“Big crash for Verstappen.” And suddenly all thoughts of pole slip away.
“Is he okay?” That's what's important. Not pole or p2 or anything. Just that everyone was okay. Just that Max was okay.
Bryan had said a big crash but it wasn't like it was an immediate red flag. It was probably fine. It would be fine.
“Double yellow in turn nine.”
That wasn't an answer. Now his heart rate was speeding up a bit more. No news after a crash was never good news. And his team new better. They knew to tell him quickly. They knew how he could spiral.
“All good for Max?” He tries again. Maybe Bryan had not heard him. Maybe the yellow flag information was new and he needed to say it before he forgot. It could mean nothing.
There's a brief pause before- “Not sure yet. I'll come back to you.”
That was not a good answer. That was a really really bad answer. That was an awful answer actually.
Not sure.
What did not sure mean?
It meant almost certainly he wasn't out of the car. But why? Were they waiting on an extraction team? Was Max winded and slowed down? Was he trapped in the car?
Not sure yet.
Not sure yet if he was okay?
Or not sure yet if Charles can handle the answer?
Jules flashes to his mind unbidden. Charles grits his teeth as Anthoine’s face haunts him next. He shakes the thought away. This was not the same. It was not.
He was not hearing loud demanding sirens. They had not announced a red flag.
Then again, the session was over. They may just not have seen a reason to red flag it this late when the drivers were already heading off of the track.
“We are p2 for now.”
He barely even hears the disappointing update. It's irrelevant. It's not about Max. Later he will wonder how George Russell set a pole lap under a yellow flag. Right now he is only wondering what condition Max is in that would warrant. “Not sure yet.”
He's pulling into the pits and they have not gotten back to him. He's pulling his steering wheel out and trying to stop the shakes, still unsure of anything important.
Climbing out of the cockpit he accepts the pat on the back by LH, offering a small smile in response. It's all he can muster.
George defends his pole position with the microphone. It sits wrong with Charles. Not because he lost pole, though he assumes if he spoke his displeasure that would be the assumption. He doesn't even care about that right now. But if George had slipped, if there was something on the track that had caused Max to spin and George repeated, things could be much worse. (He thinks again if Jules, killed not by the car itself but the fact that the crash was in a repeated place.)
Not that he knows how things are. He has still heard nothing. He doesn't even know if Max is out of the car. If he wasn't surely they would say something?
Then again even with Jules they tried to carry on the interviews like normal. He doesn't know. That's what it comes down to.
“Not sure yet. I'll get back to you.”
Nightmare. It's a nightmare phrase.
Surely if something was wrong George wouldn't sound so gleeful?
And yet it is not unprecedented. Not from Mercedes.
He feels the light tremors of worry and it is a work not to let it consume him.
When Lewis starts to walk away Charles grabs his arm, “Have you heard anything about Max?”
“No, I assume he's fine. No one has said anything.”
That was exactly the problem. No one has said anything. “Okay.”He finally answers.
Why does it feel like he is the only one who cares? Why does it seem like no one else is worried?
Surely that is a good thing. Surely it means he is overreacting.
As soon as he walks into the garage, his crew is patting him on the back.
It's not until he reaches Bryan he asks, “Max?
“He's out of the car.”
“On his own?”
“He got out of the car and walked away. He's fine, Charles.”
Charles nods, releasing the first breath it seems since he heard the yellow flag warning.
They'd been saved yet again a tragedy. The residual fear would linger.
If they're leaving Red Bull, they're doing it together.
“Sign with McLaren.”
GP startles, having not heard Max enter the small room he was using as an office. “What?"
“Sign the McLaren contract. It is the best of the offers.”
He can only blink up at him. “Max, sit down.”
For once, Max obeys.
“I think you should sign with McLaren.” He says for the third time.
“We've talked about this-”
“Yes and I have thought about it in great detail and I think it is what would be the best move for you. I know we have had our problems with McLaren in the past but you do not want to be stuck at a backmarker. It is not that I do not think you can build but you would not enjoy that so I think you should sign with McLaren.”
GP waits, watching Max. Watching Max who's eyes keep darting around the room. “We've been over this,” he repeats, “I'm not leaving you.”
Max is fidgety, finally losing to his own body, he stands to pace the small confines of the room. “I do not- I cant-”
GP knows. Of course he knows. He knew the moment Max had opened his mouth. But he still needed Max to say it. “Yes?”
“ImleavingRedBull.” He says it in one breath. Like the words were hard to get out. They probably were. They were probably words he had never thought he'd say.
“Are you moving teams?” He doesn't think so, but he doesn't want to assume. They had of course talked about all of the options. In detail. But Max was processing right now wnd it was GP's job to subtly walk him through it.
“Of course not, I could not do that.”
“And you think I can?” He could. GP wasn't like Max. His loyalty had never been to Red Bull.
“I think you are stronger than me.”
That catches him off guard, “Pardon?”
“You can leave Red Bull. You can keep pushing. I- I cannot.”
“Any team would be thrilled to have you. We could find a place to move together.” And Max was almost there. He had almost pushed the right buttons to get him to actually say it out loud.
“I am retiring.” There it was.
“It's been decided then?”
“The car is bad.”
That's not an answer. “I know.”
“These regulations are even worse."
“I know.”
“It is not... it is not any fun anymore.”
“I know, Max. I'm not disagreeing with your decision, just asking how final it is.” Up until now it had seemed unsure, seeming just an intrusive thought Max couldn't shake. But they looked things over just in case. Looked at Max's offers. Looked at GP’s. See where things landed. But it hasn't been serious. Not really. Or maybe it had been. What did it matter? Max seemed fairly serious now.
“I am leaving at the end of this season. Raymond is working on the paperwork right now.”
“And Laurent?”
There was a slight shift of discomfort. “Suspects. I have not hidden my feelings from him.”
No. But it will still be a blindside. Just by nature. Laurent had been so sure he could goad max into staying. GP had had his doubts.
“The end of the season?”
“It will make things easier for your move to another team. Gardening and all.”
“Max,” he tries not to sigh, he doesn't want Max to think he's disappointed in him. He could never be disappointed in him. “You don't have to worry about me. I can work out my own contracts.”
“Yes, but this makes sense, no?”
“Retirement.” GP shakes his head, “Shouldn't I be the one retiring before you?”
“It was always going to happen this way. F1 does not want me here. It never has. This is for the best.”
And GP wants to yell and scream and shake him and tell him it's not true. That Max is loved. That Max is wanted. And that was true for Red Bull, but for everyone else…
“You should warn Hannah.” The last of them. The final three from the golden days.
“I will. But I wanted to speak with you first.” A beat. “Will you sign with McLaren?’
