i am a good person (i am)
hello hello! this is my psa to check if y'all have read @jup1t33r's fic Last Legs. It is absolutely AMAZING and just such a punch to the gut (Jeddah 2021 is so insane thinking back to it). Go read it, it's absolute poetry.
Reading it I became immediately obsessed with how they wrote Max and a couple of lines they added about if the FIA found out how injured Max still was from Silverstone. Again, Jupiter's brain is amazing and incredible.
They gave me permission to write something inspired by it, and so here is my take on those lines. Again, my words will not really make sense without Jupiter's story since I reference a lot from their fic so fr fr go read it. Italics are Jupiter's words, but this is my attempt of Lewis's pov and if he had decided to do something. This is hurt no comfort btw (most under the cut):
“Max almost reconsiders his options, then. But he only has one more race to go this season. The championship is right there, just in view. He's so close he can taste it, even past the bile working up his throat. If anybody from the FIA knew about how bad he's gotten, they might not let him back in the car for the final race.
Max isn't going to let that happen…
Max looks away and catches Lewis' eye. His brows are furrowed, but not in annoyance or anger. Head slightly cocked to the side, he looks like he's trying to puzzle Max out.”
Lewis is a Formula One driver. Lewis is a good person. Lewis is fighting for his 8th World Driver Championship, trying to surpass the greats of Formula One, the ones who no one ever imagined him coming close to. There is a kid standing in his way.
That same kid walks, or really stumbles, out onto the podium, disappearing up the stairs to the roar of the crowd, and for a second, before Lewis is called out, it is just him and the trainers.
Him and Angela and Bradley.
Bradley does not even seem to notice them, still stuck staring at where Max had disappeared to, mouth twisted into a frown, eyes hazy. His eyes were not hazy like Max’s had been. Max, who had barely been able to look at Lewis, his blue eyes unfocused. Lewis could barely even see the blue of his eyes. He is not even sure if Max ever truly saw him or not.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” Angela hisses, breaking the silence of the room, and finally Bradley blinks, shaking his head as if he had a headache. Even Lewis’s eyes widen at her tone, but he remembers the way she had frantically checked on him after Monza, had kept pulling him down to peer at the top of his head, scrutinizing to see if there were any tyre marks. Even after this race she had pulled him aside to ask how he was feeling, checking to make sure there were no bruises or marks on him. Lewis wonders if Bradley did the same for Max, after Silverstone. If he had been looking for marks from the wall on his body as Max sat in a hospital bed.
Angela and Bradley can only protect them so much from something they keep willingly going back to. Bradley turns to glare back at her, mouth twisted into a scowl.
“How dare you–”
“Is he okay?” The question surprises both of them and Lewis, even though he was the one who asked it. All he can remember is the way Max stumbled in the room, eyes squinted and face contorted in a grimace. Lewis can only think about the clips he saw online of Max slowly making his way out of the wreckage of his car, the marshalls rushing to his aid as his head bobbed in the air, as if he could not hold it up. That was so long ago.
Bradley’s mouth twists, and his eyes flick away. “He is fine,” he finally says, voice stilted. “He is just tired.”
The lie hangs in the air, so obvious that Bradley winces, clutching Max’s water bottle to his chest. He looks defeated. He looks like a man standing on a house made of cards, bending beneath his weight. One small step, and everything crumbles. One weak admission, and suddenly the FIA medical team could be called in. Now, Red Bull do not seem like the indomitable fortress as before.
Lewis opens his mouth to say something, even though he does not know what, only knowing that he cannot get rid of Max’s blue eyes staring at him, his hair almost blonde under the lighting, pale skin flushed from the race, as he defended the both of them and their driving, when his name is called for the podium.
Lewis, for his 103rd time, has won a grand prix. The usual rush of satisfaction and adrenaline floods through him, washing away blue eyes and a shaky voice that says Neither of us is purposefully causing crashes. Let's just leave it. We're fine. He turns and heads towards the stairs, leaving the two trainers behind. He wonders if they both feel the energy from the podium, feel the victory of their drivers in their veins, if they understand that every win only makes the drivers want more and more. That this will never end. Lewis never wants it to end.
