okay so you know that clip of max talking about hammering down a door to free one of his cats who had gotten stuck in there? (link)
yeah. that.
1.5k; mostly below the cut.
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Max hasn't seen Sassy since this morning.
She'd eaten her breakfast the moment he'd placed it out, like always, then had wound through his legs, purring in thanks, before slinking off elsewhere.
Jimmy had jumped up onto the table once he was done eating, which Max has been trying to train him out of—without much luck, because it's always his first instinct to run a hand along his body before remembering to scold him. And even then, the extent of the scolding he can bring himself to do is to say, nee, kitty, as he carefully lifts Jimmy up and places him onto the ground.
Kelly always rolls her eyes at him, but it's with a smile on her lips, and, besides, she's no better at being strict herself.
After Jimmy had stopped trying to perch on every illegal surface in the kitchen and had run off into the other room, Max saw him sleeping on the couch when he went to run a few laps on his sim, and then, an hour later, he had migrated to sleep on a patch of sunlight on the floor.
When lunchtime rolls around, Jimmy streaks into the kitchen to wind around Max's feet and try to bribe him out of scraps of food and attention, but there's no paw reaching down to try and bap Max on the head when he opens the fridge to grab his lunch, and that's when he knows something is wrong.
Usually, during lunch, Sassy jumps her way up on top of the fridge and then watches Max eat unblinkingly, like some furry gargoyle. She, at least, knows that she's not supposed to be on the tables and countertops—not that that stops her from launching off from them on her way up to the top of the fridge, but at least she doesn't sit there and try to lick butter right off the stick or knock over every cup in sight like Jimmy does, so Max lets it slide.
Max asks Kelly if she's seen Sassy, and she asks if it was Sassy who had been snoozing in the sunlight.
Max shuts the fridge without grabbing his food and starts hunting through the apartment, making kissy sounds and listening intently for distressed meows.
--
When Max was young—maybe six or seven—his mama had taken Vic for a weekend-long trip to visit her parents, and Max's papa had said that he wasn't allowed to go because he had to practice his karting.
Max had been so angry with his papa that he decided he was going to hide and pretend he had run away. He crammed himself into the gap behind the big armchair in the corner of the living room (his best hiding spot in hide-and-seek) and waited for his papa to realize he was gone.
It was after sunset when he finally had to crawl out from his hiding place, stomach growling in hunger.
His papa hadn't so much as called his name.
--
It's not a huge apartment, so it doesn't take Max long to look under every piece of furniture and open most of the doors.
The closet door, however—the one in the hall—is stuck shut. When he calls Sassy's name and presses his ear to the wood, he can hear her mewling inside.
In maybe not the smartest move of all time, Max tells Sassy to move away, gets a grip on the handle, and slams his shoulder into the door to try to force it open, like they do in the movies. But all it accomplishes is a loud thump and a dull pain shooting up his arm.
Well, fuck. Whatever is jamming it shut must be a real heavy-hitter. He needs a new plan.
Kelly comes out of the kitchen to investigate the noise, and she suggests that they try to unscrew the door from its hinges.
It takes Max until he's found a screwdriver and is standing back in front of the door, staring at the closed seam which is obscuring the hinges entirely, for him to realize why it won't work.
He goes back to the other closet, the one they keep the tools in, and roots through all their equipment, trying to find anything that could work. He can't pick a lock because that's not the problem; the electric screwdriver isn't suddenly going to make it so that he can get to the screws. And what would he even do with a drill?
Kelly and P are finished with their lunch by now, so Max asks Kelly to take P to her bedroom and close the door so she won't be scared by the noise he's about to make. Asks her if she wouldn't mind wrangling Jimmy as well, because he's jumpy and prone to hiding under the couch every time so much as a breeze slams one of the doors shut.
Then Max stands next to the closet door, shakes himself out, and squeezes his eyes shut, bracing.
The door still hasn't budged an inch by the time Kelly is pulling him away from the door, hand on his elbow, begging him to stop before he hurts himself.
His arm is slightly tingly. His shoulder feels like—well, feels like he's been slamming it into a wall over and over.
Max rests his forehead against the door and says, "It's okay, kitty, I'll get you out."
And then he runs back to the tools closet.
--
Back when they were teammates, filming a silly little video for the media team, Daniel had jokingly pretended that he was going to stab a knife through Max's hand, and Max had recalled, with a laugh in his voice, how his father had done that, once, to a mechanic, with a fork.
He had seen the look on Daniel's face in the split second it took for him to wipe it away with a smile and another joke, and had reminded himself to never bring up what his father had done with the hammer.
--
Max has never wished more that he could actually communicate with his cats.
Sassy is trapped in there, alone, in the dark, the door shaking and splintering apart to the rhythm of thunder. And no matter how much he wants to tell her she's okay, she's safe, he's going to get her out, how could she know what his words mean?
He likes to think she understands him, mostly. She comes when he calls, if she's not being, well, sassy, and she plays gentle with P when he asks her to, and she doesn't eat from Jimmy's bowl when he tuts. And when she lies on his chest and he says, I love you, she buts the top of her head into his lips, asking for a kiss, and then licks her scratchy tongue across his cheek in return when he gives her one.
But actions speak louder than words, and he doesn't know how much I love you will mean when, right now, he's the big bad monster crashing against the walls.
It's okay. What's important is that she's safe. He'll work hard to earn back her trust. He'll show her again that his hands are gentle.
--
Usually, after bad races, Max knew to keep his head down and just take his father's anger.
But he had flubbed a qualifying just a week after his mama had left, and his papa was already angry enough, and when Max saw the look in his eye, the way his lips curled around his teeth—
Max locked himself in a portaloo and rode out the storm as his papa pounded, pounded, pounded at the door.
--
Max gets the hole just big enough to force his hand through through, scratches and splinters tearing their way up his forearm, and shoves the blockage—P's old crib, by the feel of it—away. It topples with a clatter, and he winces, hoping desperately that Sassy was smart enough to be nowhere near where it landed.
When he opens the door, he expects that Sassy will streak out between his legs and disappear under the couch, or even that he'll have to ask Kelly to go in and coax her out of whatever corner she's pressed herself into in fear.
Instead, she jumps straight into his arms, meowing loudly, claws tearing into his shoulder blade as she desperately clings on.
She nuzzles into his neck; buts up against his jaw. Against his chest, she purrs loudly.
--
In a few weeks, once the story becomes something funny instead of something frightening, Max will pull a leg up onto his chair and rock it back and forth as he recounts how he had to break down his own closet door to free his cat.
The chat will whizz past, but he'll ignore it, and his friends will tease him about being a door-destroyer, and he'll join in the fun.
All's well that ends well, after all. He has a spare door. His cat, though—she's irreplaceable.
--
Max wraps his arms around Sassy and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Whispers, I love you, into her fur.
worst thing i've ever written for the gbb weekly prompts but we roll
week 10: Feathers
yes, this is the fated wingfic
6k; mostly below the cut.
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Kimi knocks on the door twice. Sharp, confident; like he knows what he's doing.
It takes him a moment more to gather enough courage to open his mouth, but no words make it past his lips before Max is calling, "Come in!"
Kimi goes in.
