#mv33 fic

[procrastinatingawaymylife]

Just read a BANGER asf maxcar fic as soon as I woke up

the touch of a hand lit the fuse (of a chain reaction of countermoves) by mscppy on ao3 and tumblr

LIKE STOP THAT WAS SO GOOD JUST STOP IT BRO I CANT IM LOSING MY MIND

[cabjgr63]

I need some 3's to tell me if Max was a soloist artist what kind of music he would do. For science purposes

[anautumncarol]

nobody yet everything

maxiel, 1.1k, angst, link to ao3

The sweat dripped down the tanned, defined muscle in front of his eyes like rivulets. Droplets streaming down, down, down; disappearing behind a haphazardly bunched up race suit, probably getting soaked up by and darkening the fabric. Maybe some trailed further, survived the grasps of hydrophile fibres. Max didn't want to picture what those droplets would look like trailing so far south without obstacle. Not here. Not now.

No. Max might file the image for later, a future where he's definitely alone and his surroundings are dark enough to hide the sinful nature of his ministrations. Preferably somewhere near a shower to wash his conscious pristine again after the act.

See, it had become somewhat of a problem. It was no secret that his teammate was attractive. Sure Max had met Daniel unofficially or through training programs before the officiation of their partnership, but Max will forever remember the way his heart suddenly decided it had a thing for testing out polyrhythms as the Australian tugged him into a hug. It was brief, insignificant to the older, but the feeling of Daniel's rough hand wrapping around his much softer adolescent one as he tugged him in firmly had probably permanently altered something in his neurological make up. It was the only logical explanation for what he was experiencing now.

Daniel knew. Max not only was sure by how ridiculously obvious he was, the way the ghost of Daniel's body always lingered on his tongue whenever their bodies weren't pressed together also hinted at the other being in on the ploy. The physicality of their interractions was a rather new supplement to the psychosexual clusterfuck that was them. Max's barren wasteland of self preservation definitely did not help in getting himself in this position, but he wasn't quite sure if he could bring himself to hate it. Not quite. On the contrary, Max was delighted to finally be able to gaze, trace, taste every last inch of Daniel’s ethereal form; he revelled in it quite frankly. 

Maybe he revelled in it a bit too much. It was no secret that Daniel was merely indulging him, that Max was nothing more than a living, breathing, eager fleshlight for the other at best. As harsh as this nomination sounded, Max couldn’t afford delusions. He couldn’t let Daniel’s skinship mean anything more than it did: the simple smacking of skin on skin, all pleasure seeking, devoid of all emotion, devoid of love.

Love.

What a foreign concept.

Max had resigned himself to his unlovingness long ago. Max could only be deserving of love if he was the best. Not being the best meant no love. The rules were arithmetically simple, a simple case of 1=1. It had been simple enough for him to grasp as a kid, it was no different now. If Max became a winner, maybe he’d be deserving of Daniel’s love - proof of the matter was the simple fact they most often did things after he won a Grand Prix - yet he was still far from that dream within the standings. 

And Max still got the longer end of the stick, at least in those moments he knew he could bring himself to pretend, to act like every moan he pulled from the older’s lips were more than physiological reactions, that they were admissions of devotion. Devotion he was getting closer to getting everyday.

Max had overtaken Daniel in the championship. Max was the best in their own little category.

And with that came hope. Came bitterness. Max had proven himself. Max was the best. So why did Daniel’s appreciation not come with it?

It didn’t quite make sense, did it? Daniel was probably waiting for a winner to come, someone who could make him proud to call his. Yet nothing came. Daniel went about his day the same as always. A painfully Max-less day. It was puerile, of course it was, the frustration that came with rules not being followed - and by god was Max accustomed to rule bending in his line of work - but something as fundamental as the prerequisite for love not being respected?

Max could almost feel the floor stumble beneath his feet as he walked back from the podium that’d finally given him the lead. Max liked Spa, this had been his best result on the circuit to date. A podium meant a meet up later. A podium with finally the lead? For sure that’d mean something else, something more.

Yet Daniel was nowhere to be found besides the depths of Max's overactive mind. Every phone call left unanswered, every text sent left on read. Daniel knew the rules, sure they’d never been verbally explicited, but this was their habit. Max’s bottom lip was now split open with worry, the metallic taste of blood blooming on his tongue. An ugly part of Max reminded him of how much he’d prefer tasting the salt on Daniel’s skin instead.

He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting. What there is to expect. A confession? An apology? The total dodging of the elephant in the room? What could Daniel possibly say to fix the situation? What could he do? Max was lost, and it all was Daniel’s doing. Daniel’s vagueness, his lack of communication, his lack of tact, his lack of comprehension.

