bettttchya thought i was gonna write about a crash, huh. THINK AGAIN. i STAY unpredictable. y'all could make a hundred guesses what i'm doing for the summer break free space and i guarantee you'll all be wrong.
mostly below the cut
(also fun fact this is my 100th work in this fandom! time to retire)
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Papa doesn't let you own a phone.
Who would you call anyway?, he asks. And he doesn't like you having friends, so you can't tell him you'd like to give your number to the other kids at the track. And he doesn't like you calling Mama, so you can't tell him that you'd call home. (Not that you call it home anymore.) And when he leaves you on the side of the road alone, he doesn't like you asking for help. You're only ever separated from him if it's on purpose, and so you can't tell him it's in case of emergency.
You have a landline at home, but you know he checks the call history to make sure you aren't calling people you aren't supposed to. (Which is anyone at all.)
(One time, when Papa was out of the house late, drinking, the phone rang and rang and rang. And the pit inside your stomach grew and grew and grew until the voice in your head saying that Papa was dead and they were calling to tell you that you're half orphaned, now, was too loud and you just had to pick up.
Two days later, Papa had twisted your arm behind your back and demanded to know who you'd given his number to. He'd kept twisting when you told the truth—that it had been a very insistent telemarketer—and he'd slammed your head into the wall when you told a lie.)
You never ever use the landline to call your friends, or your mama, even though you want to—sometimes, so badly it hurts. Once in a while, you risk scrounging up change and using the payphone near school to call Mama; most of the time you just suck it up until Papa lets you see her again.
Temporarily easing the ache in your chest is not worth the risk of getting the landline unplugged. There's always a whisper in the back of your mind telling you that you may need it in case of a real emergency someday.
You still haven't figured out what that emergency is. Maybe if Papa gets hurt bad enough to need an ambulance, or if he doesn't come home for a few days, or if the house is silent and you go into his room and you can't wake him up.
In any case, you know it would only be if something happened to Papa. If you were the one hurt bad, then he'd call the ambulance for you.
And if he didn't—if he said that you deserved to take it and bleed—then you would.
Even if the phone was clutched tight in your hand and your papa was nowhere in sight, you would never be able to force your bloody fingers to dial.
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Lunch
Lunch is a messy affair. Max doesn’t want help anymore and GP won’t force him to be helped even if it would make things neater and quicker. He handles it the best really. He doesn’t fall apart at the reality that this is Max now. This is who he is. A boy who cannot feed himself but wants to try. And really wasn’t that always who he was. A boy always wanting to try. Try harder, work harder, do better. So while the others are disheartened to see their capable, independent friend/brother/son unable to bring a fork to his mouth without dropping food everywhere and making a mess of his face, GP is hopeful. Max isn’t giving up. He never did after all. He’s trying harder, working harder, doing better. Getting better. There is probably some maximum amount of better for him. The doctors have said so, but then again his lad has shattered expectations before hasn’t he. And anyway, GP doesn’t really need him to be anything more than alive and trying and happy. He takes a bite of his sandwich and doesn’t reach forward to rearrange the one in Max’s hand that is parting like a bad card trick. When Max looks up he only has a slice of bread and a wiggly tomato in his hand. His eyes are wide, GP pauses for a moment before cracking into a grin because Max is laughing. They both laugh and the room feels warm and comfortable even if it is a room where a lot of sadness has happened. Max is happy and trying and oh so alive. Lunch is a messy affair, but so is life. GP will take what he can get.
There is a river near where he grew up. It as very popular with fisherman and birdwatchers. Most days the banks of the Zanderbeek hosted groups fishing or relaxing. Max had been wanting to go for weeks and weeks after overhearing kids at the track talking about going fishing with their families. Every time he brought it up to papa there had been important karting things to do. He wanted to do those things of course, but he also wanted to go fishing. He didn’t know much about what that meant. Somehow you did something with a fishing pole and you caught a fish and you got to see the fish up close. Maybe they would keep it in a fish bowl like a small pet since he couldn’t have the cats and dogs at papa’s house. Finally almost out of nowhere the chance came. Papa had to go away on some business to get parts for the karts and Max was allowed to stay with his mama. When he mentioned wanting to fishing his Opa Robert looked excited and just a day later they were heading to the banks of the Zanderbeek, a brand new fishing pole resting on Max’s shoulder.