He barely makes it a step into the room before he stops in his tracks, stunned. He stares open-mouthed at Max, whose back is turned to where Kimi's stuck standing in the doorway... Max, who's pulling a shirt over his head—dark blue, red bull team kit... Max, whose turned back shows... Who's pulling a shirt over his...
"Dio mio!"
Max whirls around at Kimi's voice, and Kimi sees the flash of terror in his eyes for just a split second.
Max finishes tugging down his shirt, harshly pulling at the hem. "You did not see that," he says. Words clipped short.
Kimi can't even play along. Can't find himself able to do anything but continue to gape. "Tu— Hai— Hai le ali!"
Max sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a breath.
"Close the door, please."
Kimi, somehow, manages to kick his brain into enough gear to blindly reach out a hand behind him. The door clicks shut.
"Do you think you are able to calm down enough to speak English? I do not know enough Italian to be talking about this."
Kimi hadn't even noticed he'd spoken in Italian. He furrows his brow and thinks the words through in English before saying them.
"You have wings."
Max sighs again. "Yes. You said."
"How do you have wings?"
Max levels an unimpressed look at him. "How do you have wings? I was, of course, born with them."
Kimi's own wings ruffle where they're pinned beneath his fireproofs.
"But you do not— For years have you been in Formula Uno, but nobody has been seeing them. Com'è possibile?"
Max runs a hand through his hair, breathing in deeply. He does it again, breathing out.
"Okay. Okay. Here is what we are going to do. You came here for some reason that was not to be talking about this. We are going to sit down—" he gestures, without looking, to the small sofa—" and you will tell me what it is you were thinking about. And then we will go from there. I am, of course, not going to be promising you that we will talk about this..." Max waves vaguely, gesturing at the space between them, when the real issue sits behind him. "This. But we will talk together and see. Okay?"
Kimi has finally gotten over his initial shock just enough to recognize how terrible a situation this is for Max, and how kind he's being to Kimi despite it. He could have yelled at Kimi; thrown him out. He probably should have—or, at least, Kimi wouldn't have blamed him if he had.
Kimi nods and vows to be as calm as possible. Make things as easy as he can for Max.
He moves towards the sofa, as Max had instructed, and sits down. Max takes a few moments to pace the small width of the room, breathing deeply (Kimi counts: In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, repeat) before sitting down next to him.
Before Kimi can start to make way on his apology to Max for crashing him out of the race—his whole reason for coming in the first place—Max frowns. Kimi's heart lurches, afraid that Max, now that he's calmed down some, has also remembered why Kimi must be here, and is pissed off at him for ruining his race. But Max only says, "Why are you still in your racing suit? It cannot be comfortable for your wings."
Kimi's wings twitch at their mention, unconscious on Kimi's part.
It's not hugely comfortable to keep them pinned back, especially as tightly as he needs to do inside his fireproofs to drive. But, well. He'd come straight here after apologizing to his team on the pit wall. No detour to shower and change—he's barely sweaty. His wings haven't even begun to steadily ache the way they do as the laps tick by. (He's getting used to the feeling, anyway.)
Kimi shrugs. "They are fine. I would have been racing right now anyway, and it is not so uncomfortable as it is in the car."
Max's frown doesn't lift. Kimi shifts uncomfortably. "I did not bring any other shirts," he says. He can feel his face warming slightly. It's not like the drivers don't strip around each other, but doing it here, alone with Max in his driver's room, Max's intense eyes trained onto him, feels wildly different than shucking off a sweaty fireproof top after a long race.
Max blinks, and his eyebrows soften, pulling up. "You, of course, do not have to take off your suit if you do not want to," he says. "I only want to make sure you are comfortable. I—" He looks as if he's trying to swallow a lemon. "I know how... Umm... I know that having your wings pinned in such a way can be... Not so nice, let's say it like that."
Kimi finds himself frowning at Max's words, and can't help himself from flitting his eyes to the way Max's shirt hugs his shoulders, trapping his wings to his back.
Max has been keeping tabs on Kimi from the beginning of the year, asking how the team is working to accommodate his wings, asking his own trainer to work with Kimi's to develop a training regimen that better suits them (and only now does Kimi consider why Max's trainer knows so much about that). Kimi even knows that Max has been texting George persistently, trying to involve the GPDA in an attempt to implement more feature accommodation regulations, even though Kimi is pretty sure Max would be quite happy if he never had to speak to George again in his life.
Max has been fighting to keep an eye out for Kimi and to make sure his wings are being taken care of all year. But he's kept his pinned beneath his shirt the whole time.
Kimi remembers one of their first conversations about the topic, back in Winter Testing. How Max had said, with deadly seriousness, how Kimi could break the bones in his wings if he kept them pinned for so long improperly, or if he got into an incident while driving. How Max had warned him that, if he wasn't careful, Kimi could end up crippling himself for life. Could end up never being able to fly again.
Kimi had walked away from that conversation shaken. He feels equally shaken now, thinking about the certainty Max had spoken with.
"Kimi?" Max asks, brows furrowed in concern. Kimi shakes himself, brings himself back to the real world. Right. Yes. They were talking about something.
"What?"
Max closes his eyes. Presses his fingers to his forehead, rubbing hard. He says something in Dutch that Kimi can't even begin to understand, muttered to himself, like a reminder.
"Why did you come to my room? What is it you were wanting to talk about?"
"Oh, si. Right. Umm..." Kmi has to look away from Max, down to his hands fiddling with the seam of his suit. Then he curses himself for not having the courage to even look Max in the eye when he apologizes, and looks back up.
Max's gaze is always intense, even when he doesn't mean it to be.
"I am sorry. That I ended your race. I did not mean to—I lost the rear of the car coming into the corner, and... Well, it does not matter. Either way, you are now out of the race, and it is my fault. So, I am very sorry."
Max's eyes don't lose any of their intensity, but Kimi can still see something in them shift, get softer.
Max shrugs. "You made a mistake. It happens. It is not as if you got me out of the race on purpose. I am not saying that I am completely not upset, but I am not upset with you. It is racing—these things happen."
Kimi blinks, surprised. He suddenly regrets not taking Max's offer of freeing his wings because they twitch, and he feels like he needs to beat them a couple of times to regain his balance.
He knows Max is kind; knew he wouldn't completely lose his shit on Kimi. But still, Kimi really didn't foresee this conversation going this way, with Max reacting with nothing more than a shrug and a small smile.
"But you—already, you are having to work so hard in the championship against the McLarens, and—"
Max chuckles, dry. Kimi decides he hates the sound.
"I was already barely in contention. The car is not there this season. Did you not see that I started from seventh? But it is anyway not your job to be worried about my championship. We all are just racing our best. Sometimes, you crash into people, and sometimes, that is your teammate, or it is the championship leader. It is all the same. You say sorry, and you learn from it, and you do better next time. You will do better next time."
Kimi nods, quick and determined, even though Max hadn't posed it like a question. He sounds so confident in Kimi, even though Kimi has given him no reason to.
Max gives him a smile, and Kimi can tell it's a real one because it kisses the corners of his eyes. "Thank you anyway for coming to apologize. That is something that takes a lot of balls to do. I certainly was not so mature when I was your age."
Kimi flushes, wings fluttering nervously under his race suit for an entirely new reason, now.