Max yearned for Daniel, yearned for his touch, yearned for his heart, yearned for his everything, everything he had to offer and everything else Max could take. But Daniel wasn’t offering anything, and Max could only grasp onto so much. And it was frustrating.

Maybe Max just wasn’t winning enough. Maybe he was too far from the best. Daniel couldn’t indulge him now, what if Max became latent because Daniel gave him more than what he deserved. Sure he was in front of Daniel, was the best Red Bull driver, but the world championship was still a chimera from where he was standing. He was only fifth in the standings, Lewis and Sebastian so so far away…

That was it! Daniel wouldn’t settle for anything lesser than world champion - he didn’t deserve to have to settle for less. Winning meant love, being the best meant love, those were the fundamental rules of existence, how stupid Max had been to forget them.

The acrid taste felt like static in Max’s mouth as he allowed his eyelids to shut. Maybe now wasn’t the right time for him and Daniel, but Max knew he had everything in the palm of his hands to get to that point. And everything that may have slipped through his fingers? He now had his reasons to believe he’ll catch up to them again.

[toasterpancakes]

Heels & Sneakers

Summary: Max picks you from the club at 2am to walk you home; he brings Lando and sneakers. A follow on blurb from The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You (but can be read as a standalone)

Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader (established relationship, childhood best friends to lovers) ft. platonic!Lando Norris

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, PDA, mentions of going out, suggestive themes, not proof-read.

Word count: Again, I’m sorry but i wrote this on the tumblr app so I have no clue

A/N: Childhood best friends to lovers with Max really gets me. If you send me a Max (or Lando, or George, or Alex) request, I would 10/10 do it - just saying.

DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

“I gotta to go,” you yell out towards your friends, body leaning forward, in an attempt to be heard over the loud booming bass of the music around you. You gesture to the phone which you have in hand, the screen lit up with a message from Max: Just got here. Come out when you’re ready? Your friends nod, a group of five girls with arms outstretched, each ready with a squeal and a goodbye hug of their own who smother you as a collective, each yelling a different farewell of “love you” / “see you at brunch” / “this was fun” / “get home safe” / “we need to do this again soon”.

You grin, throwing one last wave towards the group as you start to weave your way through the crowd on the dance floor. The extended weekend, courtesy of the bank holiday on Friday had the club more crowded than usual for a Thursday night. It was a night you and your friends, a motley crew that had amassed over your 2 years of being in the city, had planned on an impromptu whim. Max had asked if your group had wanted a table, but you had rejected his offer, preferring instead to be in the middle of the dance floor - the risk of you getting mobbed by the crowd without Max was low. You free yourself of the throng of people and duck through the doors, slipping by a group who had just stepped into the venue, their eyes bright and cheeks flushed from an alcohol induced glow.

The scene outside the club is hardly what you would call quiet, chatter punctuated by the occasional whoop of excitement, unbridled laughter and the faint thump of the bass reverberating from the inside of the building’s walls. But the difference in the noise level is sharp, as you step outside into the cool of the evening. You wander to the edge of the sidewalk, eyes combing the opposite sidewalk for the man you are looking for. Your face breaks into a smile, eyes recognising him before your mind, not drunk but running on a measured amount of alcohol registers him. Max, standing beside Lando, the two men holding a conversation beside a familiar looking car parked roadside - Lando with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth in the balls of his feet and Max with his legs squared, one hand in his pocket, and the other holding onto a pair of sneakers by the laces. You had gone to the club, and Lando over to Max’s (and now yours) for Fifa.

Lando spots you first and it earns you a friendly, familiar grin and wave of his hand. His greeting has Max whipping his head around, eyes already scanning his surroundings for you. His gaze lands on you and it softens, visibly, as a smile breaks out on his features. You raise a hand in a small wave back before flicking your head from left to right, checking for a clear road before crossing towards the two men.

Max has his hand out of his pocket and arm open before your feet even hit the ground of the sidewalk he and Lando are standing on. It allows you to tuck yourself into his side, Max’s arm winding around your shoulder, securing you against him like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together.

“Hi,” you greet both men, as Max greets you, a squeeze to your shoulder, lips connecting with the side of your temple.

“I brought you sneakers,” Max says, lips still against the side of your head, “figured your feet would be tired.”

“My knight in shining armour,” you joke, your words light and teasing but the smile on your face real. You move to reach for the sneakers, only for Max to move his hand out of reach. You raise a brow at him but Max only shakes his head lightly. You glance at Lando who looks just as mystified as you.

