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STOMACHING YOU // MV33

(a pancakes oneshot!)

AKA - max comes to you after winning abu dhabi 2021 and becoming a world champion

series masterlist here :) // the pancakes recipe here :)

A/N: hello! welcome to another oneshot part of the pancakes!universe. and of course i would choose such a controversial moment to write about. please remember creative liberties in fiction. we love max and lewis equally (oscar's chandler bing level sarcasm is the real goat here c'mon)

TW: emetophobia

(unedited.)

You were mopping up vomit.

For some reason, it was this pile of vomit that occupied your thoughts. Who had done it? When had they had done it? It was in between the Mercedes and Red Bull motorhome so it could’ve been either. Team members throwing up from the sheer nerves wasn’t something new to you. But today, tonight, after everything... it really could’ve been from anything. Both teams had gone through it tonight. Everyone had gone through it tonight. The vomit before you could’ve very well had been come out of you from everything you had witnessed.

The nausea you had felt hadn't let up since last night. Last night when Domenicali had specifically requested you to work the bar and you had served all the rich, white men drinks who laughed jovially as Free Practice spun past and you anxiously snuck glances on the Red Bull with the Black T-Cam. Number 33. Verstappen. Max. Your old driver.

He was so close to getting what the two of you had dreamed about for so long.

You really had wanted Max to win. Of course you did. He had been your driver since entering F1. He was your driver and, honestly, there was a part of you that was always going to be reserved for him.

It wasn't the same thing with that you had for Charles - that was something entirely different. But Max was the first and only driver that you had officially trained, that you had gone through all the F1 bullshit with.

Whereas Charles was perfectly media trained, Max always blamed (or credited) his shit-talking to, well, you.

Lewis was a brilliant driver, and with one of the kindest souls to match. Despite everything with F1, the man had survived the brutal ruthlessness of the sport and hadn't let the money or fame corrupt him. You had a lot of respect for him.

But it was undeniable that you wanted one for Max. Lewis had seven already. Can’t we just let Max have one?

Apparently, some big oil rich guy with ties to the FIA shared a similar thought.

Well, for different reasons.

“Ta.” Said big oil rich guy said, barely glancing at you as set his espresso martini down at the table. Domenicali gave you an appreciative smile before returning his attention to the man who kept going on. You gathered the empty glasses and turned around to walk back the bar as the man kept talking.

“No, look Stefano. Don’t call me racist. Don’t. But Lewis is… we need a knew face for F1. Do you know what it looks like when I go back home and there’s one of… you know, like Max is…”

You almost vomited.

It wasn't like this was new to you. It wasn't. However, the man being so open about it had you counting how many drinks However, considering the two glasses in your hand, the man was well buzzed enough for his drunk words to reflect the sober thoughts.

From behind the bar, you kept your head down, staring at the Jordan Fours the donned your feet. The Black Cats had been a gift from Max way back when and you had wearing them all weekend for him.

“Everyone is getting bored of Hamilton winning. Put Max’s face. The white hope for Formula !”

Your hand froze. You couldn't help it. Your head shot up to look at the fucking scum that had just said that.

Formula 1 had been a lot of things. Sexist - downright fucking misogynist. Your time as a trainer had a lot of men down playing your skills and work. The added part of your appearance being 'exotic' and 'foreign' only compounded this.

Suffice to say, you also respected Lewis a lot for him being the sole black man on the grid.

So to hear this. Now. In 2021. To hear such blatant fucking racism made your fist curl so much that the stem of the martini glass snapped.

Domenicali noticed. He met your eyes - his petrol friend distracted by the sounds outside - and he gave you a troubled look.

It wasn’t the first time you had heard something troubling. It wasn’t like Domenicali hadn’t ever quietly sidled up to you before with a special NDA in hand and the following month’s payslip to have some special bonus.

But this… this was… this was too much.

Your barely registered the blood dripping down from your palm as you threw the towel on the bar and stalked to the door. You passed another worker on your way who called out your name. You barely paid them any attention. Sure, VIP sector of the Experiences lounge held certain expectations - you couldn't exactly just leave.

But you also knew Stefano wouldn't say anything. Not after that. And if anyone else would have a problem with you leaving, you would just tell them to go talk to Domenicali themselves. There would be no way he would penalise you for that. Not when he was likely thinking right now about what 'bonus' he could give you to compensate for what you'd just heard.