Their movement grounds him. Kimi looks down, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. He tries to think of the words to say; tries to think of how to ask without ending up with Max's door slammed in his face.
"Umm. Still, could I take my suit off to let my wings out? You are right—they are... uncomfortable."
Maybe he doesn't need to ask Max about it at all. Not if he plays this right.
When he looks up, Max is squinting at him, mouth pursed into a pale line, and Kimi thinks he's blown it; thinks he's been far too obvious. But Max only stands up and says, "Would you like a shirt for them? Rupert makes me keep some."
"Yes, please."
Max fetches a shirt—grey and loose, slits down the back designed to slip wings through easy—and hands it to Kimi, who thanks him.
Kimi peels himself out of his race suit, and he feels awkward and clumsy in front of Max, but when he glances over, he sees that Max is only paying attention to the wings pinned under Kimi's fireproofs on his back, gaze intense. When the top comes off and Kimi extends his wings free, bending them slightly to stretch them, he sees Max's hands twitch towards them, eyes wide.
"Would you like to touch them?" Kimi asks, speaking before he can remind himself it's a stupid idea to.
Max's face shutters, his wide eyes blinking away the wonder. "No. Probably, I would only hurt them. I do not..."
He trails off as Kimi—now with the shirt on, and once again putting action before thought—shifts a wing carefully into Max's lap, brushing his feathers purposefully across his arm.
Max slowly, slowly, lowers his hands. Touches feathers with careful fingers, stroking them so gently Kimi can barely feel it.
Max lets out a soft exhale, fingers still moving steady and light. "They're so soft," he breathes, almost like it's a thought not meant for Kimi at all. "I had forgotten...."
Once again, Max cuts himself off, but Kimi can fill in the blanks. He wonders how Max's wings feel; wonder how deep the damage—for, surely, there must be damage—runs. Wonders when the last time Max let himself preen through his feathers with careful fingers was. Wonders the last time they had felt soft.
Max is looking resolutely down at Kimi's wing, caressing gently over the curve of it with his thumb when he speaks again.
"Karts are, of course, better to drive with wings, and it is possible to do very well in karts and to not damage them by so much."
Kimi knows just how possible it is. His mama had strictly forbidden him from ever pinning his wings back when he had been in karts, and it had still been possible to win with them tucked gently on the outside of a race suit.
"But my father, it was always his goal—it was always our goal—to get to F1 someday, of course, and it is not so easy here, with wings. And he—we—did not think it was such a good idea to get only experience with driving so comfortably, when, of course, it all will change when you get to single-seaters."
Kimi stays silent; stays still. Max keeps stroking along his wing, and Kimi remembers the way he had, only minutes ago, startled back, hands raised, saying that he would only hurt him.
He doesn't think Max could—not ever.
"My mother—she did not allow him to make me pin my wings when I was very small. But then she, of course, left, and I was becoming nearly old enough to be competing in the international categories..."
"How old were you?" Kimi finds himself asking, voice quiet, barely a breath. "When it was the last time your wings were so soft?"
Max's eyes sqeeze shut, tight. Kimi stares at the line above his nose; between his eyebrows. Waits; hopes that it will smooth out.
"It does not matter," Max eventually says. The spell breaks. Max lifts his hand away from Kimi's wing, runs it through his hair, shoulders edged with tension. "It was, of course, better for me to train so early to not need to be so focused on them while driving, and it anyway would have distracted me if I had been able to fly—"
Kimi's wings jump in alarm, and he smacks Max right in the face.
"What do you mean, if?" Kimi asks, insistent, not even bothing to apologize to Max, make sure he's okay. His wings are still flapping agitatedly behind him, and he gets up off the couch to give them more space to flutter. Stands in the middle of Max's driver's room and stares him down where he's still sitting half-hunched on the sofa.
When Max doesn't immediately answer, shocked expression turning into something teetering on the edge of pitying and sad, Kimi keeps talking, mouth moving faster than brain. His brain, which is flashing back again to the conversation he had had with Max before, when he had said that if Kimi was not careful, he could end up crippling himself; could end up not being able to fly. His brain, which is playing on repeat the serious pinch to Max's mouth; the gravity in his voice.
"You must be just meaning that you were spending so much time in karting that you could not be taking so many breaks to go for flying. It is like how we all would have to leave school early sometimes or we were having to choose between going with friends or going to karting, and, always, we would choose karting. Right? It is just that you were choosing to not fly so much because you were very busy with being in the kart instead."
Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can speak it into existence. If he just keeps plowing forward, if he doesn't let Max speak to correct him, then the words sitting heavy on Max's lips will never be true. Will never have been.
"You can still fly," Kimi insists, voice cracking on the last word, desperate. He can, he can, he must be able to. Because Kimi is a racer, through and through, just like Max is. Can't imagine a life where he has to move so slow; can't imagine living every day in his own body and never settling down into another, a beautiful extension of himself made of carbon and oil and pure speed.
But he's an avian, too. And he would rather be ripped straight from the cockpit, scrabbling hands leaving behind bloody fingerprints on the wheel, than to never soar through the sky again.
The car is freedom and speed incarnate, yes. But flight needs no body at all; needs no incarnation. Needs no vessel through which to channel adrenaline—it simply is.
Max still has that pitying-sad look on his face. Like Kimi is just a little kid, asking what happened to his pet hamster. Like he's too young to understand the tragedy of death.
"It does not matter," Max says again. Kimi feels like he's going to scream.
"No, it does! It does."
Max only shrugs. "It does not, because there is nothing I can do to change it. Anyway, it will be like this."
Kimi feels deflated. "Maybe there is," he tries, hope still lingering in his voice that even Max's sad eyes can't squash out. "There are many good doctors—have you even tried to see if they can fix it? I know that it is very bad for your wings to keep them pinned for so much, but for sure they can do something. If still you have two wings, then there always must be some way that you can fly."
Something closes off in Max's eyes. Something goes dark.
He looks down at his hands. "It does not matter," he says, voice barely a whisper. "There is nothing that anybody can do."
The certainty with which Max speaks settles in Kimi's gut, heavy. It pulls him back down to the couch, shoulders slumped. "Mi dispiace."
Max shrugs, and Kimi should be used to it by this point—Max shrugging everything off—but it still causes something deep inside of him to ache. "Do not be sorry. It is not as if it was your fault. And anyway, it is not exactly like anybody would say my life is so terrible. They should be putting me on posters, maybe, to tell children in hospitals that still you can be successful even if you have totally fucked up your body. Like, 'Anything is possible! You can even win four world championships with only one wing!'
Max laughs quick at his own joke, but it isn't the way Kimi is used to seeing him laugh, a moment after deadpan silence before his whole face lights up. It's nervous and hollow, and straight away, Kimi decides that he hates the sound.
He's so busy thinking about the bitter edges of Max's laughter that it takes him a moment to process what he's just said.
One wing.
Kimi lets out a strangled noise. He doesn't mean to, but it feels like it's ripped straight from his throat. His wings curl around him protectively; a tawny shield, hugging him close. One folded over the other, cradling him completely.
Max looks at him, startled, eyes wide. "What happened? Are you okay?"
All Kimi can do is shake his head.