The excitement was pretty short lived. After the novelty of learning how the pole worked, fishing turned out to be mostly sitting and waiting. Max was not, in fact, a sitting and waiting sort of person it turned out. “When do we catch the fish Opa?” He asked for the tenth time. His grandfather sighed and explained again patiently. The words were no sooner out of his mouth that Max’s line began to tug the pole bending it toward the water. “Opa! Opa! I got a fish.” They were both laughing and out of breath by the time they got the line reeled in and the fish was on the bank flopping around. And in an instant the exhilaration dropped out of the boy. He watched it twitching and flopping and then stop mouth gulping over and over, eyes looking blankly up at him. “No! No! Opa save him. Opa please.” He cried inconsolably as the old man unhooked the fish and tossed it back into the water. He wrapped his arms around Max and shushed him gently. “It’s okay Kleinzoon. The fish is alright. You are alright.” Eventually his tears slowed and stopped and he began to feel very foolish. He was not supposed to cry. Papa wouldn’t like that at all. “Don’t tell Papa. Okay?” The man promised him he would not, but also told him that there was nothing at all for him to be ashamed of. “I will not tell him, but don’t forget that you cried for the fish Max. That is good. It is good to cry for the helpless. It is good to cry for those who are hurt and those weaker than ourselves. That is good. Please don’t change Kleinzoon. Always be ready to cry for the fish.”
Hello! If you feel like it, can you do GP pov on chapter 16 of dwtd on the time that Max went missing? I'm kinda curious how GP felt, thinking that you said that GP saw that Max was hanging on by a thread.
Max's stuff is still on his hotel room. Maybe not all of it, but a lot of it. It's sitting there. Taunting him. Because the stuff is here but Max is not.
Rupert elbows past him, checking the bathroom first, going through the drawers like he's looking for something.
GP can't breathe.
Max is gone. Max is gone.
I'm just tired. I need it all to stop.
The words echo in his head.
But everything hasn't stopped. Everything had gotten louder. Worse.
And now Max's driver's room was destroyed. His hotel wasn't cleaned out. And Max was gone.
He could be dead.
He could have-
Normally he'd say no. Normally he'd say that Max wouldn't do that. Not them. Not to him. But right now? He didn't know. He truly didn't.
Yesterday when Max had cried when he's finally broken down and cried GP had known they needed to talk. Really actually talk. But he'd pushed it off. Waited. He shouldn't have. He's waited too long. He could tell Max was suffering. Hed given him space instead of pushing. He'd made the wrong call. Called the wrong strategy. And now-
Not going to tag this because I'm hoping just my followers will see so I don't embarrass myself to the wider world lol. I posted something that was to be honest anti lando norris. I got a response from an ln fan and they weren't happy. Fair enough. Though I did make the caveat of saying there were things to love about all drivers and also pointed out that LN came around quicker than some. Anyway none of that is important. I didn't respond and just blocked them because honestly tumblr is where I come for a comforting echo chamber. But now I'm doubting myself. Was this bad tumblr etiquette? I mean they have a right to counter me since I made a specifically anti post about their fav. So help an old lady out. Is that inappropriate or is it cool to just be kinda rude and block them.
The pettiness continues. (Also sorry to my mutuals who love these drivers. I'm just a little miffed at the moment. There are still reasons to love all of the drivers.)
Lando Norris February 2026
Lando Norris March 2026
I will give Lando the credit that he turned around quicker than a lot of others, but his initial statement, joking or not, was arguably one of the crueler ones to Max on a personal level.
This is going to be petty of me and not very nice at all, but in the spirit of Callum Nichols... yeah fuck em.
Carlos Sainz in February 2026
Carlos Sainz in July 2026
What exactly didn't waiting get ya? I think it can be argued that it was Max complaining publicly is what's getting you the small changes for next year. Imagine if he'd stayed quiet and 'prefered to wait'. Well in that scenario I think only now would there be any real push on the FOM and FIA and there wouldn't be any plans for next year at all.
Ugh. Sometimes it just doesn't flow at all and you want to chuck it at a wall. But still 32 days and counting of just writing and posting and not worrying about good or bad.