When Lewis grabs the trophy, he walks to the edge, where his team stands below, and places his hand over his chest. The trophy weighs like 25 points, weighs like 51 Gs, weighs like the blood, sweat, and tears that Lewis and his team have poured over this season. Below him he can make out Toto and Bono, clapping and staring back at him. There is a sea of white and blue beneath him, a sea of silver. They love him, and Lewis loves them back. He musters a smile.
They have given everything for his 8th championship. He has given everything in return. He will continue to give everything, to give every piece of himself to this car, to this team, to this championship. That is what a driver does. That is what a good person does.
When he’s back on the podium, God Save the Queen plays overhead and he lets it wash over him, closing his eyes and lifting his head to the sky. The anthem mixes with the roar of the crowd, and all Lewis can focus on is the trophy by his side. 25 points that have now put him and Max equal. He has already done the math. 369.5 points for both of them. Equal.
Are they equal? Lewis is a 7 time World Champion, going for his 8th. Lewis is a good person. Max is hunting for his first, desperate in a way that is never satiated. Max defended both of their races. The confetti explodes and the music changes and Lewis grabs the rose water, shaking it and spraying Valterri. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Max slip away, not even reacting to the spray that splashes his back.
Lewis knows that there will be headlines printed about this, about how Max was rude and couldn’t handle not winning, about how he was a poor sportsman.
It would be advantageous for Lewis to comment on it later in the press conference, to bring back up Max’s braking during the race, allow the press to make the connection he would not say out loud. But Lewis is a good person, and he instead watches how as soon as Max is out of the way of cameras he puts his hand by the wall to stabilize himself, as he slowly makes his way back down the staircase.
Max is not leaving to be rude.
When Lewis leaves the podium, drenched and ready for Angela to give him a towel he finds her shaking her head, eyes narrowed.
“The damn kid has hurt himself from that stunt he pulled,” she says in lieu of a greeting, handing him his water and already beginning to help dry the rose water still clinging to his skin. Even as her words are harsh, her hands are gentle, carefully cradling his face with his towel. Lewis simply closes his eyes. “I told Brad to take him to medical, but knowing Red Bull they are just going to keep pushing. Absolute animals.”
He does not correct Angela on when Max got hurt, on how Max had not injured himself when he braked against Lewis but instead when his head had hit the wall at 51 Gs so many races ago. At least, that is what Lewis assumes.
Maybe he is wrong, and Max is only tired, or he has simply hurt himself from this race. What does Lewis know? He is only a driver. He is only a good person; he will not pry.
In the press conference, the lights press down on them, the chairs are separated, the masks are on, everything is different and yet Lewis feels like he is torn in two. He has never realized the Dutch accent sounds so similar to German. Out of the corner of his eye, all Lewis can see is blonde and blue eyes.
Lewis does not look at Max, but all he hears are the slight stuttering of his words, the way that he takes longer to respond. It could easily be written off as exhaustion from the race, just like Bradley said. The FIA would never question it, unless brought to their attention.
The questions all follow the same pattern, asking about the race and the braking, the penalties, and how he feels about the championship. How he feels about going to Abu Dhabi on equal points with Max. 369.5 points.
Whoever wins Abu Dhabi wins it all.
He has raced for 28 years. Lewis has been in many championship battles. The last one he truly battled for he went into Abu Dhabi behind in points. Nico had 367 points, and Lewis had 355 points. He lost. This time, he is tied for points.
Lewis is a good person. Lewis does not want to lose.
Back at Mercedes, he is welcomed by cheering and pictures. The team celebrates his victory like he has already won the championship, and there is an energy in the air that Lewis has never tasted before. It tastes sweet like the cereal he used to eat as a kid. Kellogg's Frosties. It feels like another life.
Even as the team begins to pack up, there is a thrum of energy, of life given anew. There is still hope. The mechanics joke and laugh loudly, music is played loudly in the background, and Bono claps Lewis’s shoulder, his smile proud. As if he could never doubt Lewis and his 8th. As if Lewis is a good person.
In the throng of people all wearing the same uniform, Lewis finds Toto again.
He grins at him, just as proud and excited. “Lewis!” Toto yells over the cheering and the laughing, “Lewis, are you ready?”
Toto is already looking to Abu Dhabi. Toto is already ready for Lewis to win. He has done everything to help Lewis get there. He believes in Lewis. Sometimes, Lewis wonders if Toto was upset over who won in 2016.
But it’s 2021 now. They have one race left. Mercedes against Red Bull. Lewis against Max. They are tied for points. They are both drivers. They both understand that if there is a gap, they would take it.