Max jumps up from the sofa. His hands flutter around Kimi, unsure, nervous. Gentle fingers not quite touching.
Probably, I would only hurt them.
Kimi's wings pull in closer.
"Kimi, I do not know what is happening," Max says. "Is there any way I can help? Somebody I should tell? Otherwise, I will get my trainer."
Kimi just shakes his head again.
"Okay," Max says, backing towards the door, eyes flitting only briefly away to track his movement. "I am getting someone. Kimi, it is okay. You are okay. I will be right back."
"No," Kimi says. He launches himself across the room, wings momentarily unfurling as he grabs Max's wrist tight. "No, do not leave."
It does not matter.
Kimi uses his grip on Max to pull him in close, and lets his wings close around the both of them.
Max stays stiff in his hold for one breath, two, three. But Kimi doesn't shift away; keeps his wings cradled tight. Snakes his arms around Max's back and pulls him in closer.
Until finally, Max melts into him. Kimi feels his hands hesitantly come up and brush against his waist, returning the embrace; feels his breath hot on his neck.
"I did not let them take the other one," Max says, voice cracking, choked. "But it is anyway not the same."
From how close Kimi is holding him, he feels Max's wing (dio mio—his wing) twitch just slightly at the words.
Kimi bites his tongue, not quite ready to break the fragile moment to ask what Max means. He just stays there, keeping his wings tucked in tight around them. Not quite large enough to encase them both fully; not like his mama's would when he was young and needed shielding from the world. Not quite enough to be enough.
But enough to press Max closer to him.
Hands solid on Max's back, Kimi gently traces his touch along the edges of his wing. He tries to tell himself he's imagining the way the strong arch of bone feels warped and crooked beneath his fingers.
Nothing that anybody can do.
And maybe Kimi's fingers probe just a bit too far; maybe he shifts his weight from one foot to another. Or maybe it isn't anything Kimi does at all—maybe Max has blinked open his eyes and remembered where they were. Whatever it is, the breeze of Max's touch falls away from Kimi as he starts to pull back. Still gentle, still mindful of the wings Kimi has to unfurl from behind him to let him free, but persistent nonetheless.
Possibly, Kimi should apologize. What he's done here today has probably violated Max's boundries more than even a nosecone in the side of his car could, dust hanging in the air around the scene of the crash.
Wrong place, wrong time. Again, again. Door that he thought was open, but he steamed in too quick, and now it's too late to take back, and it's Max who has to pick up the pieces.
Kimi's hand chases after him, not wanting to let go just yet. He should apologize, but he won't. He should stop pushing; should leave Max be with his thoughts and his DNF and his one wing, but he won't. He won't.
"What do you mean that you did not let them take the other one?" he says, words falling out quick, no longer able to be kept locked behind his teeth.
Max's mouth pinches. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched tight. (Kimi thinks his fingers don't look so gentle on his own skin—digging in rough.) "Kimi—"
Kimi didn't get to where he is today because he backed off. He saw the gap—felt it in the twitch of Max's wing, saw it in his downcast eyes, heard it in his barely wavering voice. He saw the gap and he'll go for it, every time.
"Will they try to take my wings too?"
It's not right, he knows, to play Max like this. But racing isn't about playing nice. Max knows that as well as anyone.
Something softens around Max's shoulders, just like Kimi knew it would. Fingers rough on his face but so gentle on Kimi's wings. His own wing tucked tight under his team kit while he offers Kimi a shirt.
Max won't talk about it for his sake. But he may for Kimi's.
"No," he says, "No. We will not let that happen. You, anyway, are already taking much better care of your wings, and we will make sure the cars are safer for you in the new regulations. Just do not be crashing very badly, and keep making sure to take care of your wings like you have been doing, and you will be okay."
Kimi imagines it—crashing badly. Tyre clipped, hurtling into the wall at full speed. Ribs cracking under seatbelts; wings snapping, pinned behind his back.
He's heard of wing breaks before—not as common as an arm or a leg, but not unusual. Not permanently debilitating.
(He wonders if maybe they are at two hundred kilometers per hour, tucked tightly under a race suit.)
"But I cannot control if I am crashed into," Kimi says, voice small. He's not afraid of crashing. Not any more than any driver is; not to any level that keeps him from going for lunges. But sometimes his thoughts will stray, and for just a second he'll see it in his mind's eye: Crumpled into a wall, dust pluming. Heartbeat loud in his ears, hands too heavy to undo the seatbelts.
He's not afraid of crashing, but he doesn't want to die. Doesn't want to never be able to drive again.
Doesn't want to never be able to fly again.
Max reaches a hand up to his head and grabs to fiddle with a hat that isn't there. Awkwardly weaves his fingers through the strands of hair instead; stays for a moment, gripping, breathing.
"I know," he says eventually, letting his hand fall. "It is often the worst crashes that are not your fault. But it is racing. Always, we know getting into the car that we can crash. Still, we do it. And... I, of course, cannot be promising that never you will be hurt. But mostly, the cars are much safer nowadays than any other time. And I— It was not only because of a crash that I— That made me to lose a wing. Already before that, they were so bad that I could not use them properly. The crashing was only what made it... no longer salvagable, let's say it like that. It is like if you are driving all the time with a broken arm already, and then you break it even more. It is too much damage. But your arm, of course, is not broken." He gestures to Kimi's wings. "Your wings still are very healthy. So even if you are crashing, then probably there will be a way to fix them."
Kimi wants to ask why Max's wings were 'broken' in the first place. But it's not so hard to imagine why. Max has kept his wings hidden from the whole world for years. He's been in F1 for over a decade; has been in the sport for longer. And not a single person knows what sits heavy on his back.
To keep his wings tucked so tight for so long... no wonder they had been, as he said, past the point of no return.
"If they already didn't work, then why did you keep them? Wouldn't it have been easier to just..." He trails off, finding himself unable to actually say the words. Maybe the fact that he can't even finish the question is answer enough. He can hardly think of anything worse than getting rid of his wings—even if they didn't work. Even if it shaved off a couple of tenths.
Max shakes his head, scowl tight on his face. "Already, I had given up so much for Formula One. Sometimes, I thought that I would die in the car. Maybe I still will. But I, of course, do not want to. Someday, I will not be driving anymore. And then, I will have other things that are, of course, more important."
He looks at Kimi seriously. "You have to give a lot to this sport. But you cannot give them everything. You cannot let yourself die in the car. There will be things after this, and even though you are, of course, very young, you need to be making sure that you still are having a life after you are done."
And now, Kimi realizes, Max is trapped between two worlds. Still racing, but the championship slipping away; car too slow, crashed off into the gravel. One wing on his back, imbalanced. Cumbersome in the car, and useless out of it.
What kind of life will Max have when he's done racing? What kind of life does he have now?
"I will not let them take my wings," Kimi says solemnly. A warped echo of what Max said earlier: I did not let them take the other one. But they took one, and the other one was taken from him a long time ago, really. Still attached, but bone twisted under Kimi's touch.
If I had been able to fly...
"Do you know what type of bird the wings you have are?" Kimi asks. He'd only caught a glimpse. Only felt a shape, warped. Perhaps it is only cruel to picture what Max could have been—wings spread out behind him, taking to the sky. But Kimi can't help but wonder. If he had been able to fly... Would he have looked as spectacular as he does in the car?