You didn't realise you had gone into the bathroom until you were met the stalls. Apparently your body was working on its own accord since the neural pathways weren't registering the nausea that was going through you. Your legs moved to the stalls. You found yourself kneeling. You found bile rising. You found the protein pancakes from this morning exiting into the toilet bowl in front of you.

Now, a few hours later, Michael Masi had made a call, your right hand was wrapped in bandages, Max had won his World Championship and you were mopping up vomit.

Normally, you would've changed your shoes. Now, you couldn't find yourself to care. The Black Cats had suffered a few scuffs here and there and looking down at them, you couldn't find yourself to even care. Looking down at them, you thought about Max and started to cry.

He had won. The internet had broken. Toto Wolff’s calls to Masi still resounded in your ears. Christian Horner’s tears of joy still flashed in your mind. The TV had caught Lewis crying and his father comforting him. The TV had caught Jos congratulating Max.

You knew all too well that had the outcome been reversed, Anthony would be celebrating like it was Lewis’ first Championship - but Jos would have no sense to even speak to his disappointment of a son!

If anything, you were just glad Max had won so that there would be no worrying tonight about what hidden scars his father would cause him. More than anything, you hated the fact that you were no longer able to protect Max like before. Drama aside, it broke your heart.

But your heart broke today for a different reason. Because even though Max would be okay... you were so fucking disappointed.

You saw - everyone fucking saw - Lewis still make an effort to celebrate on the podium. You saw how Anthony Hamilton still went to shake the hands of Jos, of Christian, of Max.

And Max almost didn’t fucking shake Anthony's hand.

And that, you took on yourself. You honestly thought you had taught him better than that.

Someone called out your name. You blinked. A quick wipe of your eyes and you schooled your face to greet the wide grin set on the face of one very elated Max Verstappen who was still dressed in his race suit standing before you.

“There you are! I've been looking for you everywhere!"

"Why?"

"Why? What do you mean why? Because I'm a fucking World Champion!" He said like it was the most obvious thing. You looked around and frowned. You checked your watch. Enough time had passed that he would be done in the cool down room. That meant you probably should go there and finish mopping.

So you sighed and made a move on to finish with mopping this up so you could get to the driver's room. Your lack of reaction and going back to mopping clearly stumped the driver - no, World Champion, in front of you.

"You -- what are you doing?” Max said, completely taken aback.

“Mopping up vomit.”

"Get someone else to do this shit."

"This is my job now, Max." You said and looked up at him with a stern look that made Max's smile falter a little bit.

"Can't you get someone else to do it?" He asked, taking the cap off to run a hand through his blond hair. "I'm-- We won."

"You won." You corrected. "I'm no longer affiliated with Red Bull."

"But I..." He stopped and closed his eyes. He huffed and you could tell that he was trying to sort through his frustrations. You had coached him one too many times about using his big boy words and actually talk about his feelings. Since, of course, Jos did fuck all to help Max learn to talk about emotional needs.

"I want to celebrate with you. It's important that I celebrate with you." Max said, eyes still closed.

"You and I both know that's not going to happen. Your mother has a restraining order against me and your father's mood is going to be dampened seeing me." You said. Max's eyes opened and you hated how the joy dimmed.

"But... I'm a World Champion." He said, sounding like a kid again. A defeated kid.

“You’re still Max Verstappen.” You said, the emphasis. The emphasis served to remind him that, World Champion or not, he was still Verstappen. As in the son of the very man who loathed your guts.

The emphasis also, you hoped was to remind him he was still a person, still Max Verstappen.

You wouldn’t let him lose himself like, arguably, Daniel had in the tempting champagne glory that comes with winning in Formula 1.

And it was that thought that reminded you of the sad fury of disappointment you had been sorting through before he'd surprised you.

"Are you at least going to congratulate me?” Max asked. "I just became a World Champion finally. Everything we always said and you're mopping up fucking vomit!"

You stopped and looked up at him. You thought carefully of your next words. Taking a breath, you spoke.

"Did you shake Lewis' hand?"

"What?"

"Did you shake Lewis' hand?" You repeated.

"Why the fuck would that—"

"Sportsmanship, Max." You interrupted him and then went back to mopping. "That’s why. Sportsmanship."

