#silverstone drabbles

[jup1t33r]

[jup1t33r]

surprise! have a silverstone drabble.

1.6k, mostly below the cut.

---

It feels like a lifetime between when Max's wheel clips the Lotus and he actually hits the barrier. He skids across Saint Devote, countersteering instinctually, even with his tyre pulled free from the chassis and flailing.

He has enough time to think to himself, I'm going to crash. Has enough time to think about how much it will hurt, but he doesn't, because there's nothing he can do about it now. All he can do is keep his hands on the wheel and try to control the car the best he can with one of the wheels pulled free from the chassis and flailing. Try to prevent it from spinning completely out of control.

He hits the barrier, and his head snaps forward with the force, and for a moment, the world quakes, vision shaky inside his helmet.

His engineer is on the radio within an instant, asking if he's alright, and Max is already moving his thumb to the button to confirm before he even checks himself over.

Really, though, if he's able to understand what his engineer is saying, and if he's still able to radio back, then he's fine.

It's almost ironic, Max thinks, as he starts to undo his straps, that the response is only ever an affirmative, because the drivers who aren't okay can't say so.

-

It feels like a lifetime between when Max's wheel clips Lewis' and he actually hits the barrier. He skids across the gravel at Copse, countersteering instinctually, even with his tyre pulled free from the chassis and flailing.

He has enough time to think to himself, I'm going to crash. Has enough time to think about how much it will hurt, but he doesn't, because all he can think about are the twenty-five points he's just lost, comfortable championship lead eradicated.

He keeps his hands on the wheel, tries to control the car, but he's not heading towards the barriers nose-cone first over asphalt. The contact with Lewis spun him around, and now no amount of counter-steering will right him.

He's an instant from impact with the wall, heading in sideways, when some small part of his brain that he shuts down whenever he gets into the car sends up warning lights.

His last thought before it all goes black is to make sure he presses the radio button as soon as possible to let GP know he's okay.

-

After Monaco, Max is actually pleased about the crash.

Well, he's not pleased that he fucked the car into the wall and lost his chance at a points finish in Monaco. But he's glad, honestly, that he crashed, and that he crashed the way he did, with so much momentum, the force of the impact snapping his head forward.

Max knows that you can't have any fear when you're in the car. That you need to shut down the parts of your brain that scream about safety. Because the moment you don't go for a gap, you're no longer a racing driver. And the moment you're scared about the outcome, you stop going for gaps.

Max knows this—has known it his whole life. Has spent his career shutting down his brain, getting into the car, and flooring it, regardless of the consequence.

Still. There's always been this part of him, far back in his mind, that whimpers and flinches away at the thought of a crash. A part of him that's scared of the hurt, unknowing of how bad it will be.

It's easier, after he's fucked it into the wall, head snapping forward with the force, to shut down that part of his brain, too. To say, Look, we know what it's like to crash. And it's not so bad, is it?

He doesn't whimper and flinch away from the thought of a crash, after Monaco. And he was right, really. All of the crashes after his first are minor league. Not so bad, is it?

-

Max blinks his eyes open, not quite sure when he closed them. Everything—everything—hurts. But he can't think about that right now. There's nothing he can do about it. He needs to... do something. Do something that means he's okay.

His thumb finds the radio button. He tries to say, All good, but all that comes out is a punched-out groan.

Fuzzily, he thinks to himself, Isn't it ironic? That the drivers who aren't okay can't say so?

-

The first time Max crashes his kart, his mama is beside him in an instant. Cooing, soothing, hands shaky on his helmet clasps.

Behind her, Max sees his father's face, cold and steely.

He says, "I'm okay, Mama. I'm okay." And he doesn't even care if it's true, because all he wants is his mama's hands to stop shaking; for his father's mouth to tick up with pride.

But he gets out of the kart, stands still as his mama checks him over, inch by gentle inch. Accepts a kiss on the forehead, face held tight in warm hands. "You're okay, baby."

Max hadn't cared if it was true when he'd said it, but now his mama is saying it too, so it must be.