Surely, he would have.
Max's lip quirks. His eyes look a bit less hollow. "You will laugh."
Kimi is quite sure, actually, that he won't. Max seems to think that a dry chuckle and a halfhearted shrug is the appropriate reaction to things that Kimi will be having nightmares about.
"They are of a swift."
Kimi closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. His wings ache to pull Max in again, but he settles for wrapping them back around himself.
Kimi can see why Max would think he would find that funny, of course. Swift. Rapido. Fast. Four-time world champion, dozens of race wins under his belt, motor oil in his veins, quick as lightning in the car.
But Kimi had had a girlfriend, back in school, who was an avian—a swift. Un rondone. On all their dates, she'd want to go flying.
It hadn't worked out in the end, of course, and Kimi really should have known that it wouldn't from the start, because he had looked up rondoni before asking her out, and he had learned that, along with being wicked fast, the birds spend most of their time in the air, hating to stay grounded.
Kimi loves the air. Loves to fly. Would choose the wind beneath his wings over his hands on the wheel if it really came down to it. But he spends too much time on the ground, strapped into a cockpit. And all she'd ever wanted to do was go out flying.
He wonders—if Max had been given the choice—if he knew what his future would hold, four world champions, one wing twisted on his back and the other gone in the wind—would he be here now?
He wonders—how often does Max look to the sky?
Kimi opens his eyes, and Max is looking anxious again. Unsure. Hands hovering. He opens his mouth, but Kimi cuts in before he can speak—he doesn't think he can stand to have Max ask what's wrong. As if Kimi is the one who needs comfort.
"Mine are of a sparrow. Italian sparrow." Max pauses for a moment before he smiles, like Kimi has seen him do when it means the smile is real.
"Well, then they are perfect for you."
Inside the cocoon he's still wrapped in, Kimi brushes his fingers along the underside of his wings, through the soft feathers.
"Yes," he agrees. "They are."
Max sets his jaw into something very serious. His gaze, always intense, burns. "We cannot let anything happen to them," he says. "You cannot— I know, already, you are taking much better care of them than— than— but you must be careful. In the car, you must always block everything else out and go fast, of course, I would not say that you should not, because you are a very good racer, but— but, racing, it is not everything. You cannot let yourself live only for the car all the time. Because at the end of the day, you get out the car, and you go home, and one day you will not be in Formula One anymore, of course, and when you are not in the car, there needs to be something else. Your home should have a balcony that you can fly off of, and you should be able to fly off of it."
"I have a balcony," Kimi says. He's never flown off of it. He prefers to drive out to the coast and feel the sea breeze under his wings.
Even in Max's dreams of flying, is he stuck in the city? Concrete balcony, smog-filled sky?
"Good." Max looks relieved at Kimi's words, nevertheless. "That is good."
A knock at the door startles Kimi and Max both, jumping. Max smooths his hands at the hem of his shirt, like he's checking it's there. Kimi unwraps himself from his wings and awkwardly hovers, sure he's about to finally be asked to leave now that Max has things to do.
He doesn't want to leave. He has so many more questions. He hasn't even gotten to see Max's wing (wing) beyond the split-second glance he was unprepared for. Hasn't gotten to run his fingers across the feathers and line them all up into place.
Max cracks open the door and then opens it wider, revealing Rupert on the other side.
"Oh, Rupert, this is perfect. Could you please look over at Kimi's wings? The crash was, of course, not big today, but still, it is better to be safe."
Rupert blinks. "Max, I came to look over you."
Max waves a hand. "I am, of course, fine. It is useless anyway."
Kimi catches Rupert's eye. He's not sure how Max, usually so good at reading people, can miss the clear heartbreak on his face.
"If I check over Kimi first, do you promise to let me check anyway? You know there are ways to manage the pain if it is worse than normal. It is not useless to take care of you, Max."
Kimi winces.
"It is normal to have pain?" he asks, voice on a slight uptick, trying to sound young and naïve.
Max falls for it. Of course he does.
"No!" he yelps, whirling around to Kimi. "No, it is not. Yes, Rupert, you are right, you can check me after." And then he's sliding past Rupert into the doorway. "I will give you some privacy. Kimi—thank you for the apology. I will see you at the next race, yeah? Again on the podium."
Kimi's smile feels weak. "Okay."
And then just like that, Max is gone.
Kimi turns to Rupert, who is looking at him quizzically.
"He has... Is it really as bad as he says? His wings?"
Rupert sighs. He looks so tired. "Yeah. It is. I'm not sure what he told you, but—it's actually probably worse."
Kimi sits back down on the couch, hard. He wants to say that's not possible. But he knows it's probably true.
Rupert comes to sit next to him. They both stare at the door.
"How does he...?"
"I don't know," Rupert says, understanding Kimi even though he can't finish his thought. "I just don't know."
Kimi extends his wing outwards to the empty side of the couch, where Max was sitting before. Smooths a hand along it, feeling every feather in place, every bone sturdy.
The ghost of Max's touch follows his own, painstakingly gentle. Light as a whisper. As if he was never there.
i read @anemptyflask's ficlet abt gp and max talking after the silv gp (fic here) and thought max's exhaustion with the season manifesting as anger was very good very juicy very painful. and then i thought... you know what else would be painful?
1.1k, mostly below the cut.
---
Max is in his driver's room, only halfway out of his race suit, sleeves dangling at his waist, lying limp on the couch by his sides, when a knock sounds at his door.
He can tell from the rhythm of it alone that it's GP asking to be let in.
Max allows himself one moment to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deep to gather himself before he calls, "Come in." He doesn't want to argue. He's so exhausted. He just wants to go home.
GP opens the door; shuts it qucikly behind. He's all nervous energy, hands tapping at his legs, eyes flitting up and down Max.
Max slumps forward—braces his elbows on his thighs and buries his face in his hands. He doesn't have the energy.
"Don't apologize. It probably is not your fault." It comes out muffled, spoken into his palms. GP is used to deciphering his voice by now, though, after years of translating crackly radio interference into words.
"Mate. I was on the radio with Pierre before you even mentioned the snaps—we saw it on telemetry. He said it was fine. Laurent said it was fine. They said it was tyre deg, and too much front end, and—"
"And you believed them?"
Max runs his fingers through his hair. It's too short to grab hold of and pull at right now. Purposefully. Kelly keeps sending him to the hairdresser like clockwork as soon as he starts to anxiously tug at the strands.
When he looks up, GP looks stricken. Max doesn't want to argue. But he's... He's just. Tired.
"You thought that I would say something if it was just normal things? GP, I know what it feels like when there is tyre degradation and the car is too sharp. You know what it looks like on the telemetry. When did you—?" He cuts himself off. This is a pointless argument; it's pointless. GP didn't purposefully send him into the wall—hell, neither did Pierre and Laurent. They need to do better next time, sure, but being petty won't get them anywhere.
But GP's brow furrows, and his hands still in the air by his thighs. "Max. When did I what? What were you going to say?"
Max could brush it off. Could scrub a hand across his face and say, it's nothing, he's tired, he just wants to forget this weekend (like all the others) and go home.