Because if GP says no, if GP says he's staying with Red Bull, Max will too. Miserable and aching, he'd stay too. So GP can't. Not that he really wants to. Not without Max. And yet- “I'm not sure if they're the right fit for me.”
“They are.”
“In the past-”
“But you could change things. As team principal. You could fix it.”
Fix it. Like it was a minor flaw in the front wing and not an entire Formula 1 team.
“I couldn't fix Red Bull.” He says it matter of fact, but tries to be gentle. He knows how hard this has been for him.
Max lets out a breath, finally sinking back into the seat across from GP. “No one can fix Red Bull. At least not the Red Bull it was. It is only us left and-” he drops his head, “and I no longer think that is enough.”
GP hums. Max is right. All that is left of Red Bull is the heart. Each piece chipped away one by one until it's a raw bleeding heart trying to pump to an organism that died long ago. Running on pure adrenaline and love. But when that dies? When the adrenaline runs dry and the love is hanging by a thread?
“I'll review the McLaren contract.” He promises.
“You will sign it?”
“After you sign yours.”
Max squints at him. They're at a stalemate. Max doesn't want to leave without the promise that GP will leave too, and GP will not leave without knowing for certain that Max is done. “Do you promise?”
“I haven't lied to you before and I'm not going to start now. I said I would never race engineer for another driver and I meant it. And there's nothing left for me here.”
Another pause. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He repeats.
Max relaxes a fraction. “I did not think it would end like this.”
“There are worse ways to go out.”
“But we still have this season, yes? The car is no good but maybe…”
“I still think we can squeeze a podium out of it.”
“Yeah?”
It's the first time Max hasn't shot that sentiment down. GP feels ever so slightly lighter. “It may require sabotage, but I think we can find a way to swing it.”
Max laughs. It's a beautiful sound.
“We will be okay.” It's a statement not a question. A reassurance to himself and GP.
“It won't change anything between us if that's what you're worried about. If anything it will improve our relationship. You won't have to listen to me anymore.”
Max grins, “Perhaps when you are done with F1 you can come work for Vertsrappn Racing. Then you would have to listen to me.”
“Nah mate you already think you're my boss. I don't know if I could handle it for real.” It's a joke and Max's eyes crinkle, looking brighter than they have in weeks. “We will of course work something out.”
“I have no doubt of that, mate.’
“It is Red Bull we are leaving behind.” Again max sounds like he's speaking more to himself than GP. “Not each other, right?”
“Of course. I've never cared much for Red Bull, Max. I've stuck around for you.”
There's a shy smile at the honesty. “Okay then. We leave Red Bull. Together.”
“We leave, but it's not Red Bull. Not really. Not your Red Bull. You know that right?”
Max gives a sad smile. “My Red Bull has been gone a long time.”
It was sad but true.
It wouldn't be easy. Not for either of them after so long a time. But it would be good. It would be healing. And it was best. For max and least, and that meant it was best for GP too.
This was very hastily thrown together as a coping mechanism but I do genuinely feel much better now so no regrets lol. Can also be found on Ao3. We'll make it through 🫶
Summary: Max doesn't realize he's struggling until it nearly ruins his race. Rupert is determine to figure out what's going on.
Notes:
This fic has been a favorite request so I'm very glad to finally be able to post it!
Please note that this fic deals heavily with food/body issues and GED/RED-S. Proceed with that in mind!
Hope you enjoy <3
He's tired. Really frickin tired. This wasn't Singapore. It wasn't Jeddah. He shouldn't feel like he's racing in an oven.
Stepping onto the scale he doesn't think about it. Not really. Just getting somewhere he can sit. And get some water. And maybe take a nap. But when he looks down at the number, he stops. Blinks. Then he's being handed a piece of paper and is sent on his way. He looks at the paper just to make sure he's reading it right. 77.8kg. That couldn't be right. It was almost five kilos off of the weight.
He looks back at the FIA delegate. Would they let him be weighed again? This had to be a mistake. What had he been before the race? He knows he was weighed in the garage but he hadn't looked at the number. Hadn't felt the need to.
This could end it all. This slip of paper in his hand could be the end of his championship bid. He didn't have twenty five points to lose.
He's not stopped. Not told to reweigh. So it must be final. He needs to stop looking at the paper. People are going to start to talk. He passes it on to Rupert in a blur.
“Max?” The hand on his arm lets him know that Rupert at least sees whatever weird haze has passed over him. Then he looks down at the paper. “Let’s get you a sugary drink, huh?”
“But I-”
“Let's raise your blood sugar and we can deal with the rest later, okay?”
No. No, not okay. Not okay at all. “Rupert-”
“Max, it'll be okay. What won't be okay is if we can't your blood sugar up and your body temperature cooling down. Now your options are us going to the cool down room for this, or I can pull you now and take you to medical.”
Max nods, hoping that his choice is obvious. It is.
They linger in the hallway before the room, the place where there are less cameras.
“How long will it take them-”
“I took care of it Max. You won't get disqualified. Stop worrying about it and drink.”
Max blinks, not exactly sure what any of that means. How Rupert could have possibly taken care of it he doesn't know. But the question remains, how had he lost five kilos in a race that wasn't even that physically demanding?
Rupert is staring at him, so he takes a sip of his drink, sure whatever is in it will help him feel a bit better. Because he has to admit. He's not feeling super steady at the moment. Not that he can confess that.
Max makes it through the podium and back to the garage. He stands in the spray of the shower trying to muster the energy to move. He might have stood there, trying not to think, even longer, but Rupert is waiting for him. After changing he’s led to the driver’s room. He's still not feeling great but Rupert hasn't been more than half a step away since he left the podium and is still standing unnecessarily close in the small driver's room.
He's pointed at the couch and he doesn't hesitate to collapse down into it. Rupert shoves a protein bar in his face and Max takes it, staring at it. He doesn't want it. He thinks if he tries to eat it he may throw up. But Rupert is staring at him. And he was five kilos under the weight today and -
He unwraps the bar and takes a bite. It tastes like cardboard.
Three bites in and he can't eat it anymore. He can't. It's like trying to eat sand. It's all wrong in his mouth.
Rupert watches him, but doesn't speak when Max tosses what's left of the bar in the trashcan.
“I am sure I am needed in debrief I should-”
“You're going to sit there and drink the rest of that bottle in slow, measured sips, or I'm dragging you to medical and you can get an IV. Either way, they'll survive without you.”
Max thinks he should probably be offended.
The drink is too sweet. It got to be more than water. He remembers Rupert mentioning something about his blood sugar. But the taste in his mouth is too much. He's not sure what it is but it's too much. “Do we not have normal water or something?” He asks after realizing there's no way he's finishing this without throwing up.
“Drink that first then I'll get you some.” It feels like a challenge and max has never been one to back away from those. But it's not mixing well with the protein bar.