He trusts his mama, and sometimes, when he tries hard enough, he can hear her voice in his own. Can curve his vowels around a word just like she does.

The next time he crashes, he hears her voice in his head—You're okay, baby—and he speaks it into existence.

"I'm okay."

-

Max is okay, he is. And he would say it over the radio if the stupid medical crew would let him. But they barely even let him climb out of his car alone, even though it's protocol, even though he's supposed to get himself out of the car if he's fine, which he is.

They won't keep their hands off of him, and he thought that he already batted them away, but they're back again, points of contact down his arms and his sides, and he's focusing so hard on walking to the ambulance that he just doesn't have the energy to shake himself free again.

He squints against the bright sun. Mumbles to the doctor at his side; asks, "Did you tell GP I'm okay?"

"Yes, Max. Your team all know that you're out of the car."

Max takes a step. Another. Another. Carefully doesn't let his feet drag through the gravel. "But did you tell GP I'm okay?"

Because it's only the drivers who aren't okay who can't say so, and he's okay, he is. And he would have been able to tell GP so, if only they'd given him some more time. A couple more moments to catch his breath.

"Your engineer can see the broadcast, and your team has been informed that you are being taken to medical. Alright, easy does it, step up."

Max wants to ask for a phone. Wants to ask the doctors to go back to his car—to tear out his radio and bring it to him, so he can press the button and say, loud and clear, Yeah, I'm all good. So he can hear GP's sigh in response as he tells him to put the car in P1 before shutting it off.

It's only the drivers who aren't okay who can't say so, and he hasn't said so. Finger connected to radio, but all he could manage was nothing.

-

In Canada, Max gets into his car, scowling at the penalties, but he stays out of trouble, and he drives.

He doesn't score any points.

-

In the hospital, his father's face is cold and steely.

Max speaks in his mother's voice to every doctor—I'm okay, I'm alright, I'm fine.

He doesn't care if it's true as he says it. But it must be. It must be.

-

In Hungary, Max gets into his car, squinting against the brightness hanging heavy under the clouds, and he tries to stay out of trouble, but he still finds himself off the track with a nosecone in his side.

He's not in the wall, car crumpled, tyre flailing, so he doesn't have to make his words sweet and reassuring over the radio. Doesn't have to say he's okay.

All he has to do is put his foot on the pedal and drive.

The drivers who aren't okay can't say so, and Max could, if he wanted, but he has more important things to do right now.

During the Red Flag, GP turns in his chair on the pit wall, furrows his brow, opens his mouth, but Max cuts him off before he can ask.

Without the barrier of the radio between them, without the helmet pulled safe over his eyes, Max isn't sure he can curve his vowels around the right words. Isn't sure that he could make himself say what he's supposed to.

-

GP is waiting for Max back at the circuit. He has Max's things gathered in his arms, like he knew exactly why Max would return.

Max stumbles over his words, fingers twitching towards a radio button that isn't there. "I'm alright."

GP wraps him into a hug, gentle.

Max presses his face into GP's shoulder. Breathes steady, in and out, inhaling the scent of the track and the car and the pit wall. When he speaks, it's to the fabric of GP's jacket—to the Red Bull logo high on his chest. Muffled, where no one can hear.

"I'm okay."

[jup1t33r]

ok so im gonna put you thru more hell cuz i REALLY NEED THIS but all roads lead to rome, sebs reaction to the 2021 silverstone crash :> like seb and lewis are really close friends but then lewis put max in the wall and then celebrated right?? and ive heard somewhere that seb was the only driver waiting for max at the track too AND MAX WENT AND RACED HUNGARY LESS THEN 2 WEEKS LATER TOO plspslsplslp

Sebastian doesn't care about who won. What it means for the championship, what it means for his friends. What it means for Lewis, at his home race; for Charles, for whom the win would still only be his third. (For Max, whose healthy lead in the championship has been eradicated.)

Sebastian doesn't care about who won. He only cares about who's still breathing.

He finishes the race and finally lets his brain switch from 'focused racer' to 'concerned friend.' Kills the engine and beelines it for his team on the pit wall, waving off the FIA employee who tries to remind him to get weighed.