But he's sick of people not wanting to hear what he has to say. And GP is asking.
"When did you stop listening to me, too? When did you stop trusting me?"
Because therein lies the root of all evil. Somewhere along the line, Max's voice across the radio turned to static again.
"Max, I always trust you!" GP says, hands flying out wide. "You're the only one I can trust to do anything right here anymore."
Max gnaws at his bottom lip. "Yeah. Okay."
"I just—" GP massages his eyebrows, fingers pressing deep creases into the bridge of his nose. "What do you want me to do, Max? Directly go against everyone else and tell you to retire because something might be wrong?"
"Yes!" Max exclaims. The weight of his exhaustion turns to something sharper. "Or at least... Take my side. Give me the option. If you are saying that there might be something wrong with the car, then I can decide if it feels like it is too dangerous to keep driving or not. But if you are just believing the others, who are not even in the car, and telling me that everything is fine when it is not, then it can go very badly! I do not mind to take risks if I am knowing which risks I am taking, but with this car, it is like I cannot even trust it, because it keeps doing these things, and then when I ask, you all are telling me it is okay, so I cannot even tell when there is something really wrong!"
Max's chest is heaving. His fingers are gripping vise-like onto his racesuit sleeves, crumpling the sturdy fabric.
"You say that you trust me still, but you do not show it. And... I cannot trust the car right now. And I cannot trust anybody else because it feels like— It is like... I just cannot trust that anybody else will tell me the truth. I need to be able to trust you, GP."
GP's lips are pursed so tightly they're turning white.
"I really thought that everything was going to be fine. We were so close, Max. You almost had it."
"It is no longer about being close to the podium, or to the win," Max sighs, shoulders slumping. "I am not going to be champion this year. I already have won many times. If it is a choice between getting another trophy or seeing my daughters again, I rather would be staying at home. I want us to win again, GP. But we cannot do that if the car is killing me because you did not say that something was wrong."
GP's fingers are back on his eyebrows. He looks nearly as exhausted as Max.
"I know. I know, mate." He sighs. "I can't fix the fucking car, and I can't make the French fucks see reason, but, Max, I promise you—I am on your side. Your word above all else, here on out. I can't promise to start you from the pit lane, because that's not my call, but as soon as you say the car is fighting back, I am no longer an employee of Red Bull, I'm the head engineer of Team fucking Verstappen."
Max wants to give GP a smile. He finds he just... can't.
GP himself hadn't even been smiling, but his mouth still wilts at the edges.
"Rest up," he says, voice turned suddenly soft. "Forget about all this until Spa. Say hi to the girls from me."
Max rubs his fingers across his forehead. Snags a lock of hair between his fingers and tugs.
"Yeah. Will do."
The door shuts behind GP. His footsteps—familiar beat—disappear down the hall.
Max falls back into the couch and closes his eyes. The arms of his racesuit lie limp and crumpled by his sides.
so a fun fact about me is that i take activities that are supposed to be fun and make myself stressed about them. like the classes i take for personal enjoyment, or the words i write every night, or dtm summer, or the gbb weekly prompts.
anyway haha unrelated to that, and not nearly a week later than i usually post it at all, here's the prompt fill for Week 15: Race Engineer AU / Driver Swap
(and by "driver swap" esi one hundred percent meant "mid-season driver swap max to red bull 2016 full send holla)
in my daemon verse. 1.2k. mostly below the cut.
---
GP is told, before meeting Max (not very long before meeting him—the whole time table is quite accelerated, really), that he doesn't drive with his dæmon.
GP's heard whispers of something similar before, but, despite the fact that Max is part of the Red Bull family, it's never actually been of import to him, so he hasn't paid attention to the rumors. Besides, they sounded so laughably false that it had been useless to pay them any mind.
But Max is his driver, now, and GP hears it again from Christian in a formal, if quick, meeting instead of from mechanics chatting over blaring music, and GP really has to pay attention to it now.
Still, he finds it hard to believe. And anyway, Christian may be the team principal, but he's fairly hands-off of Toro Rosso, and so how would he know for sure? Has he watched Max get into the car without his dæmon? Is he sure that Max's dæmon isn't just small enough that she hides tucked into his race suit?
Certainly, that's what GP assumes when he meets Max in the simulator room and there is no dæmon trailing behind. It's not out of the question for dæmons to be small and tucked away—GP rarely ever sees Hannah's doormouse dæmon, Ed, despite how closely they work together, for sheer reason that he spends the majority of his time in her pocket.
It's much believable that somehow Max has tricked people into thinking he drives without his dæmon while she's hidden somewhere on his person than it is that he actually does drive without her. GP can't quite find a good reason why Max would fabricate such a thing, but... People can't stand to be more than a few feet away from their dæmons. So how could there possibly be a setup that works for the kilometer-plus distances that drivers achieve from the pit wall every race? Unless Max's dæmon is a damn cheetah who sprints alongside him around the inside of the track, but GP thinks he would have noticed something like that.
And when Max walks into the sim room all bright eyes, not clutching at his chest in agony, and with no cheetah at his side, GP is confident in his hypothesis that Max's dæmon must just be really small.
But couple of hours into their work together on the simulator (which Max has been performing scarily good at, acclimating to the car within a lap and asking serious questions about the set up with intense blue eyes), a cat wanders into the room.
GP watches, baffled, as it pads over to the sim rig and sits down on the opposite side of Max than GP and Petunia are sitting. What the hell?Quickly, he glances around to see if it's the dæmon of some member of staff he doesn't know slipping into the room with some message to deliver, but there's nobody.
GP tries to ignore the cat as Max continues on his run—no matter how well Max is performing on the simulator, they're still running on an insanely truncated schedule, Max getting into the real car in just about a week for the Barcelona Grand Prix, and GP needs to stay focused.
It's only after Max finishes his run and talks with GP at length about their mutual notes that he turns to his other side and peers down at the cat with a smile.
He looks back to GP. "Can she sit in my lap for just one lap? Of course, it is not neccessary, but she likes to drive on the simulator with me."
GP doesn't answer for a few beats. A slight furrow forms between Max's brow before he can find his voice. "Yes. Of course. Go ahead."
The cat jumps into Max's lap and they both settle comfortably.
The lap Max runs is no better or worse than any other. GP spends most of it watching the cat's eyes dart around, greedily following every detail on screen. As soon as the lap ends, she jumps back onto the ground.
"Thank you," Max says, his lisp catching on the th, a smile crinkling in the corners of his eyes.
GP can't focus quite right for the rest of the day. He spends the whole time trying to convince himself that somehow, Max's dæmon was in the room before, and he just didn't see her. That the cat was not his dæmon at all, but some well-behaved pet. That this whole thing about Max not driving with a dæmon is borne from anything other than the truth.
--
At the Barcelona Grand Prix, GP watches Max get into the car every practice session and qualifying with no cat in sight, and he has half the mind to brush the memory of she and Max settling comfortably together to drive a lap out of his mind.
But he's smarter than that, really. And the conclusion of Occam's razor has shifted.
On Sunday, when GP walks to the pit wall after speaking to Max on the grid, before the formation lap, he sees her just for a moment at the garage entrance, standing still, staring out at the track. But as soon as everyone starts flooding back to the pit lane, she turns around and streaks away.