Max answers your questions with actions, he bends, one knee at a ninety degree angle and the other on the ground.

“Hand on my shoulder and foot up,” he instructs with his words and you listen, thanking yourself for your choice to wear jeans. Max’s hands move, deftly, gently prying off your heel before slipping your foot into a sneaker which he tugs in with a finish. He repeats the motions with your other foot.

“You guys are so cute, it’s actually disgusting,” Lando’s voice floats over, and you meet the glance of the curly haired Brit. His words, despite his choice, are fond. You had come to know him well enough over the course of Max’s friendship with him on and off track, and even better since you had moved to Monaco.

“He’s cute,” you say with a grin to which Lando fake grimaces.

“Not as cute as you,” is what Max says without an ounce of shame as he straightens back to his full height, sneakers on your feet, your heels dangling from his fingers. He slips his free hand into yours, palm warm.

“Am I cute too?” Is Lando’s reply, as he pushes his bottom lip out in an exaggerated fake pout, his arms turning palms up and up in a questioning manner.

The reaction is mixed: a “no” paired with a scowl from Max and a “yes” supplemented with a giggle from you. It has Lando both grinning and clutching his hands at his chest.

“Max, you wound me, but I’ll take a yes from her anytime.”

“You’re lucky she likes you,” Max says, faux threateningly.

“You’re my favourite WAG,” Lando stage whispers at you, “am your favourite driver.”

“Lando,” Max cuts in, only for you to shake your head.

“Second favourite after Ollie,” you say in an equally dramatic stage whisper which has Max squeezing your hand in protest, his brow twitching upwards. He doesn’t comment, because he knows it’s in jest; Max would happily cede the title of favourite driver as long as he was your number one in life.

“I’m telling Carlos,” Lando grins almost devilishly as he whips out his phone. He flicks on the camera, capturing him, and you in frame, both grinning wildly, and half of Max’s face, watching on in a strange mixture of entertainment and exasperation.

“Go home Lando,” Max says as he raises the hand holding your heels towards Lando’s car.

“Would my favourite WAG and her butler like a lift?” Lando eyes the shoes in Max’s hand which the Dutchman had flapped semi aggressively at him.

“It’s alright, we’ll walk off the alcohol,” you shake your head lightly.

Lando nods in understanding as he holds his hand out to Max. You feel a temporary loss of warmth as Max lets go of your hand to clasps Lando’s in a farewell shake. Lando extends rhe same hand to you and you offer a similar goodbye.

“We’ll do brunch, you me and Ollie,” he calls out, head turning slightly back as he slips into his car.

“Can’t wait,” you call back, raising your free hand which isn’t grasped in Max’s.

You both watch as Lando pulls away, car speeding into the distance.

“You know he’s probably planning that brunch already,” Max says as he tugs your hand gently, leading you down the street in the direction of your apartment.

“Probably, but I don’t mind,” you shrug as Max brings your intertwined hands up to his mouth, letting his lips brush the back of your hand.

“Did you have fun?” He asks, as you pass an excited group who you are sure are heading for the very club you had come from.

“Yes,” you hum a response.

“More fun than when you go out with me?”

“Competitive,” you comment with a soft laugh, as you lean slightly into Max’s side.

“Me?” Max feigns innocences as he welcomes the slight intrusion into his personal space, choosing to let go of your hand and instead to envelop you within his reach and pull you even closer “never.” He punctuates his sentence with a tiny grin as both your steps slow.

You come to a complete stop, and turn your body so that you are standing, your front facing Max. You lean towards his ear, and Max, ever facilitative, ducks down slightly while his free hand, without your heels, grips your side over your top. You slide our hands along the band of Max’s jeans, fingers slipping to dance along the skin of his abdomen beneath his shirt.

“I like frat boy Max,” you say, letting your lips trail along the shell of his ear before you plant a kiss, soft, featherlight on the skin right below. It has Max’s fingers pressing against your body more firmly.

“We can turn back, get back in the club with your friends,” he says, fingers running their way up your side, wrapping themselves round the side of your ribs.

“Or we can continue home, and to bed,” you take a step forward to press a kiss on the underside of Max’s jaw, before pressing another to his lips, soft, but lingering. It is innocent enough to any bystanders, but you pull away to catch a glimpse of bright blues that have darkened with a hint of something more primal.

“You’re a menace” Max mutters as he eyes you. His gaze doesn’t leave your face but you feel his hand shift, thumb idly sliding along the fabric of your top, hans still wrapped around the side of your body.

“Yes, but your menace,” you pull away from Max, and his hand drop from your body but finds your fingers immediately, “take me home Verstappen.”