They can disqualify him, for all he cares. That's not what's important, right now.

His engineer has no info. Just the same as there was during the red flag, before: Max is in the hospital, getting checked.

The Red Bull crew doesn't seem to have any news, either. Their faces are pinched with concern and rage. Christian is yelling on the phone. Johnathan is still speaking calmly on the radio with the stewards, even though the race has finished. Adrian has his face in his palms.

GP keeps checking his phone every two seconds, flipping it screen-up then placing it down. Lifting it up, putting it down. Foot tapping, biting his lip.

Sebastian hears a buzz, and then GP is practically sprinting down the pit lane towards the car park.

Sebastian knows better than to run after him and ask for a lift to the hospital. Knows he doesn't have the right.

Sebastian takes GP's chair, next to Hannah, who is looking through data like it holds the answers, somewhere, to how Max is doing. Asks if he can stay and wait for any updates with them.

She nods distractedly, and Sebastian clings to it like a lifeline.

-

It's sunset when Christian finally gets a text from GP, telling them that Max is on his way back to the paddock to grab his things.

Everybody else has left. Sebastian could tell that none of them had wanted to. All would have preferred to sit in the Red Bull garage all night, holding vigil, waiting for their son to return home.

But Christian, with nothing else to do after every phone call had been a dead end, had demanded that everybody else leave. Had told them to get their rest, because they'll be back on track in just a couple of weeks.

Had reminded them that it wasn't their fault.

Sebastian knows Christian doesn't believe it. Knows that nobody else will, either.

Christian had tried to convince Sebastian to leave as well, but Christian isn't his boss anymore. Hasn't been in a while.

The sun is setting, and Sebastian runs to the car park, leaving Christian behind. Paces back and forth at the edge of the curb and remembers, for just a flash, another sunset, another circuit, waiting for Max's car to drive into view.

Just like then, the sky is dark and the wind is bitingly cold by the time headlights cut through the lot. But this time, Sebastian approaches the car.

Max's movements are stiff. His face is pale. He's wearing a jacket, but Sebastian knows, this time with certainty, that his body must be decorated in a mosaic of bruising underneath.

"Max, are you okay? How are you doing—are you okay?"

Even looking at him, seeing that he's alive, Sebastian needs the confirmation. Needs to hear Max say that he's alright. That he'll be alright.

Max stumbles slightly as he gets out of the car, and Sebastian moves forward, grabs his arm to stabalize him.

Max's face contorts into a wince. He exhales hard.

How the hell had he been cleared for release?

They stay like that for a few moments, unmoving. Max breathing heavily, eyes closed. Sebastian thinks that there are other people around them—Max's father, his trainer. GP. Christian. But nobody moves, says anything. They just wait for Max to catch his breath.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, Max straightens. Opens his eyes, blinks at Sebastian, squinting.

Pastes a smile on his face that falls apart at the edges, corners shaky.

"I'm okay."

And Sebastian, just like so many times before, has to accept Max's blatantly false words. Has to accept that, with Max, he always has to choose between two evils.

He runs a hand up and down Max's arm, gentle. Says, "I hope so."

Max's expression shutters, shaky corners pulling down.

He closes his eyes. Takes another breath in. Sebastian hears it catch before it should, too shallow.

"I'm okay."

[jup1t33r]

okay @lost-in-fandoms' recent post about how post-concussion symptoms can include mood swings made me throw up and cry and then write a shitty drabble. i'm never not crying over silverstone.

mostly below the cut

---

Ever since Silverstone, there's been a simmering anger beneath Max's skin. Nestled in too deep to scratch away, though God knows Max has tried.

He tells himself that he forgives Lewis, forgives Mercedes. Tells himself that it was just hard racing. That it wasn't anybody's intention for him to get hurt.

He tells himself over and over again, but his head's been a bit fuzzy lately, and he just can't seem to make the thoughts connect. Can't quite send the message deep enough into his skin for it soothe the simmering anger.