But he tries. He takes a sip. Slow like he was taught. He knows there are electrolytes in there, can taste the powder that Rupert likes. But it adds a thickness, a sliminess, a sweetness that's making him feel struggle to swallow. It's frustrating. It never bothered him before. Neither did chocolate but he hasn't been able to bring himself to eat it for weeks. He forced another sip down but it catches in his throat, he forces it down, breathing harshly out of his nose. Rupert is shoving a trash can in his face before Max even fully realizes what is happening.
Rupert does all the right things, whispers soothing words while rubbing Max’s back as the world is just sound around him. The plastic of the bag feels wrong under his hands, the pounding in his head that had started somewhere in the last five lap ramps up to an almost unbearable height. Bile and acid burning his throat. The hand on his back is a steady presence against the floaty surrealism trying to drag him away.
“Alright Max, take a breath for me.”
He tries, he really does, but he ends up coughing again. There’s nothing else for him to choke up so it ends as a painful dry heave.
When it finally stops, he leans back, his head finding Rupert’s shoulder. He tries another breath and this time the air enters properly.
One hand stays wrapped gently around him while the other reaches for the pulse point in his wrist. After a long moment, Rupert lets out a breath. “Max, I think we should go to medical.”
“No, no I am fine.” The words scrape painful past his throat.
“You’re crashing and you can’t keep anything down. You need an IV.”
He bites back the immediate denial. Because he doesn’t need medical. He’s fine. He’s okay. But everything hurts and his head is killing him and if he tries to drink one more sip of that stupid sugary drink this whole thing is going to start over again. “Can’t we do it here?”
Rupert frowns at him, calculating, considering. “I’ll make you a deal, we can set up an IV here and we will sit and we will talk until the treatment is done. Or you can go to the medical delegate and let them decide what needs to be done.”
Max hesitates. He doesn’t know how sick he looks to someone who doesn’t know him. He’s not bad enough that they would be issued a race ban, right? But he also does not want to draw the FIA’s attention to his weight. He’s still not sure how he was not disqualified. But the very last thing he wants to do is talk. To anyone. But especially to Rupert. But he can’t risk a race ban-
“Fine.” He bites out.
Rupert smiles and gives him a pat on the leg. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He fixes him with a glare from the doorway. “Don’t make me send GP after you.”
Max rolls his eyes, but stays seated. He stares at the water bottle at the counter, wanting to wash the taste from his mouth but afraid of it just causing another fit. He’s sure there’s a bottle of regular water somewhere but that would require standing and searching and - yeah he’s not doing that right now. Instead he sighs, scooting closer to the wall so he can lean his back against it. Closing his eyes, he just breathes.
Even after the shower, he still feels sticky. Like he couldn’t quite get his skin clean. And he’s tired. So tired. Maybe he can fall asleep and get out of talking to Rupert. Then again he’d probably consider that passing out and just make him go to medical anyway.
He loses time for a bit, he must fall asleep, because the sound of the door jolts him awake, blinking rapidly. Rupert gives him an unamused look but doesn’t comment. “Do you want to lay down?”
Max shifts so he’s laying with his head on the armrest. He has to sit up a bit when Rupert places pillows behind him so he’s more reclined than fully lying down. Rupert hangs the IV bag off of one of the cabinets and slings the chair over to sit down. Max holds out his arm, Rupert positioning it before sliding the needle in.
He doesn’t flinch. That could dislodge the needle. He lets Rupert move his arm again, noting the slight twinge disappears in its new location.
Silence settles over the room and Max lets his eyes fall shut. He’s not sure how much time passes of him hoping Rupert will just let it go, be thankful he’s accepting the fluids without a fight and move on.
“How are you feeling?”
Max opens his eyes and rolls his head over to the side. Rupert is still sitting in the chair, watching him. He reaches for Max’s wrist, checking the pulse point.
“I am fine.”
“Good.” Is the unexpected answer. “Now, let’s talk about the race.”
Max bites back a groan. “I won, what is there to talk about?”
“And you were almost disqualified.”
“But I was not.”
“And do you know why?”
No. He doesn’t know. And he’s been too afraid to ask. Too afraid it would shift something and they would realize their mistake.
“I had GP add ballast to your seat.”
Max starts to sit up but a hand on his chest pushes him back down. “You what?”
“And you should be thankful. I told you you were losing weight too fast.”
There’s a war raging inside of him now. Because this saved him. It kept him the twenty-five points he had worked so hard for. But he also went behind Max’s back. Did something Max had explicitly told him not to do.
“I am-”
“If you say you’re fine one more time I’m bringing the delegate in to check your head.”
Max presses his lips together and sends a huff of breath out his nose in an attempt to self regulate. “What do you want me to say?”
“Thank you for one.”
“I told you not to.”
“And if I had listened we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”
That was true. It was. But he couldn’t help the spark of anger anyway. This meant Rupert had talked to other people about it. This means Rupert had talked to GP about it. And GP was already looking at him like he was some injured puppy that needed to be cared for. But Max wasn’t eighteen anymore. He could take care of himself. He was fine.
“Now,” Rupert continues after giving Max a moment to calm down. “We agreed to talk about it. Let’s do so.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“You aren’t eating.”
“I’m eating.”
“Not enough.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because, Max, you almost fell off the podium after losing too much fluid. Because you’re borderline hypoglycemic. Because you couldn’t eat one protein bar.”
“It is heat sick.” Max defends. “It is not the first and will not be the last.”
“No, it's more than that.” He leans forward until he is almost hanging over Max. “Talk to me, Max. I’m on your side.”
“There is nothing to talk about. I am fine.”
Rupert sighs, pushing himself back in his chair. “Is it because the car is overweight?”
“What? No. Of course not. That would be silly. There is, of course, a driver weight limit and while, yes, it is best to be as close to exact as possible I am already under the limit. Why would I want to add more weight to the car when it is already over weight? This makes no sense.”
Silence stretches just long enough to make Max turn his head. Rupert is just staring at him. “What?”
“There’s got to be a reason, Max.”
“A reason for what? It is not uncommon to lose weight during the season.”
“You normally gain weight over the break. This year you lost it.”
“I was sick for much of the break.”
“Did you stop eating?”
“What?”
“When you were sick, did you stop eating when you were sick?”
“It was not like that. I did not- I did not stop eating. It is not that simple.”
He needs Rupert to understand that this is not a problem. It is not like he is trying to lose weight. It is not his fault that the only thing worse than the thought of putting food in his mouth is the actual act of it.
“What does that mean, Max?”
“Why are we even having this conversation? I do not understand why it matters.”
“It mattered when you thought you were going to be disqualified.”
“But I was not.”
“Because I knew you would drop below the weight. I took care of you. I want to take care of you, Max. But you have to let me.”