“C’mon,” Max squeezes your fingers with his as he takes the lead, tugging you in the direction of home.

[chesapeakescove]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 20/? Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Max Verstappen/Original Female Character(s), Sebastian Vettel/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Max Verstappen, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr, Charles Leclerc, George Russell (Formula 1 RPF), Lando Norris, alex albon, Pierre Gasly, Christian Horner, Zac Brown, Torger "Toto" Wolff, Susie Wolff, Sebastian Vettel, Mika Häkkinen, Ayrton Senna Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Competition, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Daddy Issues, References to Depression, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, burn scars, Car Accidents, Explicit Sexual Content, Drunk confessions, Max Verstappen Needs a Hug, Max Verstappen is Bad at Feelings, Drinking to Cope, Implied/Referenced Grooming, Age Difference, Sebastian Vettel Being an Asshole, POV Max Verstappen, Female Formula 1 Driver, Jealousy, Cheating, Secret Relationship, Jos Verstappen Is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Drunk Sex, Identity Reveal, When Will These Two Morons Kiss?, The sexual tension between these two is crazy, Max Verstappen Has a Praise Kink, Lizzie hating her scars, Protective Torger "Toto" Wolff, Mika Hakkinen being the local paddock DILF per usual, because Lizzie's dad is too busy being an absent father, secondary romantic plots, But we all know where this is going, McLaren Formula 1 Team, Mercedes Formula 1 Team, Red Bull Formula 1 Team, Hurt/Comfort, Gender and Power Dynamics, Feminist Themes, Song: Learn To Fly (Foo Fighters), this one has character development! I hope.

Series: Part 1 of Burn Out Bright

Summary:

🎵𝘕𝘰𝘸, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵🎵

She closed her eyes as she tumbled against the earth, the weight of the impact crushing the halo above her and slamming her body with 50 Gs of force. She couldn't move, couldn't breath as the car flipped again. The vision was bright and then dark, then bright again. She should have focused, tried to remember her training on how to get out and how to survive when the car finally stopped. But all she could do was remember his face and recite his name like a prayer and a goodbye.

Max.

[myf1ficlog]

I Wish You Were Thinking About Me | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ex!Reader Summary: You've been broken up for months, but Max can't stop thinking about you, hoping you were still thinking about him Warnings: brief mention of smut, just more angsty WC: 1k AN: reblogs/comments are appreciated!!!

Max V→ You I dreamed about you again.

He looked at the message, groaned, deleted it and locked his phone. Max didn’t fall asleep again that night.

Max gasped and jerked awake, drenched in sweat. His heart beating out of his chest as he realized that no, he wasn’t at home in Monaco, in bed with you. 

He was thousands of miles away in the team hotel, another race weekend, another flyway, and another day when you in fact, weren’t even at his apartment in Monaco. Flashes of the dream haunted him, the same dream he had over and over again: you in one of his faded Red Bull shirts, riding Max, gasping his name, your hands over his on your hips, the glint of your engagement ring catching the morning light. The ring that Max never gave you, that still sits tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand. 

Max groaned and rolled over, looking at his phone. It was some ungodly hour, and he knew you were awake halfway across the world. Did you ever think about Max? He had no reason to hope that you still thought about him, but you haunted his thoughts still.

He opened your contact, still pinned to the top of his messages.

Max V→ You I dreamed about you again.

He looked at the message, groaned, deleted it and locked his phone. Max didn’t fall asleep again that night.

•••••

It had been months, nearly a year, since you broke things off. Max doesn’t even remember what the fight was about, how it started. The only thing he remembers is feeling like his heart was shattering when you looked at him across the kitchen, your eyes tired and red from crying, telling him that you regretted it, all of it– him, before walking out. 

He knew it was his fault, he knew that he wasn’t attentive enough, that he took you for granted, that you would always be there, because you always had. You had been everything, and Max ruined it.

Neither of you reached out. Neither of you fought for it. You were tired. He knew. And he knew he was too late to fix it. So he let it be.

He never got over you. Sure, he tried, he pretended. He told himself he was over you, that this would be the day he didn’t think about you. He’d go out in Monaco, or team after parties in whatever city he was in, when Lando or Danny would invite him out, flirt with girls who looked enough like you after a couple drinks, kiss them, sometimes take them back to his hotel, but it was never the same. They were pretty girls, nice girls even, but they weren’t you. And he hated himself, that he expected to feel different each time.

He didn’t know why he expected leaving the club with someone who looked enough like you on his arm wouldn’t widen the emptiness he felt in his chest. Did you see the rumor pages, the fuzzy fan photos? Did you hate him for doing it?