He avoids Lewis the best he can, avoids the media as much as he's able. Lowers his visor, where nobody can see his scowl; gets into the car and drives.

Even in the car, his suit feels too tight, his skin too hot. Every time he has to blink away another blurry wave, he grits his teeth and continues to burn.

He tries to remind himself to only speak when he has something constructive to say. Tries to remind himself that the team are only trying to look out for him, only trying to help. Only trying to win, just like Max wants.

Still, his head is fuzzy. The thoughts don't connect. Sometimes, he finds himself with his thumb on the radio button, spitting down the line, words sharp.

After every race, when he's in his hotel room, listening to his father's cold words, all he can hear is the venom that had been in his own voice.

He wants to put that fire under his skin to good use; rip his vocal cords right out of his throat.

He looks into the mirror. Puts a hand around his neck, nails digging in, sharp.

(Every day, he looks more and more like his father.)

[jup1t33r]

*hands shaking* i can stop (writing drabbles) any time, i swear

for @its-an-echo

cw for silverstone 2021

(partially) under the cut:

---

It's one of the first things you learn in Formula One: How to crash.

It's like learning to fall. Not a matter of if it will happen, but when.

You learn how to go two hundred kilometers per hour off the track and slow time down. Turn to counter-steer, feel the grip. Calculate when the effort is worthless. Brace for impact; pull your hands from the wheel so the jerk doesn't shatter your fingers. Pray.

Max's T-cam, had it still been intact after smashing into the tyre barrier at 51G's, would have shown his hands still tightly gripping the wheel.

-

At first, there's only chilling silence over the radio, smoke and dust pluming.

GP counts the seconds. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. “Max, are you okay?” 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Max's radio clicks to life, his groans sounding like they're being punched out of him. "Fuck."

He pulls himself out of his broken car and sits slumped on the halo. Tries desperately to get air into his lungs.

Later, in the hospital, he blinks blearily up at GP, like he can't quite see him properly. His skin is pale, littered with bruises. His face is pulled into a perpetual wince. His breaths are shallow.

His hands, miraculously, are alright.

The first thing he says is, "How's the car?"

-

Twelve days later, they're back on track.

The car is fixed, and Max says he is, too.

Brad helps him into his race suit one arm at a time, gentle, slow.

He stumbles getting into the car, breathing hard as he swings a leg into the cockpit. Grips onto the halo as he lowers himself down into the seat, knuckles bone white, mouth a hard line.

He takes a moment, eyes closed. Breathes in, out. In. Out.

Gloves go on, helmet goes on—a new one, undented and without paint smeared over the top like blood. Brad helps him with the wires; murmurs soft, "Keep breathing."

Max does. In. Out. Hands tightly gripping the wheel.

[jup1t33r]

guess who's back. back again.

hey, blame @anemptyflask, who dreamt up and wrote this horrible universe and fueled my angsty thoughts about gp's reaction even more after my last shitty drabble.

mostly below the cut

---

In Silverstone, in 2021, Max careens into the barrier at heartstopping speeds, and there are fifteen seconds before the radio crackles to life. Fifteen seconds between a spike on the telemetry and Max's groan of pain. Six seconds before GP himself hits the comm, heart pounding, and asks Max if he's alright; seven seconds afterwards, Max unable to connect thumb to button. Fifteen seconds, and GP counts them all in his head—constant, slow.

There are fifteen seconds where the world is silent, because, despite the cacophony of sound, despite GP's own voice over the comm, none of it matters. The only thing that matters is Max's thumb on the button, voice back in GP's ear where it belongs. Fifteen seconds of silence and they feel like a lifetime, every moment lasting years.

But it isn't a lifetime. It's only fifteen seconds, ticking through in GP's head—constant, slow. Fifteen seconds, and then the world starts moving again. Fifteen seconds that end, as all things do.

-

In Suzuka, in 2026, Max careens into the barrier at heartstopping speeds, and his radio is still open when it happens.

Despite the static through the comm, despite GP's own voice, the world is silent—Max's voice not there in GP's ear where it belongs.