And GP thinks to himself, as he settles down into his chair and does his final radio checks before race start, that a driver racing without their dæmon is the most insane thing that he'll ever see. But it turns out it's only the second, because that driver racing without his dæmon—who jumped into the simulator for his car only a week ago, and drove the car itself for the first time only a couple of days ago—wins the race.
Max's voice is jubilant and shaky on the radio. Every Red Bull team member floods into the pit lane to celebrate. Max's father's nose is bleeding. GP looks around, but Max's dæmon, whom he doesn't even know the name of—has only seen twice—is still nowhere to be seen. And GP might not know where she is, but he's sure, now, that it's not hidden within Max's race suit.
He thinks again about the distance between the furthest reaches of the circuit and the garage he saw her disappearing into earlier. About how the whole world narrows down to panic and pain when he's mere feet away from Petunia. Thinks about Max's shaky voice as he thanked the team for helping him get to the win today, and how it hadn't shaken at any other point during the race.
Maybe the win wasn't the craziest part after all. Maybe all of it is insane.
GP looks back to the boys all up on the pit wall, shaking the fence and yelling with glee, and he shakes his head in disbelief. What has he gotten himself into with this one?
ok, hmm, prompt...
Ok, Max is sick, scared, injured and turns to one or more of the mechanics or possibly another less expected team person to help. Or they find him. Would love to see Ole Schack, Matt or Jon Caller, Greg Reeson, Callum Nicholas, or even all of them!!
Don't know if this appeals but if it does, I hope it's fun to write.
Max has been with Red Bull for a few months, now, and everybody has been incredibly hardworking and supportive (especially, he thinks, since he gave them such good reason to be, winning his first race with them, getting a few podiums throughout the season), but just because they're there to help him set up the car well and score good points doesn't mean they want to be burdened with him.
He already caused enough of a disruption on Friday, when he passed out after FP1 like a fucking idiot. He knows better than to be fucking weak in front of everybody like that, and it's not as if he had meant to collapse in the middle of the garage after climbing out of his car, but he should know how to stay on his fucking feet like a man, too, so it's really no excuse.
His father trained him better than that.
He had brushed off everybody's concerns the best he was able, convinced them to stay hush to the media about it (which Helmut had backed him up on instantly, thank fuck), and got back into the car for FP2.
And when that session finished, and the world was going dark at the edges again, he'd stayed on his feet like a fucking man until he could collapse in the safety of his own driver's room, away from all the eyes.
Everybody at Red Bull has been incredibly hardworking and supportive, but that's because Max got them a win on his first race with them, and because he's been getting them podiums, and because he gets in the fucking car and gives them points to knock them up the championship order. They're not there to coddle a kid who can't even stay on his feet.
Max isn't a kid anymore. He's nineteen now. Happy fucking birthday.
So after the race, he pulls into parc fermé in front of the P2 board, next to Daniel, and he ignores the dark shadows in the corners of his vision, and he gets to his feet. Goes to the cooldown room and, despite the name, doesn't stop sweating.
His voice cracks when he asks for a sugary drink—curse him. In front of the cameras—in front of everyone. But he asks again because, fuck, it's better than passing out on the podium.
He makes it through. The champagne does nothing to cool him, feeling instead like it's evaporating as it comes into contact with his burning skin. His father's eyes are the only thing that cools him—shivers down his spine when he sees him in the crowd, staring silent.
Max stays on his feet like a fucking man until he makes it back to the garage. His champagne isn't in his hand anymore—who knows where the fuck it went. It doesn't matter. All that matters is getting open the stupid door to his driver's room so he can collapse in peace.
(If he was more of the man his father wanted him to be, he wouldn't need to collapse at all. At the end of the day, maybe all he is is fucking weak.)
His sweaty hands can't get a grip on the knob. His knees buckle, his weakness catching up to him. Fuck him, honestly. He got a podium today, but it could have been the win—Daniel proved that—and now he can't even keep it together enough to get into his room. Red Bull took him in mid-season; they'd have no problem throwing him away. Carlos could be in his seat by next race. His father reminds him every day.
He remembers the gentle hands on him when he had blinked bleary eyes open the other day, drenched with water, finally cool. The kind eyes that swam into focus, mouths twisted with concern.
Max isn't used to expressions like that. Kindness. Concern. They must think he's so weak. Fragile, to need to be handled like that. It's a miracle they let him back into the car. It will be even more of a miracle if they do again, if they find him like this.
Groaning, breathing as deep as he can, Max tries to push himself to his feet. Braces his hands against the door to help him. Wishes it would just fall open and he could tumble to the floor in peace.
Instead, the loud voices from the main garage start moving closer. Max slams his head against the door as they round the corner, finally standing, but shaking violently, clinging onto the doorknob he still can't twist for dear life.
Back in the Toro Rosso by next week for sure. His father is going to kill him.
The raucous voices halt. "Max?"
Max should really lift his forehead from the door. He should turn and say, "Hey, guys! Great race—thank you," and then twist the doorknob and go into his room.
He doesn't do any of that. He pants heavy and tries desperately to stay standing.
"Max, mate. Are you okay?"
There's a voice next to his ear, soft—Callum's. A hand on his back, between his shoulder blades—warm, but not scalding. Gentle. God, he's so weak. They must think he's so weak.
"Okay, let's get you into your room," another voice says—Ole. The steady pressure on his back shifts—a hand envelops his over the doorknob. Gently, they twist it open.
Max starts to fall forward. The hands don't let him.
He ends up on the couch. His couch. His head is in someone's lap, and his feet are in someone else's. He should get up. Tell them he's alright, beg them not to tell anyone—no, not beg. Demand. Begging is weak. Begging gets you nowhere—gets you nothing but more pain.
He should get on his feet like a fucking man.
Greg's voice, from somewhere, says, "You did good today, kid. Real good. Get some rest."
Max isn't a kid. He's nineteen now. And besides—he hasn't been a kid in a long time.
A hand—gentle and warm, cards through his hair.
"Attaboy, Maxy."
He can't help it. At the end of the day, all he is is fucking weak.
little sebmax convo since i'm all in my feels about silly season. no refs to my other roads to rome but it has a distinct rome vibe and hey anything sebmax i write will *always* be roads to rome.
---
"How did you know?"
Max doesn't wait a split second after Sebastian has accepted his call to speak.
Still, it only takes a split second for Sebastian himself to get over the initial shock of Max's immediate question and understand what he's asking.
"Hi, Max. Are you asking about retirement? Or about leaving Red Bull?"
There's a pause for a beat. Two.
"Both."
Sebastian hums. "Well, they are very different answers. When I left Red Bull, it was because I felt every day that I was stuck on a sinking ship and that my life was disappearing from in front of my eyes. The car was not as good as it had been, and with Daniel doing so well, it felt as if the team was not all on my side anymore." Sebastian doesn't worry about sounding big-headed about that—if anyone would understand, it's Max.
"And when I retired, it was because... It used to be, when I was at home, I would dream about racing. Of course, I enjoyed my time at home very much, and I tried to not think about work. But I would always be excited to go back, and when I fell asleep, I would be thinking about the next circuit and how I would take the corners. And then... It became that when I was away at races, I started dreaming about being at home."