Max V→ You I hope you know they could never be you

•••••

Max absentmindedly sipped the gin tonic set in front of him, scrolling through your latest post on Instagram, studying it as if it would give him some sign that he should reach out, that he would have another chance, that he should press send on any of the texts he's ever typed out. 

“Mate, stop looking at her Instagram” Lando mumbled, thanking the flight attendant for his drink as well. “You’re not helping yourself.”

“I’m not on her Instagram,” Max said quickly, too defensively, glaring at Lando, dropping his phone into his lap.

“I’m not dumb. She just posted like ten minutes ago,” Lando said, holding up his phone and turning it towards Max. “I already liked it,” he smirked. “Mate seriously, it's been, what, a year since she left? If you’re not gonna man up then move on.”

“I… it’s not that simple”

“Simple enough from here, mate”

Max just glared at Lando momentarily before his shoulders slumped and he visibly deflated, turning his face towards the window, looking down at the view. 

Ocean, nothing as far as the eye could see. He felt like that sometimes. From above, miles away from the surface, it looked calm. But Max knew up close, it was another story, choppy seas, rough waters. From a distance he had it together, but up close? Those closest to him could see his heart was still in turmoil thinking about you. 

He picked up his phone again, opening your contact.

Max V→ You Lando caught me looking at your Instagram. I miss you every day.

He never sent them.

•••••

You still lived in Monaco. You had built a life here with Max. But you had made your own connections, your own friends. You were still friends with several prominent paddock figures, those connections had not gone away just because your relationship with Max had ended. 

Max shouldn’t have been surprised to catch a glimpse of you in the paddock. Shouldn’t have felt like he had been sucker punched to see you with Alexandra at Ferrari hospitality, a glass of wine in front of you both as you chatted. He had no right to feel like the ground had tilted beneath him. 

He heard your laughter as he walked by to reach the Red Bull garage and nearly tripped when he turned his head to look at you. He shouldn’t have felt like his heart had been struck by lightning when you made eye contact. Max looked away quickly, his heart in his throat, hiking his backpack further up his shoulder and increasing his pace, hurrying along.

He didn’t see you nearly knock your glass of wine over, reassuring Alexandra that you were fine, you knew you would see him this weekend. He didn’t see you look over your shoulder and watch him walk into the Red Bull hospitality, the doors closing smoothly behind him. 

He didn’t see you pick up your phone, opening his contact.

You → Max V 🦁 🧡 I’m still rooting for you

[lw77]

working on ch.8 of diet pepsi idk why i stopped 🤔 i may make this a universe and post blurbs of the characters once this final ch. is done 🤭💈

[nomatterwhatnomatterwhere]

Feels (Wistful) like Summer Rain

A.N: Soo... it took me longer than I thought to finish this one. I'm really sorry about this. I'm not entirely satisfied, especially with the ending. I don't know. Let me know what you think. In any case I hope you like it

T.W: emotional abuse ( kinda ?), social anxiety ( done bad but still)

Max's pov: Feels (Warm) like Sunlight

Kelly's pov: Feels (Harsh) like Winter Wind

Misunderstanding Max was not difficult, in fact he made it quite easy.

And you had always read too much between the lines

That was why you hadn't insisted when Max had wanted to change the subject when you'd alluded to Kelly.

Part of you wanted to insist, to know if it was worth it after all, to take a step back. But another part didn't want to hurt Max any more than the rest of the world already had.

He hardly ever gave it away, but he didn't like being labelled the villain of the story. The villain of every story.

Who would?

Yet with the character he had on the track, with his racing manner, he was perfect for the role.

You remembered perfectly his eyes asking you to confirm what the tabloids reported, whether it was true that he was unfair and violent.

You remembered well how easy it was to see his poker face collapse at the slightest hint, and how no one seemed to notice.

Or maybe they pretended not to notice.

Because people like to see what they want to see, what suits them, and it didn't matter if they ruined other people's lives with their way of doing things.

Because people had seen Max's raw talent and had decided that that sixteen-year-old boy was the ideal villain in a world of competitiveness where only the best can triumph.

That's exactly why you meant every word you said, that you were truly sorry, because you had seen how happy Kelly had made him, and you really hoped the two of them had parted better than the gossip pages let on, and it hurt that you couldn't be more of a comfort to him at that moment.

But you didn't belong there.

Not any more. For a long time.

Max had caught your eye long before you realised it.

Your situation at the time wasn't the best, but that didn't mean you were easily distracted, quite the contrary.

It had been rather strange how between acting as if nothing was changing at school, and dealing with foster care at home, it had been Max who had caught your attention.