“I do not need your help.”
Rupert is just watching him again. He needs to stop doing that.
“Okay, Max.” The eventual answer, as well as the disinterested voice, surprises him. “You don’t need my help. So you’ll find a way to gain five kilos over the next week without me. Or are you going to add more weight to the car? Or maybe just hope the stewards aren’t paying that much attention, because we all know how the FIA is particularly fond of you.”
Max turns to stare at the ceiling. He could put the weight back on. He could. The IV was already helping. He was starting to feel better already.
“Rupert,” Max runs his free hand down his face. “I am not trying to lose weight. It is not like- like you said that would be silly with the weight requirements and everything.”
“Okay.” Rupert’s voice is even. “It’s not on purpose. Max, that actually worries me more.”
Well that had certainly not been his intent.
“So let’s figure this out. You were sick and started losing weight. You are no longer sick, and are still losing weight. Why?”
“Isn’t it your job to figure it out.” He mutters from behind his hand.
“Help me out here, Max. Do you feel sick? I could order blood work if you think-”
“No, no I am not sick. Not like that. It was just the flu. I am fine now.”
“You’ve been more tired than usual. There could be-”
“I am not sick, Rupert. Stop it.”
Rupert presses his lips together. “Then you have to help me, Max. Have you been doing anything different? Are you working out more than we have planned?”
Max chokes out a laugh. “No, I do not do that anymore that I have to.”
“That’s true enough. What have you been eating? Are you staying on the plan?”
“Yes.” Mostly. Kind of. When he could stomach it.
“Really?” Rupert sounds amused. “No, kinder on the side?”
“No. I can not eat that right now.” Max confesses. He certainly wasn’t adding anything to his meal plan.
“What do you mean?” Rupert’s voice changes and Max isn’t sure what he said wrong. Rupert should be glad.
“It’s just- it’s not right.” He didn't know how to explain it.
“What’s not right? The texture, the taste, the smell?”
“Just- all of it. Everything tastes wrong.”
“Everything. And you can’t eat because it tastes… wrong.”
“Yes.” He snaps, glancing up at the IV bag wishing for it to drip faster because he was tired of this conversation.
“So you haven’t been eating.”
“Eating is just so difficult.” He groans without thinking.
“In what way, Max?”
“I don’t know. It just is. It is not worth the effort.”
The silence returns. Max closes his eyes, the post race exhaustion was really starting to sink in. The adrenaline had been so high in the car but now…
“Max.”
“Hm?”
“Max, look at me.”
He pulls his arm away and rolls his head lazily to the side. He has to blink to bring Rupert into focus. “What?”
“You haven’t been eating.”
Max opens his mouth, letting the last few moments run through his head. “No- No I did not mean- I eat.”
“Okat, let’s go over it.” Rupert had shifted into the clinical fixer which meant Max was probably about to get really annoyed really fast. “What have you eaten today?”
“Rupert this is not necessary-”
“For breakfast. What’d you eat for breakfast.”
Max moves back to staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to answer. It’s not that it’s a problem, it’s just that Rupert will see it as a problem and-
“Max?”
“I was not hungry this morning.” And it’s the truth. He hadn’t been hungry.
“And lunch.”
“I had the chicken breast, that was the plan, yes?”
“Just the chicken?”
“There were vegetables too.” He hadn’t really eaten those but they were on the plate.
“So chicken and vegetables. Did you eat the entire allotment?”
“Most of it.”
“So you ate most of a grilled chicken breast and some vegetables.”
“Yes,” It’s not a lie. “See, it is food. I eat.”
“Anything else?”
Wasn’t that enough? It had been more than enough for Max. “Well there was the protein bar-”
“That you ate two bites of?”
“It was three.”
“And then threw up.”
“I told you I did not want to drink your stupid drink.” The bar being sweet hadn’t helped.
“That would put you at a calorie deficit on a normal day. You would have burned through that before even getting in the car.”
In the car wasn’t the problem. It was the getting out of the car that had been the problem.
“That’s why your weight dropped so much. You were already on the line and then your body was burning through anything it could get a hold of to keep you conscious.”
Max frowns, “I won.”
“And then almost passed out.”
“What is your point.”
“Your body is in shutdown mode. Your blood sugar is dropping. You’re dangerously dehydrating. Your body is cannibalizing muscle because it’s out of fat to burn.”
It sounds like an exaggeration. If it was that bad Max would feel much worse than he currently does. “I am fine.”
“You are not.”
“If you don’t have a solution then there is no reason to continue talking about it. The race is over. I won. I was not disqualified.” Max slings his arm back over his eyes, trying to block the piercing light that seems to mock him even with his eyes closed.
“What if we got rid of the meal plan?” Rupert suggests, drawing him out of his half sleep.
Max frowns, moving to squint at him. “What?”
“Give it a week where you can eat anything you want. You want a kebab? Get a kebab. Pasta? Eat the pasta. Don’t worry about the calories or carb load, just eat what you want.”
His stomach churns at just the thought. “But I can not do that during the season-”
“Max. Food is food. I would rather you eat nothing but junk food for the next three weeks than not eat anything.”
He can’t help but laugh, “But then I would not be able to fit in the car.”
He means it as a joke, but Rupert is giving him a look that says it was not funny and he probably should not have said it.
“Okay. Then we can set more accountability for the plan we already have in place. I’ll tweak some things to add a higher fat and calorie intake. This way you’ll gain weight instead of only maintaining it.”
“That is not necessary- I am not-” It's insulting. He doesn’t need a modified plan and he certainly doesn’t need accountability for something as stupid as food. “I am not a child.”
“I'm not saying you are. But this is a problem even if you can't see it yourself.”
“It is not-”
“If you lose much more weight before the next race the FIA will get involved.”
“What? Why-”
“If they see you've lost 15 kilos since the beginning of the season they're going to mandate a health check. They'll probably make you do a full drug panel just to make sure you’re not doping.”
“I am not-!”
“I know you’re not, but they’re not going to care what either of us have to say. And with the current push for mental health, they'll probably make you see a psychologist, a real one not just me.”
Max wanted to deny it. But he knew he couldn't. Not really. Because Rupert was right. “I do not know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to eat Max.”
“I-”
“It affects more than just the car weight. Your bones will be more brittle. Your stamina will shorten. Your brain will be sluggish. It will affect your driving whether you like it or not.”
But he didn't want to eat. Even thinking of food tried to set off his gag reflex.
“Max, I need you to try. Try to tell me what the real problem is.”
It was hard to explain. He didn't know how to even try. But Rupert was asking and everyone was worried. Maybe if he tried to explain they would worry less? “It is not that- it is just that- food is so difficult.”
“In what way?”