"Red Bull used to feel like my home. Also."
Used to.
It used to feel like Sebastian's home, too. It really did. Even after he'd left it.
In 2016, in Barcelona, Land der Berge, Land am Strome had played, and Sebastian had frowned, confused for a moment why they were playing the German anthem for Max, before he remembered.
He wonders—if he asked Max now to hum his own anthem, would he be able to do it without slipping into another tune?
"When did it stop feeling like home?"
Was it when the ship started sinking? Or when nobody listened to Max when he told them they should steer themselves out of the storm?
"Everybody is gone now. It is... It does not feel like Red Bull anymore. It is like I look at everybody's faces and I do not recognize them."
Or was it when his crew all departed and left Max alone to deal with the water flooding in?
Anthems aren't everything. Some days, more than anything else, Sebastian would miss the sound of too-loud techno music filling up the crevices between the whirring of wheel guns and roaring laughter.
When he left, Sebastian's ears rang in its absence.
Are Max's ears ringing now, too?
"And when you sleep? What do you dream about?"
Max sighs. Sighs like he already knows what he should do next, even if he doesn't want to accept it.
Sebastian doesn't think he had really accepted it when he chose to leave the first time—leave Red Bull. But he knows he had accepted it when he chose to leave the sport for good.
Knows, because somewhere along the way, he started scrunching his nose in annoyance when he passed by the Red Bull garage. Stopped listening to the anthems at all. Because between one song and another, his favorite tune became the soft sound of his daughters' breaths.
But Max shouldn't have to leave F1. He's not ready. Here he is, asking Sebastian for any reason to cling to why he should stay. He wants to stay.
But life is rarely fair. And Formula One is even less so.
"I dream of something that is no longer there. Always, I dream of home, and I am so happy; but then I wake up, and there only is..."
hiiiii i'm here on the first day of Week 16: Road Trip for the gbb prompts to do something mildly insane
welcome to the road trip! you are joining max. the journey will take a week, and who knows what will happen on the way! i certainly don't--the paths taken will be up to YOU.
enjoy the first part, and make good choices! there's no going back.
---
Max watches the van disappear down the road, black tyres on black asphalt, far faster than he could go even if his father had left him his kart.
His father hasn't left him anything, though, except the race suit that's still damp with Max's sweat in the small of his back, and his racing boots that don't quite offer the support needed to walk down the side of the road all the way back to a hotel.
Not that he could do that anyway—they didn't book a hotel. Max's father is heading all the way back to Belgium without him, and even with the sturdiest shoes in the world, Max wouldn't be able to walk there. Not from Italy.
He looks around the small fuel station where he's been left, trying to tamp down his steadily growing panic by taking stock and trying to formulate a plan.
There's one car fueling at the pump, and one car pulled into a parking space, its owner presumably in the little shop, grabbing a snack or taking a piss. Max has the fleeting thought that he could probably hotwire the car and steal it—he's never done it before, but he knows enough about cars that he could probably figure it out, and, once he's started it, he knows how to drive exceptionally well. He might be able to just get himself home by trailing the exhaust fumes of his father's van.
The door to the fueling car slams, making Max jump and snapping him into reality. Far, far too many things could go wrong with that plan. Even if he miraculously doesn't get caught and arrested right here and now, he could still be in trouble later on. And that's not even taking into consideration the fact he wouldn't have enough gas to get him home, which could leave him stranded yet again in the middle of Europe, possibly in an even worse place.
He turns his attention to the little store instead. He doesn't have any money—doesn't even have any pockets—so he can't buy anything. But maybe there will be a phone inside that he can use. He could ask, and then call... whom? Call his father, beg him to come back? Hope beyond hope that he will? Call his mother, who is all the way back home? Who might not be able to help even if she wanted to?
Or maybe... Max has never shoplifted before, but maybe...
He doesn't know. He can't think too far ahead—can't panic, can't freeze. He doesn't know what to do, but he can't think about that, because then he'll just be stuck doing nothing. He needs to do something. The sun is still up, but it won't be forever. He's a little bit hungry, and that will only get worse. He doesn't know exactly what to do, but he has to do something, so he puts one foot in front of the other.
The shop—unsurprisingly—is nearly empty. The shopkeeper greets Max in Italian as he enters, and the only other person Max can see is a woman staring intensely at a shelf of snacks. The parked car must belong to her.
Max keeps his feet moving and finds himself in the middle of an aisle, hidden from view from the others, breathing unsteady. What should he do?
What should Max do?
Ask the shopkeeper for a phone to call his father.
Ask the shopkeeper for a phone to call his mother.
Stuff some snacks into his race suit and go back outside to hotwire the car.
ADMIN USE ONLY*
Voting ended onJun 19
*this is for me to be able to check on the results. please don't use!!!
you can blame @bitingdrivers for the idea and me for the execution
inspired by jos' apparent debt pre- max-in-f1, and, as tysh so cruelly pointed out, the believability that he would hold that over max's head
mostly below the cut
---
Max keeps a list in his head of all the people he owes.
It's not a very long list. He's good at paying people back. Give him the goods; he'll give you the glory. His mechanics spend the night fixing his car; he gets on the podium and gives them the trophy—literally. Van Amersfoort takes a chance on him, straight out of karts, still spotty with youth, and he brings the car across the finish line for win after win after win.
Red Bull are the next to take a chance. And he hasn't been able to pay them back for it yet, but he will. He will.
After all, it's not the mechanics and the team bosses and the pit walls he has trouble repaying his debts to. All they ask from him is that he wins, and Max can do that in spades. Has. Will. Sure as the sunrise.
There are harder things to pay back, though, than contracted employment, a car for a victory, a team for the checkered flag.
Like a marriage destroyed, and a family torn apart. A mother and a sister abandoned. A father who dedicated his whole life to Max, and then some. Every drop of blood and sweat, his blistered fingers piecing together the engine a mirror to Max's, tight on the wheel. Every cent he owned, plus more and more and more.
Max doesn't forget it. Can't.
The list of the people he owes isn't very long, but there are three names sitting heavy at the top, etched in blood, and Max doesn't know if he'll ever be able to scrub them away.
The car dies beneath him during the first race, but he pulls it through the second, speeding over the line, points gleaming next to his name, at last.
He'll be written in the history books for that one. Name never scrubbed out.
Max may not be paying Red Bull back quite yet, but he has time, and his paycheck still comes in, every cent accounted for. Contracts fulfilled—a car for a point for a dollar.
But Max is only seventeen, and his father has given him everything—everything—so when he says, firm and complete, that he'll handle Max's finances; that he'll divvy up the pot between them; that Max owes him, Max just clenches his fists around nothing, wheel not in hand, and nods.
Still, though. His father's name is not the only one on his list. And he made a promise.
"Can I have at least enough of the money to buy Victoria a bag? It is only for this once."
Max's father scowls, but Max hasn't done anything wrong—he's steadily repaying his debts. He's in the car, he's in the points, and his paycheck is sitting heavy in his father's bank account, scale finally tipping towards the green.
"Fine," his father snaps. "But you owe me."
It's a useless reminder. Max knows. He'll never forget it. His list is stained with blood.