Max didn't attend classes much, and no one really knew why, plus his home situation wasn't much happier than yours.

Only yours had been handled much better. His were rumours that were somehow confirmed.

Maybe he had attracted you because you thought you were similar, even though you knew how different you really were.

Those few times you saw Max at school, he never tried to hang out with the others; no matter how much his gaze lingered on the groups of kids at recess, he never got up to go to them, and they always kept their distance from him, but Max never seemed to mind so much.

You, on the other hand, always had anxiety about being alone, you didn't want to stay with your thoughts. But you also got anxious when you were with your friends, because you were never really honest with them, because you didn't want to argue with anyone, because you never took sides for fear they would get angry with you and leave you alone.

Somehow neither of you were really comfortable with the others.

You found out why Max was so absent because you asked the Vermeulen, your foster parents.

It had taken you a while to open up to them, not because they were mean or you didn't like them, they were just different from what you were used to, and you didn't want to be a burden of any kind to them, who had welcomed you with open arms first into their home and then into their family

It had not been easy for them either, the therapist who had dealt with you had said that your adapting so much to what others wanted was the result of a trauma that you had not yet realised you had suffered.

And how could you, what the psychologist called ‘trauma’ had been normal for you until child welfare workers had turned up on your doorstep asking you to pack your bags.

In fact, you had difficulty understanding why they had taken you away from your parents: they were not violent, had never beaten you and they had never made you lack anything. Of course they often shouted at each other, about things you didn't understand, but wasn't that something all couples did? They demanded that you behave well in every situation, that you never talk back, and that you do well at school, but there was nothing strange in expecting you to be a polite child. They weren't affectionate parents, but that didn't make them monsters, most people don't like physical contact and your parents were that kind of person.

The Vermeulens had given you an mp3 so you could listen to the music you wanted when you were studying without feeling guilty about the volume. When you travelled by car Vincent, Mr Vermeulen, always took the longer and more scenic drives because you liked to watch the scenery change, and you could listen to a few more songs because that mp3 had become your best friend. They had taken you to see The Nutcracker at the theatre because it was your favourite CD in Mrs Vermeulen's vast collection, Julie, you had listened to it so much that she had bought a copy just for you.

For Christmas they had taken you to a Christmas fair because you had never been to one, with Julie putting your scarf over your nose every three times so you wouldn't look too much like Rudolph and Vincent holding you on his shoulders when your feet started to hurt.

The best thing, though, was seeing the two of them at the candy stand arguing over which was better between liquorice and gummy bears, only to see you choose milk candy. From then on there were always packets of those sweets around the house

It was this blatant distinction between your parents‘ and the Vermeulens’ way of doing things that made it difficult for you to open up to them: You loved your parents, but Julie and Vincent made you feel not only valued but also part of something, and that made you feel ungrateful and unappreciative.

That was a thought you didn't feel ready to share yet though, so you diverted to the other thought that wandered through your head with no intention of paying rent

"He participates in a lot of races, that kid is a karting prodigy."

Max wasn't family, but Vincent couldn't deny that he had a keen eye for the little devil that haunted his go kart track, perhaps because you could see from afar that little Verstappen had talent to spare, or perhaps because a bit like you, he looked to him like a child older than his age.

Maybe that was why he didn't object when Julie, after a doubtful look from you, suggested you spend some time at the go-kart track and see for yourself how good your classmate was

The go-kart track was your second - third ? - home. You liked how every time you went there you felt relieved of a burden, you felt free of the tension of having to be attentive to everything around you, that was probably why you had never noticed Max before.

But once you did, it was hard not to notice him: he was one with the kart, he looked like he was made for racing on the track.

It was also hard not to notice his father: Jos Verstappen was someone who made you feel strange, somehow Jos reminded you of your parents even if you didn't quite understand how that was possible.

Your parents would never have left you somewhere because you had not achieved the desired results in a competition. Jos always seemed to be dissatisfied with what Max did, and Max seemed sad, even though it was obvious that he loved racing on the track

You had approached him after Jos had left him stranded for the umpteenth time. You knew he'd come to pick him up. If he hadn't, his mother would have done it. But that time he seemed the most broken you had ever seen him.

You weren't sure what it was, but since that day something had clicked between you: it was the reading between the lines, the catching of a different look from the usual, the slight change in tone, the getting to know each other so intimately that made your relationship with Max so immensely different from any other.

It was something that grew with you over time, something uniquely yours but that everyone around you perceived, even without really understanding it.

That was why you thought you had a special place in his life: apart from his family, you were the person he spent most time with on and off the track.

You always knew what was going on in his head without him uttering a word, not that Max was one who didn't speak.