“It is just- that there are already not enough hours in the day and stopping to eat is just far to much to remember. And then I think- I know I should not eat until I have completed training or my sim session or whatever it is that needs done.But by the time I am done I am either no longer hungry or there is no time.”
“Why can't you just stop when you are hungry?”
“I am not going to interrupt myself or else it will never get done. And besides, I am not often hungry. It is more likely to be a headache or something to let me know but it goes away.”
“Okay, but why can't you stop to eat.”
That was a good question. Why couldn't he? “It is not that simple. If I have no completed so of my tasks I should not eat.”
“Food isn't a reward for completing a to-do list. It's necessary for survival. Especially as an athlete. You know this.”
“Well... yes I know. But as is being in shape. It is part of my job.”
“And you think the best way to accomplish that is by not eating?”
“Well it is not as if I am going to start working out more.” He laughs. Rupert doesn't reciprocate.
“I thought you said you weren't trying to lose weight?”
“I am not. Not really. Keeping my weight down is of course a benefit but it is not my reason for doing so.”
Max squirms under Rupert's stare. How had this all become so complicated?
“So you're not trying to lose weight, but you're also not mad about it.” It is said as a statement not a question.
“I suppose so, yes.”
“And it’s not that you’re not eating in order to lose weight, it’s just too ‘difficult’ to make yourself eat.”
“Yes, exactly.”
There’s silence for a long time. Max is thankful as his head really is starting to pound.
“Okay.” Rupert nods to himself and Max readies himself for whatever is to come. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to make you a meal plan.”
“We already have a meal plan.” Max frowns.
“This one will be direct. No options. Eat exactly what’s listed.”
Max frowns, “What if I do not like it.”
“Then you’ll tell me and we’ll find something else.”
“Okay.” Mak answers slowly, but he doesn’t like it.
“And you’ll text me when you ate and how much.”
“What? Why?”
“So we don’t have any more surprises like we did today. You need to put on weight.”
“I’m-”
Rupert holds up a hand. “This is not about you. It’s about racing. About the team. It’s not fair to them if you get disqualified.”
“Oh.” That was actually a fair point. “I was not trying-”
“I know, Max. I know that. I’m not accusing you, but it’s something we have to think about.”
“So you tell me what to eat and I eat it? That is it?” On the actual level of difficulty it seemed fairly easy, so why did the concept feel so difficult?
Rupert nods, “We are just trying to at least keep you from losing weight. Keep you away from the medical delegates and keep from having to add more weight to the car. Reasonable?”
“This is- this makes sense, yes.”
“Good. Now, do you think you could eat something now?”
Max’s stomach twists and he knows the tremors have been there but right now he feels them more than before.
He shakes his head, feeling a bit of heat enter his cheeks. No. He can’t. If he’s given something to eat he will just throw up again. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, feeling shame at the inability to complete the simple task.
“We’ll work through it.” Rupert assures him gently. Max isn’t so sure.
Max looks up at the bag that had been steadily leaking through his veins. It’s mostly gone. And when he goes to sit up this time, Rupert doesn’t stop him. And his head doesn’t spin and lurch - even if it still aches - so it must have done its job.
“Better?”
Max nods, pulling the IV from his arm. Rupert sighs, but doesn’t scold him, grabbing gauze. Max doesn’t look at him, while he makes sure everything is how it needs to be. “Are you-” He starts, but then frowns, “Are you going to tell GP?”
Rupert sits back down across from him. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s none of his business.” He grumbles.
“Try again.”
“So long as we do not have to add more weight to the car I do not understand why he needs to know anything. And I am okay. It is really nothing to worry about.”
“The fact that you don’t want him to know says enough.”
“I could fire you for this, you know.” He mutters, rubbing at his eyes, but they both know he won’t.
“You can fire me after we get your weight up, how about that?”
Max snorts and honestly he’s just glad Rupert has lost that serious tone he’d been using the entire conversation. “This is acceptable.”
Rupert rolls his eyes, but then his face shifts again and Max knows that the lightness was only a short reprieve.
“Okay, so here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to text you tonight with what I want you to eat. I don’t care how you get it, go out, room service, whatever you want. But you will send me a picture of it before you eat it, then a picture when you are done. But Max, for this to work you have to be honest with me. I won’t be mad if you don’t eat it all, but I need to know how much you are eating.”
“Okay.” It seems ridiculous, but it will not be the worst thing ever. And he can always choke it down and deal with the consequences later.
“And Max, you have to tell me if you throw up afterwards. I don’t care if it’s on purpose or not. I need to know these things. The calories you eat and keep down affect everything else we do. If I don’t have accurate data I can’t plan the best strategy.”
He can feel his face twist in displeasure. That was a bit more difficult of an ask. Because - while it was never on purpose, he did not of course enjoy throwing up - a lot of the food just did not sit right. If he could manage to actually swallow it, the chances of it staying down were slim.
“If you’re genuinely struggling to keep food down then there is a problem. One that we have to figure out. I’m willing to try it your way, no doctors, no blood panels, but only if it works. But- Look at me-” He waits until Max has turned his gaze back to Rupert whose intensity is starting to make him uncomfortable. “If I find out you’re lying to me, it’s over. One lie and you’re going to medical. This is serious, Max. I’m not playing with it.”
Max’s eyes dart away again, trying not to squirm. “I understand what you are saying.”
“Do you? Do you understand how serious this could get if we’re not careful? We’re talking hospital stays and FIA involvement. Don’t think I won’t do it.”
“I hear you.” Max snaps, tossing a glare at his trainer.
“Good. Because I’m worried, Max.”
“You do not need to be.”
“Well I am. Because if you lose much more weight it won’t be about the car anymore. We’ll be entering the danger category. Especially if your blood sugar keeps dropping.”
Max wrinkles his nose. “It is just that… sweet things are too sweet. Like that drink.”
“You have never complained about it before.”
Max shrugs. He doesn’t know why. Chocolate has also never bothered him before. Bland food- flavor filled food- has never made him throw up before.
Well. That wasn’t entirely true.
There have been other times when eating was difficult but there was usually a reason. Like championship stress (and likely other things) in 2021. Or simply days where he did not feel like eating. But this is the first time it has affected him for so long. The first time that water with electrolyte packets, foods and drinks that he used to enjoy, set off his gag response. He didn’t understand. And he was too tired to try and figure it out.
“Okay. Okay, I need to look into some things. For now we're going to follow the plan. I'll text you what to eat. You send me pictures proving how much you ate. And tell me if you throw up.”
Max grit his teeth, feeling frustrated, but nods. It makes him feel like a child. Like his Mama hanging over his shoulders telling him he needs to finish his plate or he can't go with Papa to the track.
But this was worse. Because what if he did throw up. What then? It's not like he can help it.