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Money
It had never been about the money. He’d been born very fortunate. He probably could have become a bus driver just like his father had taunted him about and he’d still been alright. Not rich like he is now, obviously. But he came into this world well set to be secure in those respects.
It had never been about the money. It had been about reaching for the dream. It had costs actually. Losing weekends to practice at the track. Losing his mother and sister to the grind of always travelling here and there and everywhere, race after race. Losing his childhood far too early. But through it all he never lost himself. Never. Because part of who he was was this dream, was racing. When you’re 10, 12, even 16 and driving in Formula 3 it’s not about the money. It’s about the dream.
It had never been about the money. It had been about respect. In this world what you are paid is what they think you are worth. If he let himself be undervalued in one way, they would undervalue him in others. He made them money after all. He made them money hand over fist. There are names painted on the cars that are there because of him. There were prizes won on the back of his drive to win and win and win again. So paying him was the respect he was due.
It had never been about the money. It had been about the racing. Having more money meant you could take care of your family and keep them safe and secure for life, but it also meant having enough to pour into your passion. The money he earned in Formula One were making his GT3 a reality. He was building his own team with his own people and he was doing it his own way with his own money. Yeah, it wasn’t great if Chris crashed or if something on the car broke. That was fine. He would pay for new parts and they would go again. And again and again. Because that was love. Why didn’t anyone else get that.
I have survived another day of teaching a group of 20 seven to fourteen year olds tap dance. If by survive you mean I have lost all sense of what rhythm is and perhaps have profound deafness. Two more days. Just two more days.
Thought this paragrapgh I found when reading up on the Cassandra Complex was very interesting:
More than just a tale of unheeded prophecy, however, Cassandra’s myth serves as a timeless allegory for the profound dangers of ignoring dissenting voices, the corrupting influence of power, and the harrowing struggle for truth in the face of societal indifference
This really does sum up the situation in F1 right now. The Cassandra Complex is way deeper than just the story of Cassandra in mythology. I feel a whole ass rant bubbling inside but lucky for y'all I'm at work. But I'll leave with 3 concepts from it:
Systemic Disbelief: This most often refers to marginalized groups not being believed when they correctly see where things are going (in the US we see this waaaay too much) but can also refer to an outgroup dissenting from the desires of the whole
Interpersonal Gaslighting: 'He's just complaining because he's not winning' 'Nough said there I think
Burden of Foresight: Just gonna copy this straight psychology website- People with high intuition or deep analytical skills can recognize behavioral or structural patterns faster than others. Forecasting an impending failure in a relationship, a company restructuring, or a larger societal issue and being unable to prevent it can lead to intense isolation and emotional fatigue.
i do find it utterly hilarious they changed the sporting guidelines after max supposedly terrorized them so then they made it practically impossible to overtake from the outside and now another guy has the nerve to also utilize the guidelines as they're written they're mad again it's not what they want
maybe we shouldn't put it up to the drivers how about that? they're all extremely selfish individuals who want priority you can criticize governing bodies as much as you want but at the end of the day these little changes that make racing worse are requested by the very same people complaining about them
yes i knowwww that max had friends. but i wanted to write angstttt.
(i also know that some of these commas are incorrect but that's because sometimes punctuation is a vibe)
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Max doesn't have a lot of friends.
Not that he wants a lot of friends. At the track, and on vacations, he has Stan, and he has Jorrit, and it's easy, with them, because he always knows what to say, because they know each other, and because they always talk about things he knows about. And sometimes they don't talk, they just put their helmets on and drive; or they just sit in silence together in the backseat, and that's nice as well.
And at school, he has Rik and Ilse, and Max can't talk about karting with them, really—not like he can with Stan and Jorrit—but that's okay, because they eat lunch together, and they talk about this and that. Papa doesn't really like when Max goes to their houses, and Max doesn't like to bring them over to his, so he doesn't get to spend much time with them outside of school, but that's okay, because most of the time, when Max isn't actively at school, he's at the track. Or he's sleeping.
Max doesn't have a lot of friends, but he has people to spend time with, when he has time to spend, and that's enough for him.