Max could talk a lot when he wanted to, and when he talked about something he liked - racing, engines, winning - he had a light in his eyes that made it impossible not to be spellbound listening to him.

To say that Max wasn't popular would be a lie, you remembered with deep affection his confused look when he found a stack of Valentine's Day dedications on the counter, his gaze seeking confirmation in yours, as if to ask if what was happening was normal, and his not knowing quite how to act about it.

It was something Victoria often teased him about, not knowing how to read those social interactions

"Probably all the space in his head is taken up with strategies for competitions."

You really thought you had a chance, you saw it: you saw how Max sought your gaze before others, how he somehow searched for your approval, your support. How he was looking for you.

At least until Kelly had arrived and reality had hit you like a bucket of ice water as the ground beneath your feet crumbled.

You wanted so badly for him to love you back that you had seen things that had never been there, because obviously Max had never had a thing for you.

Because otherwise you wouldn't have seen that look in his eyes, as if Kelly had attached the moon to the sky.

You wouldn't have seen that smile so joyful when he talked to her, when you had waited years to see him smile like that.

You wouldn't have felt like you were in the way.

It sucked to feel that way. Rejected. It hurt so much that even the thought of feeling that way again led you to avoid seeing his races, limiting yourself to messages of good luck or congratulations, but even those were short-lived

"I think I've lived Max's life enough" was what you told the Vermeulen after days of silence "Racing is his passion. Not mine. I think it's time to try something new" you had finished with a small smile, resigned, but at least not forced.

But that didn't mean they didn't stay awake with you when you cried at night, in case you needed something.

You wouldn't have needed anything.

But they kept leaving you over the kitchen counter a cup of hot chocolate, bitter, because you had long since given up the absurd amount of sugar that was milk candy.

They had both been open and understanding when with downcast eyes you had asked, whispered, if it was all right for you to walk away from that world

"You're your own person, and it's just right you try different things and what works better for you. Our world doesn't have to be your world. And that won't change what we feel about you"

You realised you were crying when Julie wiped the tears from your face. She had just painted her nails.

Relationships with the Verstappens went on without too much trouble, they had only diminished, sleepovers and outings with Victoria were still a must have and Sophie had never made a secret of how much she enjoyed your company.

Only once had you been asked if you would like to see one of Max's races live again.

Neither of them had insisted when you had declined due to an important commitment that day, but neither of them had missed how tense you were at the question.

It was true though, even if you had wanted to go, you couldn't because you really had an important commitment.

Since your time away from the world of racing you had tried different things, but radio was the one you felt most at home in: whether you were put on the assistant director's desk or the leaderboard or whatever, you felt you were in your own world.

When you had been offered to replace one of the announcers you had accepted, even if it meant not sleeping until the next morning.

It was worth it, in the end, because they had confirmed you for that nightly column which, although niche, had seen a significant increase in ratings since you had been hosting it. The audience liked your approach, they interacted more, even at that ungodly hour, and even for the other hosts it was clear that that was your place.

The YouTube channel came later, even though it wasn't entirely your idea: at first it was stories or live feeds on Instagram, but your audience seemed to like it and they suggested you expand it, so you did.

There were people who didn't like you, who thought you were fake and posh, and who enjoyed sending you unkind comments. But it didn't matter any more.

There were people who liked you, even without ever having seen you. People who without knowing you thanked you because you had said something that made their day better, or because they felt understood by someone.

(That had been another reason for your broadening the topics of discussion on your channel).

Deciding to do a live broadcast from the kart track had been something you had been thinking about for a while.

Even though you had drifted away from the world of racing, it had always been a part of you, and it would come back to greet you cyclically when you got notifications of start times, qualifying results or penalty investigations.

You hadn't managed to completely detach yourself from what had been your world for most of your life, those who knew you simply didn't know this side of you.

You were embarrassed to say that the reason you no longer followed the sport so assiduously was because it reminded you of how your first crush had rejected you without realising it, and you were even more embarrassed to think that that little crush on Max Verstappen had never really got over.

But the kartdrome was not just the more or less painful memories of Max. It was also the hiding between the tyres to study, the milk sweets you offered to everyone who came in, the people who switched from karts to formula but always went back to their roots, so you decided to give it a try.

You didn't know how you would react if it went wrong, but fortunately for you your interest in the sport seemed to be appreciated, so much so that you found yourself walking around a paddock again after not setting foot there for years.

Returning to breathe the air of racing was strange: it wasn't something new, but it was different from what you remembered.