This set him off. "Are you serious right now?" He called your name out and when you continued mopping, he came round and pulled the mop away from you. You stepped back and he stepped forward and suddenly both of you had your shoes - his racing shoes and your Jordan 4s - were now in it. "I did it. i finally did it. I proved them all wrong. Everyone said it wasn't going to happen. The commentators. The journalists. Even Christian had his doubts. But I fucking won. I did it. Jos -- Jos said he was proud of me!"

You fought to keep your voice calm and level. "So why are you here? Do you want me to say that I'm proud of you as well?"

Max didn't speak, but continued to breathe heavily. His pride and his anger wouldn't let him say yes.

"I thought you would be happy! We worked so hard for this. And I'm not so fucking arrogant to admit that I did it because of you. And here you are talking about Lewis hand?"

"Yes. Because I'm not taking credit for tonight. Not one single fucking bit of it." Max blinked, your voice starting to raise as you finally got to it. "You say you're not arrogant enough to want to celebrate with me. A nice shout out to the Hospitality worker who gave you the fucking seat and trained you to where you are now. But you know what? I would rather mop up this shit that pretend that I am happy about what happened."

"You're not happy for me?"

"I'm not happy at myself Max." You said, losing anger and heavy a tired sigh, finally looking up at the sky. It was dark but you couldn't see any stars. The light pollution from a night race was always so ridiculous. Suffocating almost.

"Why?"

"Because I thought I had taught you better than that." You said, finally bringing your eyes down to look at him. "You watched the cooldown, Max. You saw what happened."

"Yeah? And?"

"And?" You mimicked him. "I — if I had been up there with you guys tonight, what do you think the first thing I would do?" He remained silent. His shoulders gave a minuscule shrug. "I would shake Lewis' hand. Max. And I would slap you on the back of your neck and make sure you did the same fucking thing. Just like Anthony."

"Are you serious not going to congratulate me not shaking Lewis’ hand?"

"I'm sorry, and you're saying you're not arrogant?" Your eyes narrowed. "Clearly you're not getting it Max so let me be blunt. I would rather be mopping up this fucking vomit right now than stand beside whatever the fuck that was. I don’t mean to rain on your parade here, believe me, this goes beyond you. But the least you could’ve done was shake Lewis hand and prove them wrong!"

"Them?" Max frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Max." You pinched the bridge of your nose "I work in Hospitality. I serve the rich white man. I hear a lot of shit."

It took Max a second. You looked at him and watched his face continue to look at you confusedly until the understanding set in his widening eyes.

"Are you saying..."

"I'm not saying anything." You said with a grim smile. He immediately understood. NDAs were dished out on the daily around here.

You set the broom down and turned to fully face him. You put your hands on his shoulders and stared him dead in the eye. Given his height advantage, you leaned on your tip toes to be able to reach up and press a kiss to his forehead. Coming down, you saw his eyes shine and you gave him a soft smile.

"Maximilian, my brother, I love you. And I am happy for you. But when you're up, don't forget what it was like when you were down. Hold onto that, actually. It'll mean you won't lose yourself and be there for those that will always be down."

And with that, you turned around and went back to mopping.

Max stood there, unable to say or do anything. He was too overwhelmed with emotion. This... more than winning a Championship... this he felt more. He couldn't put this in words. This hurt. But in a good way. It... He felt... He just felt.

Max vaguely heard his name being called and hands pulling at him. Red Bull engineers talking about partying. You kept mopping. Head down, arms moving forward and back and you went about your manual labour task while expensive Champagne was flowing over him once more.

"Where do you want to go? Winner's choice!"

He knew exactly where he wanted to go. What he wanted - what he needed to.

Despite winning a Championship, Max Verstappen was still getting an earful from Jos.

"Why the fuck did you go and shake his hand? And with all those cameras around? Do you know how that looks? He lost. You won. You don’t need to surround yourself with losers. No - fucking - pity. No mercy! Max! Why do you insist on being weak? I raised you better than this!"

Maybe that had been the problem. HIs methods of raising him.

His father’s tirade went to background music as he felt his phone buzz. He still had your contact details saved as before.

tessio’s wings 💪💪💪

i’m proud of you

Max smiled to himself. It was funny how his father had finally said those words - had finally said he was proud of him - and they were hollow to him. How long had Max longed for Jos to finally say them and when he finally did... Max realised he didn't need them. He didn't want them. What he wanted was you again. To see you smile at him and tell him good job. To show him the love that he hadn't felt for most of his life. He had missed that.

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