he fucks up. Again. Attempted a kamikaze manoeuvre that ended up being unsuccessful and he instinctively winces as the kart sends itself to the wall, bracing for impact and mentally preparing himself for the lecture Papa’s inevitably going to give him later.
Max can feel himself tearing up, thinks to himself; No. You can’t let yourself cry. Control yourself. But the waterworks can’t stop, and before Max knows it, tears are streaming down his face. He rubs a hand against his face, wipes the tears away. Can’t let anyone see it.
Max draws in a short breath. “Papa,” He croaks through his tears in attempt to make conversation.
Papa doesn’t reply.
“Papa, we have to go and pick up the chassis because it's the last race of the day.” He tries instead. This time it actually gets him a response; and Hey! It’s not so bad, progress is being made!
“No, I'm not going. If you want your chassis, you have to go and get it yourself.”
Nevermind then.
Max takes one look at Papa and can tell by the gloomy expression he’s wearing that Papa is in no mood to talk to him, forget about helping Max load the kart into the van. He finds someone else to do it for him eventually. The rainy weather seems to complement his mood, because it’s pouring like cats and dogs right now.
On the ride home, he tries to talk to Papa again; once, twice, fifteen times; but to no avail. Come the sixteenth time, Papa speaks up. “Don't speak to me. I'm really fed up with it and disappointed with the way you were racing. Please, don't speak.”
And that shatters Max’s little heart. Red and bloodied, knives and nails stuck into arteries. He goes quiet and doesn’t speak any more. He watches as Papa pulls over to the side of the road, pulling the handbrake and demands for him to get out.
“Get out.” Just those two words, stern tone dripping with apathy. It makes Max tremble, turn into that scared five year old boy every time. His heart drops. But he acquiesces anyways, drags his body out of the van and slides open the door, steps out, closes it again, the click of the door locking into place reverberating through the air and now he’s stuck. Outside. Again.
It’s not that big of a deal, to be honest— he’s faced this exact situation before (see: fuel station), and he knows exactly how to deal with it each time: Wait. Or walk home. So he stands at the curb, hands stuffed in the pockets of his race suit. Max blinks as he watches the van peel away, the silhouette slowly shrinking in size until it seems to disappear. He knows it’ll be a long wait until he eventually gets home, because that's what Papa usually does. He sighs, glances around, starts to walk the long way home.
He soon finds himself along a desolate road, getting rained on. His sodden golden racing boots squelch with each step he takes. Like the rest of him, they're soaked through completely and drenched. He's not entirely sure where home is, but he knows that it’s in this general direction.
It could be worse, he thinks to himself, because it really could be worse. Papa could’ve hit his helmet again. Could’ve slapped him. But he didn’t, so Max is counting that as a minor win. Even if he’ll never make Papa proud of him.
At some point the adrenaline wears off and gives way to the solemn monotony of walking; he's been doing so for ten minutes in the vague direction of home, despite knowing that said home is probably locked and empty and full of screams. They haunt. He wonders if he might still be able to get in through the second-storey window, but he hasn't tried that since he was like, twelve, and he'll probably get stuck now that he actually has shoulders. He keeps walking without looking up, his eyes focused on the wet ground, dragging waterlogged boots as they continue to tramp through the puddles. He spends the most part of his walk pouring over what he could’ve done better, what he could’ve improved on, what he could’ve done—but ultimately didn’t.
He walks and walks and walks until he finds himself at a bus stop. At least there’s shelter to be found. It’s mostly empty, he takes note as his eyes scan the area; maybe one or two strangers here.
And then he notices. Swivels his head around to check if his eyes are deceiving him, because it can’t be—
Is that—?
Yes, indeed it is. There’s absolutely no doubt about it, it’s Sebastian-fucking-Vettel.
It’s Sebastian Vettel. It really is him. It can’t be him and yet it is. What, why, how even? But he must be staring either too hard or too long because suddenly Sebastian’s approaching him and Max freezes, doesn’t know what to say— what is he supposed to say, even? Hello, I am a huge fan of yours or Can I get an autograph or Can you drive me home? But the bigger, more important, question is really: What the hell are you doing at a random bus station in Italy at 8 PM at night?
Max wants to ask, but figures it would be a bit too direct and perhaps even rude, so he settles for silence instead. And he’s snapped out of whatever reverie he’s in by the sound of Sebastian talking to him.
“Hello?” Sebastian greets.
Max swallows the lump that’s rising in his throat. He opens his mouth to reply and finds that it’s completely dry.
“Hi,” Max replies, rushed and slight panic in his voice. “I am sorry for staring. I was just surprised to see you here of all places,” He says, gesturing around at the empty bus station around them.
Sebastian chuckles, a soft smile forming on his face. “It’s okay. People do that.” He reassures. “So, what are you doing out here all by yourself, kid?”
Max stills. Thinks about it for a moment.
“I crashed out today during a race,” He shrugs, shoulders still unconsciously flexed and tense. “It would have, of course, not been that bad, but I started from pole position and lost three places in the first turn. So I was desperate and needed to regain the lead again. But I crashed.” He elaborates. “So now I am walking home myself.”
Sebastian raises a brow in concern. This is… slightly concerning, he thinks, but chooses not to comment. He’s wondering what on earth why this child would have to walk home himself—what form of cruel punishment is this? Why would any parent in their right mind do this?
“Do you need help?” He decides to ask.