Rupert seems to read him. “You won't be in trouble. I want you to eat and want you to keep it down, but right now I just need to know. It’s a practice session. Data harvesting.”
“Fine.” He concedes, still far from happy. Whatever kept him out of the med center and in the cockpit.
“So long as you’re honest with me, we can make this work.” Rupert reinforces. “But I”m serious, if I find out you’re lying to me about anything-”
“I heard you the first time.” Max snaps back. “Just don’t get medical involved and I will do what you say.” Afterall, if Rupert was making rules, Max could too.
Rupert takes a calming breath and he’s probably being too kind all things considered. But Max isn’t going to back down. This is about his pride. Because it’s embarrassing. He knows it’s just food but he doesn’t want it. And athletes lose weight all the time. Why is he being singled out like this?
“I’ll text you tonight. Get some rest. Even with the fluids your body is in reset mode, you’ve got to let it heal.”
“Fine. Can I go now?” The team meeting was probably over. Which meant Rupert probably cleared him from it. Which means people are going to wonder why. Which means they’re going to worry and-
It was fine. Max had bigger things to worry about.
I do have more thoughts for this universe, so stay tuned. Right now Rupert isn't sure exactly what is going on but will be trying to fit the pieces together. In this fic Max *is* suffering from a categorized eating disorder it's just a lot less known. If I write the sequel like I plan, I'll get more into it.
Anyway, hopefully this wasn't a disappointment after all the love and hype lol
Thank you for all the support and I would love to hear what you think!
Please consider stopping by Ao3 to leave a comment <3
omggg do it!!! I can also picture george post op being scared to touch max because of the stitches and max rolling his eyes and just hugging him because it hurts but it hurts less if george is there
960 words of Gax appendicitis fluff/hurt/comfort (mild medical whump) based on this post
Max is fine. He's fine. Max is fine.
He runs it through his head again and again and again because he's not sure he quite believes it. Not sure if he'll ever believe it. Because it had been bad. It had been so bad. And Max was still pale. Too pale. And too thin.
It's an idle thought in the back of his head that he's not sure if Max will make weight. That thought is quickly shut down as that's likely the furthest thought from Max or his team’s mind. Well, from the team's mind, Max is probably thinking about it.
But Max could have died. Nearly did. Because he's a stupid idiot who after nearly thirty years of life still doesn't know how to listen to his body.
“George,” his eyes snap to Max who's looking at him with an infuriating half smile. He should not be smiling. In fact he should be banned from smiling until he learns to take care of himself and refrains from giving George a heart attack. “You are thinking too loud again.”
He scoffs, “At least I think. You don't think at all.”
“Come here,” Max reaches up a hand and George tries to ignore the tremor even more noticeable with the IV snaking up his arm.
“No.” He doesn't want to reward him for this. In the same way he wouldn't reward a dog for making himself ill for getting into chocolate.
“George,” he says again, softer this time, shaking hand still out stretched. Waiting. “I am okay.”
That wasn't what this was about. It wasn't. It was on principle. It wasn't because he was afraid. It wasn't that he was afraid that if he touched him he would hurt him somehow. (Because not long ago everything had hurt him. Every movement. Every touch. Everything had hurt and he had seemed so broken and pitiful and-) It wasn't because he was afraid. Not of the moment he touches skin to find it cold and clammy and lifeless. Not that this was some sleep deprived illusion that would snap away and send him back into reality the moment he let it. Not that.
“I am okay.” And again, Max is speaking gentle. He shouldn't be doing that. It only reinforced that something was wrong. “Stop looking at me as though I am going to disappear.”
“I hate you, you know.” George says, but he steps forward and places his own hand in Max's. Only because he's about to leave the country. Only because if - God forbid - something did happen while he was gone, he'd never forgive himself.
“I know.” Max smiles, lacing his fingers through George's and letting the weight drop.
George holds it steady, slowly bringing it down to the side of the bed.
Max is already slightly raised against the bed, but when he places his other hand down as though he's going to lift up again, George squeezes his hand tighter. “Don't. You'll tear your stitches.”
“I'm fine, George.” He rolls his eyes but aborts, not landing nearly as gently as George would have preferred.
He keeps saying that. Saying it like it's true. Like it wasn’t- “It’s the first Grand Prix of your career you won't be racing in.”
“Thank you for reminding me.” Max grumbles and George regrets bringing it up. He knew it was a sore spot for him. How could it not be? He wants to say well you'd be there if you got yourself checked out when you should have. But then he simply would have missed the last race, so it all shakes out the same in the end. Though George might be able to better sleep at night if things hadn't gone this way.
“You think too much for someone who also talks too much.”
“Are you actively attempting to run me off?” There was a time when he might have snapped the response, instead he finds his thumb running up and down the side of Max's hand.
“You need to go.” Max says too seriously. “It is just precautionary now. You cannot miss a race for me. I will be okay.”
But what if something else happens? What if there are more complications? What if they were wrong and the window for sepsis hasn't passed? What if-
Movement of his hand draws him out of the spiral as it's brought up and lips brush the back of his wrist.
“Be careful.” He finds himself saying. Their entwined hands drop onto Max's ribs and he tries not to stiffen at the contact, not wanting to cause him any more undue pain.
“I am not going to break, George. Though I am not so sure about you.”
“Very funny.” But it's not too far off. He had broken in a way. However that wasn't for Max to know the full extent of.
Finally, George sighs, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his forehead, lingering a moment in an attempt to see if there are any residuals of a fever. He's warm, but not to the extent of before. “I should go.”
“Yes, you should.” But Max doesn't release his hand. Maybe he's not as unaffected by all of this as he tries to let on.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. You stayed longer than you needed.”
He wants to refute it. Say no, you're worth this. You're worth more than this. You deserve someone by your side always. Through everything. But he doesn't say it. Because Max wouldn't like that even if he maybe should hear it.
But no. He doesn't say it. Maybe later. When he comes back. He may not say it, but he can prove it. And Max can prove that he's fine. That he's staying in his own way.
So this got me thinking about Jules/Dani and this got me thinking about Jules/Danny and now here we are :)
850 words of... Whatever this is
They don't talk on the phone often, but when they do, Max will take the time to update him on everything that is going on in his life. Daniel enjoys it. Sometimes he calls just to hear him talk. Daniel always makes sure he's alone when he takes these calls, he's never sure how long they will be.
They've been going for a while now and Max had worked his way through most of his “spring break” so far. Daniel had been apprehensive to take the call at first, understanding the way that a bad car could taint your entire mood for weeks. And Max's bad luck hadn't just been relegated to F1. But Max has been generally pleasant, chatting about Lily and P and the fun of GT3, disqualification aside. He was now up to “Team Principal Max.” And as much as Max loved racing, Daniel could see him shifting fully to a CEO or team principal role someday. Not for a long time, but it suited him. He had the mind for it. And Max would never fully retire. Not like Daniel.