Sure, when it's a race weekend, and the Pexes aren't there, or they're busy with their own race preparations, Max sometimes wishes he had someone to talk to other than his father. He used to be able to talk to his mama about all the little things his father doesn't care to hear about, but she doesn't come to his races very often anymore—not unless they're close to home and his father agrees to it.
Sometimes, Max has a slice of downtime, when the kart is ready to go but the track is still occupied by another division, and, if his father is in a good enough mood to let him, he wanders around the circuit grounds. And he passes by other karters' tents, and other families in the stands. And he passes by other kids in half-undone racesuits, sleeves hanging by their sides, and they're standing side-by-side near the track, watching the race, or they're standing by the row of tents, chatting, or they're running around in the grass, kicking a ball back and forth.
And he's the only one who's alone.
In theory, it should be easier to make friends with his fellow karters than it is to make friends with the kids at school. They have common ground, common interests. They may not see each other every day, but they see each other often enough.
But Max never approaches the boys by the race track, the ones chatting by the tents, or those kicking a ball in the grass. Every time he considers it, his heart leaps into his throat, and his fingers go all shaky like they never do in the kart. Even in his head, when he walks up to say hi, his eyes are fixed on the ground and his voice is quiet, and his hands are shoved into his pockets.
People already don't like him. He doesn't need to embarass himself on top of it.
And he doesn't even want a lot of friends. He has the Pexes, and he has his friends at school, and it's not scary to approach them, and it's not scary to laugh loud and look them in the face, because he knows that they'll smile when he does.
None of the other kids ever smile at him. The kids at school don't really notice him at all, and the kids he karts with certainly do, but they only ever sneer.
Max wonders if losing so often makes people meaner. He certainly feels bitter and angry on the occasions he doesn't end on the top step, and some of the people he races against never win. And none of them win as often as he does.
Sometimes, Max wonders if that's what happened to his papa. That back when he was younger, racing karts, and winning all the time, like he tells stories about to Max, he was happy and kind. And that's why his mama loved him. But then Formula One came, and with it, the losing, and the losing, and the losing.
Uncle Michael always used to win instead. And he's one of the nicest people Max knows.
Max doesn't think of himself as nice, necessarily, but he doesn't yell at the other karters and try to trip them and laugh when they crash.
Maybe, if he wins enough, he can get to Formula One, and he can win there too, and the joy will be so strong that everyone around him feels it too. His papa will smile, and he'll clap Max on the back, and he'll say, well done, and he'll say, I'm proud of you. And Max will go back to his mama, and to Vic, and he'll say, look, it was all worth it, because I'm good enough, now, and this time, you'll want me to stay. And people will smile when they look at him, and he'll be able to smile back.
Sometimes, Max thinks about that, when he walks the circuit grounds alone, the sound of engines and laughter in the air. But he's not dumb. He knows winning isn't magic. And he knows the other karters don't hate him because of their losses alone.
But it's okay. Max doesn't want a lot of friends anyway.
This is not referring to Lily. It exists in a story that I have basically abandoned.
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Spring
He holds her gently against his chest, looking at her tiny head, tiny hands as he stands on the balcony. Maybe the breeze off the Mediterranean is too harsh. Should he bring her inside? It’s Springtime though and the air is neither too hot nor too cold. It’s completely mad that they’ve let him just bring her home. Showed him how to hold her while feeding her bottle. Showed him all of the things that he’s already spent months reading and watching videos about. Sure, he knows what to do as a general thing, but… but she’s so tiny, so helpless. How could they have just let him leave with her? She’s depending on him and what if he… She squeaks and squirms and starts to cry in his arms. She’s freshly fed, burped, and has a clean pamper. Lord, what is he forgetting. He shifts her so that she is cradled in his arms and can see up into his face. “Papa’s here. Papa’s here. It’s quite scary of course. You were all safe and warm weren’t you and now you’re here with me. But I will keep you safe too.” She blinks, hiccups, squirms some more, turning in and fisting at his shirt before settling down and closing her eyes. He smiles and pretends that there aren’t tears in his eyes. It’s Springtime the air is neither too hot nor too cold. It’s Springtime and it is a new beginning because he is home with his baby. She’s his and he is hers and they are going to be just fine.
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