It was strange to move around and meet people who wanted to take a photo with you, hug you or just say hello, you didn't think you had brought much to what was the world of car racing, yet everywhere you turned there were people who seemed to think otherwise.

It was even stranger to meet familiar faces long before they became famous. You'd known them from Max's races, you'd even stopped to talk to some on occasion, but you hadn't kept in touch.

"Look who's finally back"

It had taken you a while to realise that Esteban was talking to you: you couldn't remember ever having spoken a word to him when you went to watch the races. He must have noticed, as he snorted a laugh before showing you a photo in which oh, yeah, that was definitely you wearing a sweatshirt kindly donated by Max standing next to you

The other kid in the photo must have been Esteban but in your eyes he was so different that you had to alternate your gaze between him and the photo before you really realised.

"You were always nice to everyone. It was a shame not to see you around any more."

He had been the first to say it, but after meeting other drivers the general thought seemed the same: you were someone who, despite everything, stuck out.

Not once had the thought of how you would behave if you met Max crossed your mind.

That's why you didn't know how to react when you met him.

Although perhaps it was more accurate to say that it was he who had met you.

It wasn't that you hadn't recognised him, you were realising that the man in front of you, with the two glasses in his hand, wasn't one of the many people there.

It was Max Verstappen.

The same Max Verstappen who didn't know how to deal with others, who watched from afar as the other children played, not knowing which way to approach them.

You didn't know what it was, whether an involuntary reflex or something else, but you broke that embarrassed silence.

Yours was not a question to be answered with ‘less than you think’, and you were ready to ask for an argument if he did not ask another question

"Why didn't you come to the Redbull pit?"

That wasn't a question to ask someone you hadn't seen in a long time, especially not in that tone that almost seemed to accuse you, when he had no right to do so

"Sorry what-"

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to the races? I could've-"

"I didn't have to tell you tho" maybe you had been too blunt in answering him, but it was true. You didn't have to give any information, plus it would have been weird to tell Max with whom you had been radio silent for years "We hadn't talked in ages, I couldn't just text you. It didn't feel right, you know?"

You had seen his gaze change and could feel the wheels turning in his head, but you too had started to ask yourself some questions

"Didn't think you knew I was there … Was it Vic who told you?"

"Heard you on the radio"

Oh. You didn't think Max was a radio guy, honestly. Not least because even though they'd changed them, your column times still remained infamous.

There was another silence that led to your apology for his break-up with Kelly, a subject Max didn't seem to want to talk about at all, given the fleeting change of expression.

He was pensive. And sad. Yet more proof of how important Kelly was to him.

Somewhat resentfully you wondered if he had ever made such an expression thinking about you, although you found it difficult that between all his commitments Max found time to think about you.

He hadn't thought about you since he started dating Kelly, why would he now

"I can get you a pass, if you plan to watch the race"

You had laughed.

What else were you supposed to do in a situation that oscillated between the ridiculous and the comical

"If I plan to watch the race? I don't think you will ever find someone who's not here for the race. Well, they sure have other things to do, but you know what I mean"

It was common knowledge that the Montecarlo race was the VIP hangout, and you didn't think you had to be the one to explain it to Max

"I appreciate the thought, but I already got my pass, but thank you"

you backed away from the railing you had been leaning against, convinced that the conversation would end there, now that you had nothing to go on talking about, but what he asked next left you mildly surprised

"Even for Quali?"

He "You… “ remembered "have my attention"

It wasn't common knowledge, but you often preferred qualifying to racing: there was something about pre-race performances that gave you goosebumps, an adrenaline rush you could never quite describe.

Max knew it. He'd listened to you for hours as you explained how the qualifying air was different, and he often agreed with you, even if he would just put his head down and let you talk.

Time may have passed, but he still had that same expression that you had never been able to put a name to.

You had smiled when you recognised Raymond's voice greeting you: he had been Verstappen's manager for as long as you could remember, but it was he who had steered you into the world of radio. You owed him a lot -

(Did that make you an honorary nepo- baby of some kind?).

After asking him to pass on your apologies to Ray you were drawn into another conversation, and then another and another, that you almost didn't notice how Max's presence followed you around like a shadow, though not physically, and how that seemed to make the others uncomfortable.

Almost.

It had been like stepping back in time for an evening: sensing his gaze from a distance, knowing exactly what he was thinking with just a glance, having conversations that lasted a blink of an eye, a slight smile or a shake of the head

And you were pretty sure the next day you would have regretted not clarifying the situation right away.

It had come back to you why you thought you had a chance with him, why you had seen things that had never been there, why you had fallen in love with him

Misunderstanding Max wasn't difficult, in fact, he made it quite easy.

And you had always read too much between the lines