“Really,” Max is saying, “Jules should not have raced at all.”
Daniel's brain short circuits for a moment. Jules. Jules Gounun. Right.
He's not sure why it throws him so much. It's not even that it wasn't a common name. It just caught him off guard. That's all.
"But I would be a hypocrite if I did not let him race with a little food poisoning I have or course driven with worse.” Daniel wasn't going to comment on that. He probably should, but he wasn't going to.
“Of course Jules and Dani are quite close. He mostly took care of him.”
Jules and Dani.
Jules and Danny.
“He was of course very stupid but he did well. He was back in the medical center after the race. Dani was with him every moment he could be, it was very sweet in a lot of ways to see.”
They hadn't let Daniel into the medical center. He'd tried to get in. They wouldn't let him. The hospital either. And then they were moving on before he ever got a chance to visit. He should have been there. He shouldn't have-
“It was only a couple hours but I still feel responsible. I should not have let him race. But Dani says it was okay so maybe it was.”
It wasn't okay. It hadn't been okay.
“Jules and Dani, the both of them, did well and Chris did too. He is just not as experienced.”
Jules and Dani.
Jules and Danny.
Like an echo of what was and what should have been.
Of what Daniel had and was lost.
Of what others have when he should have it too.
“I am excited to drive with Lucas too this weekend. He was quite good in karting. I think it will be a good team.”
It wasn't fair. Twelve years later and there was still an ache. Still the remembrance of a best friend gone too soon.
“Have you decided if you will be at Miami?”
It didn't seem fair. The first day Max had set foot on the racetrack had been Jules last. Like some sort of sick replacement. A consolation prize.
“Daniel?”
But it wasn't fair to think like that. Not at all. Max was his friend. One of his best friends. It hadn't been an equal swap but it was never going to be. And that was okay. He'd come to terms with that.
Until he'd heard those two names said in succession. In the same breath. In the way it was once upon a time.
One couldn't be found without the other. Like a package duo.
Jules and Danny.
“Daniel? Are you still there?”
“What? Yes, sorry, sorry mate, yeah, I- that's all cool. About the gt stuff. I'll keep an eye on things. Qualifier yeah? With Lucas?”
There's a brief pause and Daniel tries to shake out the tremor in his hand.
“Yes, that is- are you okay?”
“Yeah sorry, I was just thinking- look I've got to go but it was great catching up. Can't wait to hear about the qualifier.”
“Okay… I'm sorry if I-”
“No, no you're fine, Maxy, really. I'll call you soon, okay?”
“Okay.” He says again, still sounding unsure.
“Uh, bye.” he hangs up quickly before the awkwardness can sit any longer.
He should have said more, maybe tried to explain but- there's no way he can explain this. Not and seem sane.
How do you talk about it? About shared apartments and nutella piadinas and a smile that outshined the whole room? Daniel has tried to copy the smile for over a decade. He never felt like he could get it quite right.
Jules and Dani.
Said so casually. Like the three words weren't a detonation in his head- his heart. Of a loss that was never properly grieved.
Two names so intertwined that the universe had to correct it somehow. Make sure the two souls were kept together in some way.
Have a 700 word vent fic about Japan Free Practices 1+2
Not A Good Day
“Are you done?”
Max glares up at GP standing in his driver's room door. “What?”
“Are you done snapping at everyone?”
“No.”
GP sighs, feeling more tired than disappointed, “At least you're honest about it.”
“Well I'll be lucky if I even start the race so-”
“Come now, the car’s not that bad.”
“Guess we'll see won't we.”
“Max-”
“It would round off the month nicely don't you think?” He spits the words like acid pouring from his tongue “Crash dnf dsq, dns. Why not.”
“Max don't do this.”
“Don't do want?”
“Assume the worst about everything.”
“What, you want me to assume the best?”
“A nice neutral would be nice.”
“Yeah good luck with that mate. We're a solid midfield right now you're welcome to be happy with that but I will not pretend.”
“Still. ‘Not a good day' being your official statement seems a bit harsh. We're about where we were in China with pace, and we fixed the start procedure and the coolant system. Our engine is reliable. We may not be fighting for wins but it's not our worst weekend set up.”
“You are welcome to be happy with everything, as I said, I will not pretend I am. I am done pretending. Either fix the car or I'll keep saying it's bad. Simple as that.”
“Is it because it's Suzuka?”
“Do you think losing a four year winning streak is something I should be happy about?”
“No, I'm saying don't mourn a loss before you even get in the car.”
“I have gotten into the car. This is the problem.”
“Max-”
“No GP, I am done. Red Bull can fine me if they want but I'm not playing this game. If they want me to stay on the team then they should leave me alone and just let me drive.”
GP raises his eyebrows, “Is that a threat?”
“Take it however you would like.”
“I'm on your side, Max.”
There's a sardonic snort “Sure.”
“You've never doubted me before.” He tries not to be hurt by the statement. By the stinging lack of trust.
“Just wait until you join another team and don't have to like me. Then we'll see what happens.”
“That would never happen for multiple reasons. The first, of course, being that I'll only go if you go.”
Max only shrugs, not making eye contact.
“Is that what this is about? Jonathan?”
“Jonathan, Mick, Nelson, commentators, fans, the FIA-”
“Since when does it bother you so much?”
Max finally looks at GP and there's a dangerous, angry glint in his eye.
“It's just noise Max. All of it.”
“Yes, well, I'm tired of it.” Max finally snaps. “I'm tired of the noise, alright?”
“Max-”
“This is ridiculous. You're right. I shouldn't care. Maybe it is best that I just retire and move on with my life. I was never wanted here to begin with.”
There's a stab of regret in GPs soul because he doesn't even know what to say. Encouragement? Apologies? Scolding? It's not true. Not really. Max is respected in his own right. Just not by the loudest crowd.
Max has always been bothered by his treatment in F1. Those closest to him know that. He is just normally better at compartmentalizing it. He's not normally so negative or… pouty.
“Would the noise bother you if you were winning?”
A harsh laugh, “What does it matter? I'm not.”
“That's a yes.”
“It's not about winning.” Those were foreign words coming from Max Verstappen. “But it is not fun. For the first time ever I am happier when I am not driving. It is not about the championship. It is not about the wins. The car is bad. The regulations are bad. I have no place in F1 anymore.”
“Max-”
“I am done with this conversation.”
GP presses his lips together. Max was at his limit. That was clear. “We can talk after qualifying.” Maybe FP3 if things improved. But it didn't look like they would. Not overnight at least.
“Sure.”
GP hesitates before leaving, watching Max for another moment. He wants to say more, needs to say more, but what is there to say?
“Get some sleep, Max.”
He only grunts in response.