Lewis is a good person.
“Toto,” Lewis says, “I’m worried about Max.”
Toto’s grin drops.
—
That night, Lewis falls into bed past midnight. The night meant for celebration had turned into long discussions and gathering of testimonies and witnesses. Toto had waved him out of the office past eleven, telling him he would handle the rest. His head hits the pillow and he does not dream.
(This is a lie. 28 years of racing, with so many championship battles, have created a never-ending nightmare. Flashes of orange and red and navy all blur together, crashes that don’t make sense have woken him too many times for him to count, and phantom pain lingers like an old friend. Usually, he never even tries to pick out which race it actually was, simply rolling back over and instead repeating every champion until he falls back asleep.
Tonight however, he dreams of blue eyes and blonde hair. Of an accent that sounds both Dutch and German. Of two silver arrows crashing into each other that end with a tyre on his head and a kid in a wall. Of a championship slipping between his fingers.)
—
The headlines come out the next morning. Lewis ignores the millions of notifications already blowing up his phone, the texts and messages filling his screen. He silences his phone and pulls up twitter.
Concerns over Max Verstappen’s health brought to the FIA!
Max Verstappen Summoned to the Medical Delegate over Health Risk
Max Verstappen Failed Medical Screening, Suspended for Three Weeks
Lewis Hamilton wins the Saudi Arabia Grand Prix
Max Verstappen Snubs Lewis during Podium Celebration, Leaves Early
Lewis puts his phone down. At his feet, Roscoe lifts his head. Max cannot race at Abu Dhabi. Mathematically, there is no one else who can win the championship. Lewis has won his 8th World Driver Championship. It is only the Monday after Jeddah.
He lets out a sigh, and picks back up his phone. On twitter he finds a video clip on some fan account with far too many exclamation points and question marks next to it. It was posted last night, around 1 am. After Lewis had already left, after Toto had promised him he would take care of everything. It’s shaky, clearly shot from some random fan’s phone, but the video zooms in on Max being led out of the paddock by Bradley, the two with their heads tucked close.
There’s a call from somewhere, and Max’s head lifts up. Christian Horner appears, jogging to the two. Even from the shitty camera angle, Lewis can see how grim he looks. His mouth moves quickly, barely able to be heard over everything else, but Lewis can make out the words “medical” easy enough.
He had spent hours listening to the words repeated enough to recognize it by heart.
Instantly, Max pales. He shakes his head frantically, eyes growing wide as he tries to back up. Christian takes a step forward, hands raised placatingly, expression heartbroken, and Max snarls in response. He looks like a cornered animal. He looks like a little kid.
Behind Christian the FIA medical team appears, and Bradley grabs hold of Max. He looks defeated, but Max looks betrayed. He keeps shaking his head, mouth forming no over and over again.
Lewis closes the video clip and deletes twitter.
At the top of his messages is a text from Toto, who had listened to him last night with a level of seriousness Lewis had never seen from him before.
Toto: Max failed the medical test badly. You have probably saved his life.
Lewis sends back a thumbs up and then hits decline on the phone call from Max. He sets the phone back down, and makes sure all calls and texts are silenced.
Lewis is a good person. It is not his fault Max failed the test. They have already had so many incidents on track, what if there was another in Abu Dhabi? What if Max could not hold himself up and Bradley was not there to help him? It was dangerous not only for Max but for every other driver.
28 years of racing means you see every type of crash you can. Some that end with not even a scratch and some that are fatal. Some that send someone into a wall at 51 Gs and some that end with a tyre on your head. Some that end with the top drivers crashing each other out and some random kid in his second year of Formula One getting his first win.
Anything could have happened at Abu Dhabi. Lewis is a good person. Lewis is the World Driver Champion for the 8th time. He has surpassed every driver. He has broken another record.
“I am a good person,” Lewis says out loud to the empty room. Silence, of course, greets him. He tries again. “I am an Eight Time World Champion.”
His phone dings, meaning it was a text from someone on his favorite’s list. He picks it up, hoping maybe it was a text from his father. Instead it is a number that he has forgotten to delete and has not texted in five years.
The message simply reads You have not changed. Congrats.
Congrats does not taste sweet like champagne. It tastes bitter in his mouth. It sits heavy on his tongue, like 51 Gs.