“No.” Max refuses, stuffs his hands further into his pockets. “I can get home myself.”
“It is raining,” Sebastian comments. “and you are drenched. Is there anyone who can pick you up?”
Max sighs. “Yes. It is raining. But I have to get home. Papa will not pick me up and Mama is probably too busy to pick me up. I cannot call anyone as I do not have a telephone on me, and I do not want to force Mama to drive all the way out here. I do not want to make her worry about me. So I am walking home. I do not need help, but thank you for offering.”
Sebastian, at this point, is more than concerned about this entire situation. He can’t, in good conscience leave this kid alone, let alone abandon him without at least trying to help him. Whatever plans he had before be damned, they’re getting thrown out of the window now.
“Why are you here?” Max asks him out of the blue.
Sebastian thinks about it. “I’m waiting for a friend.” Pauses, then continues. “Do you want to use my phone to call someone?”
Max seems to hesitate before replying. “Okay.”
Sebastian fishes his phone from his bag, passes it to Max. The latter dials a number, lets the ring of the call tone sound through the air, cut through it like a knife.
“Mama?,” Max says. There’s an inaudible sound which Sebastian can only assume is the voice of the boy’s mother, so he sits at the side and waits for Max to finish whatever conversation he’s having.
“Okay. Dank je, Mama.”
Max hands the phone back to Sebastian. “Thank you,” he says, half out of obligation and half out of genuine gratitude.
“Mama says she will pick me up in five hours. She is driving over now.” Max takes a seat on the bench, head resting in his hands. He’s got his fingers drumming against either side of his hip and seems to be lost in thought. Sebastian, noticing this, attempts to strike up a conversation.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Max.” The boy replies.
Are you a racer, Sebastian wants to ask, but the answer seems pretty obvious: the race suit he’s donning and the thing he mentioned earlier about crashing out—yeah, that can only point towards one thing. He tries again.
“So, do you want to be a Formula One driver?”
Max shrugs “I, of course, want to be a Formula One driver. Everyone wants to be one. So do I. I think it is very impressive, what you do.” He points at Sebastian.
“Thank you.” He accepts. “So, do you want any help on improving, race-wise?”
“Sure.” They spend the next part of 2 hours talking about where Max could’ve done better, where he could’ve changed his actions; less emotion, more mechanics. Sebastian’s not sure what to make of Max, wants to push the issue of his father, but hesitates a little. Doesn’t want to scare him off.
The rain seems to clear a little after a while.
“Does your father always do this?” He decides to test the waters instead, see how Max responds and then take it from there.
Max ponders over the question. “Sometimes. If I do bad at a race I get punished, which I think is fair.”
It is not fair in the slightest, Sebastian thinks to himself, but doesn't say anything. “Okay, I understand.”
“It is a bit harsh, though, in my opinion,” He says. “I think there are better ways to teach you.”
Defensively, Max retorts. “It’s not harsh. The punishment is okay because it will help me in the long run.” Okay then. It seems that he’s a bit touchy on the subject. He’ll just have to divert the conversation, then.
“Do you want to grab something to eat?” Sebastian offers. “I am going to the convenience store besides the fuel station. Feel free to come with me if you want.” He turns away and starts walking. Max follows suit, because there’s not really much else to do when you’re 100 miles from home and you’ve got nothing else to do but wait for Mama to pick you up.
They enter the store at 10 PM, and Sebastian is starving at this point. So is Max. He heads for the food aisle and starts looking for anything that looks edible, appealing enough to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Max eyeing the tomato soup.
“Do you want anything?” He asks. “It’s on me.”
Max looks at him apologetically. “No, it is okay.”
But you must be starving, Sebastian thinks. “I insist.”
“Do you like tomato soup?”
Max startles at that question, but nods his head. “Yes. It is my favourite.” Okay. He’s definitely getting it, then. They check out and head back outside. Sitting on the bench munching on food that’ll at least, hopefully, sustain them for the next two or so hours.
In attempt to make conversation, Sebastian speaks in between bites of food, “The fact that you were on pole position is impressive in itself. You may have crashed, but you should not be too affected by this.”
“Thanks,” Max says, and Sebastian gets the feeling that he’s being insincere with his words. He ignores the thought. He hopes that wasn’t the wrong thing to say to Max. “But I should have won and I did not. I think that is no reason to be happy with myself.”
“It helps to look on the bright side of things.” He supplies.
“Papa would not be proud of me for crashing. I would not be proud of myself either. It doesn’t matter if I was starting from P1 or P20. A crash is a crash.”
Again with the father issue. Sebastian doesn’t get a good impression of Max’s father, and he hopes that nothing bad is happening at home. His hopes aren’t high, but regardless, he’s still holding out hope.
The sight of a car’s headlights and the sound of a car pulling in interrupts whatever conversation they’re having. It, evidently, is Max’s mother coming to pick him up, as she emerges from the car. She looks slightly dishevelled and seems to be wearing a look of something between concern and sadness on her face as she sets her eyes on Max.
“Dank je, Mama.”
Sebastian looks at Max’s mother. “Hello,” he greets. “I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Vettel. I accompanied Max while he was waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” She says in between breaths. “I cannot thank you enough for making sure he was safe. I’m Sophie.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sebastian pats Max’s shoulder, lets his fingers linger against the racing suit for just a second. Gives him a soft smile. Watches as Max steps into the van, peeling out of view.
He’ll miss Max.