Max was right. Not a good day.
Idk if I'll put this on Ao3 or not bc it's so short but I needed the release lol
GP is worried about Max. They talk. GP doesn't feel better, if anything he feels worse.
Another little Max and GP one shot <3
This one inspired by a random instagram reel about stepping back when abuse victims defend their abusers for their own safety. I wrote it at like 4am on my phone so… take that how you will lol
Max had been… quiet. GP was beginning to get concerned. The kid seemed more tired lately and he had a feeling he knew at least partly why.
Jos Verstappen was the exact opposite of his son.
Sure, there were some similarities, Max was a firecracker. Only eighteen but already so confident and sure of his ability and that came with a passion that sometimes translated into anger. He understood that and was forced to deal with it more than most. But it was nothing like his father’s explosive violence. Because at his core, Max was a sweet kid. When he laughed, his entire face lit up. He could be entertained by the silliest things. Sometimes GP had to remind himself that he was still a teenager. That he was a kid, really too young to be here at all. But despite how all the other drivers treated him, despite the way his own father treated him, he was a sweet, generous kid who liked racecars and video games and could talk for hours with excitement so long as you didn't shut him down.
So this quiet, it was concerning.
But Jos hadn't been happy lately. GP had actually gone to Christian about the man. There had been a… well, altercation seemed too harsh a word, at the last race. Max had done poorly in the race and Jos had reacted quite negatively. He grabbed Max's arm and the boy had flinched away. Gianpiero stepped in. He'd kept things civil. As civil as he could under the circumstances. But his view of the matter had remained clear to both Verstappens. Jos had left, Max shooting GP a small mile before following close after. Christian had stated there was nothing he could do about it for now, but to keep him informed moving forward.
Max had been quiet since then.
“GP?” The silence breaks and GP would be thankful if the voice didn't sound so small.
“Yes, Max?”
“Do you… do you like working with me?”
That has Gianpiero’s full attention. “Of course.”
“Of course I do not think that you hate me.” Like some of the others was left unsaid. “But I mean, if you could work with someone else, would you? And you do not have to be nice, I will not be offended.” Well that was a question. After all, GP had been brought in to work with world champion Sebastian Vettel and had somehow found himself with second year, teenager Max Verstappen. But, “No. I'm perfectly happy where I am, Max.”
“You're not wanting to break your contract?”
He had no idea where this was coming from. If Max thought that GP was trying to leave it would explain the silence over the past week but he's not sure where he could have possibly gotten that idea.
“I have no intention of leaving anytime soon.” He reassures, but he means it too.
Max nods, and while the answer doesn't seem to upset him, it also doesn't belay whatever worry appears to be eating at him.
Silence lingers for a few moments before he speaks again. “GP…” he trails off, waiting for confirmation that his engineer is listening. Doesn't speak again until GP makes eye contact.
“Yes?”
“Will you… would you do something for me?”
The serious tone in his voice is starting to truly concern him. But he knows better than to agree right away. If you promise Max something, you had better be sure you're committed to it. Loyalty is not something to play with. “I can try, what seems to be the problem?”
He hesitates, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, eyes looking over GP’s shoulder instead of at his face. “Would… could you try to get along with my father?”
It's certainly not what he had been expecting. “Your dad?”
“Could you just- stay out of his way? Do not do things to make him not like you. Don't make him angry. You of course do not actually have to like him, but can you at least pretend?”
A warning claxon is going off in his head and now Gianpiero is well and truly worried. The truth is, he doesn't like Jos. Hasn't had particularly fond feelings since the moment he met the man. And he's heard things, whispers from people who were on the grid with him. Never anything positive. Even those who seemed to dislike or at the very least ignore Max seemed concerned with the way Max was raised. And this was all in addition to the things he’d heard Jos say and do.
He’d tried to be patient with the man. But now he's rightfully worried. Because GP didn't like Jos and he probably was too keen to let that show. Max adored his father even if there was a not so healthy fear surrounding it. He has a feeling that this is not a personal preference for the comfort of Max, however.
“He doesn't-” how does he word this without making the situation worse? “Take out his frustrations toward me on you does he?” He probably shouldn't have even voiced it. A new worry to eat at him where young Max was concerned.
There's a soft, sad smile when Max glances away. There's a breath that might be mistaken for a laugh. “That is not what I am worried about. It is just that… I like working with you. I do not want that to stop.”
“Max,” he keeps his voice gentle, trying not to slip into pity. “I'm not going to quit because I don't like your father.”
He shakes his head like GP just doesn't understand. “Yes but if my father does not like you then you will be replaced. I simply do not want that to happen.” It's said so earnestly that the implications of the words are almost missed.
From anyone else that would be a threat. A calmly spoken intimidation made to force him to conform. But that's not what this is. Because he knows Max is telling the truth. Jos is Max's manager and it didn't take long to see that Jos is the one calling most, if not all, of the shots.
Perhaps it's true. If Jos decides that GP is a threat, he'll find a way to remove him from the picture. To replace him with someone who will let him do whatever he wants with his son and not say a word. To not encourage the rebellious side of Max who has every right to stand up to his father.
“I can try, Max.” Because he doesn't like the idea of that. Of someone else taking his place. Not for the sake of his own job. He'll be fine. Easily find another team to work for. But he doesn't like the idea of leaving Max alone. Leaving Max alone with someone that Jos does approve of.
The overwhelming urge to keep his boy safe keeps GP from speaking his full mind. That this was outrageous. That his employment was between Max and Christian and himself. That Jos was not needed. That Jos was hurting more than helping Max and his progress in Formula 1.
Max looks at him again and his smile seems genuine if a little sad. “Thank you.”
And GP is surprised how touched he feels all things considered. Because this is Max protecting him. Max, a scrawny eighteen year old with pressure coming in from all sides, wants to make sure GP stays there.
It's odd. He's only been working with him for a few months but finds that he would be happy to finish his career here. Not with Red Bull necessarily, but with Max. He doesn't like the idea of being friendly with Jos. The man is an abuser. He's now even more convinced of that. He has control he shouldn't have and wields it like a weapon. He doesn't deserve anyone's respect and GP isn't prone to give his out on the regular anyway. But he'll pretend. For now at least. Not for his own gain. Not because he's afraid of threats or because he doesn't want to be fired. But for Max. To keep him safe. To keep them together, working as a team.
Because he now knows the truth. Gianpiero Lambiase would do anything for Max Verstappen. The kid is going to do great things. And he plans to make sure he's beside him for every step of it.
Notes:
I've decided that GP knew by the end of 2016 that he would be retiring with Max and Max only. I also believe he's only on good terms with Jos to protect his own place at Max's side <3
Please let me know what you think!
(If you follow Dance With the Devil I promise an update is coming soon!)
Much love <3