The clock starts in GP's head the moment Max's voice cuts off with a grunt in time with a spike on the telemetry. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. "Max?" Seven. Eight. Nine. "MAX?" Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. "MAX!"

The silence keeps counting. Up, up, up. Max isn't moving on the video feed they have on the pit wall. His comm is still open, spitting static, but it's still so silent.

The race is Red Flagged. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. The medical team descends on the wreckage. Seventy-seven. Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine. The Red Bull crew is called to help cut Max out from the carcass of his car. Three hundred and ninety-one. Three hundred and ninety-two. Three hundred and ninety-three. Max is pulled free. Two thousand and thirty-three. Two thousand and thirty-four. Two thousand and thirty-five. The race ends. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-two. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-three. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-four. Max wins. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-five. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-six. Two thousand five hundred and seventy-seven.

GP sees it all. Watches it all unfold around him. But all he can hear is static in his ears and the seconds counting up, up, up.

-

In a nameless town in the UK, in 2027, GP receives a phonecall. The voice on the other line is soft, accent lilting in the same way that Max's used to.

GP sets the phone down when the call is over. Drives straight to the airport; gets on the first plane to Belgium.

The flight is too long. Too short. The roaring of the motor sounds too much like static in his ears.

In the hospital, Victoria and Sophie's faces are blotchy and tearstained, their hugs too tight.

GP approaches the door. Thirty-nine million, three hundred and twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-six. Takes a breath. Thirty-nine million, three hundred and twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven. Pushes the door open. Thirty-nine million, three hundred and twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight—

The seconds finally end. As all things do.

[jup1t33r]

꒰ 6 ꒱ “here, let’s get you warmed up.”꒰ E ꒱ anxiety꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ at work, far later than you should be

Max & Seb

- @anemptyflask

꒰ 6 ꒱ “here, let’s get you warmed up.”

꒰ E ꒱ anxiety

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ at work, far later than you should be

flaaaask. for giving me such good prompts and pairing, i will gift you something back. referenes to post-silverstone symptoms <3

this is roads to rome! yay!

1.1k; mostly below the cut

---

Sebastian really doesn't know how he ended up here so late.

Well, that's not exactly true. But right now he's kicking himself for forgetting his stupid fucking phone at the circuit—who even does that?—and kicking himself even more for his inability to live without it for one night and just grab it in the morning.

At some point in time, he might have been able to. But not with Hanna and the kids so far away.

To add injury to insult, it's raining. Again. It's been sporadically spurting on and off ever since the race—sudden downpours out of the blue that almost feel like they're going to sweep you away.

Lovely Sochi by the sea. At least he grabbed an umbrella.

Sebastian had pulled into the parking lot alongside the line of cars the security team uses, right next to the entrance, but there is one other car in the lot. Sebastian eyes it warily as he does a loop around his own car and then unlocks it as he's standing right up next to the driver's-side door.

He plugs his phone into the jack, starts up his car, and plans to just beeline it to the exit and get back to his hotel room as soon as possible—really, he does. But there's a pit sitting in his stomach, and he can't stop glancing at the single lonely car behind him.

He hits the door lock again and takes the long way out of the lot.

When his headlights sweep across the mystery car, Sebastian squints in alarm. Twists the wheel, inches closer, slow.

And then tears his phone out of the jack, flings open the door, and sprints over, already pulling up the phone app. What the fuck is the emergency services number here? 11... something. Motherfuck.

There's a figure hunched on the ground by the driver's-side door. Back to the door, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around, with their head tucked into their knees. Absolutely soaking wet.

Sebastian gets to their side before he can figure out the number. And he should probably definitely just stay in his car, search up the correct number, and call it, but— but he finds himself reaching a hand out to the figure's shoulder.

"Hello?" he tries in English. "Are you okay?"

Blue eyes look up.

"Max?"

Max is— Max is hunched against a car. His blue eyes are dilated and hazy. He's shaking.

The rain keeps falling.

Sebastian swears.

"Scheiße." He shoves his phone into his pocket. His hands find Max's face. His skin is freezing.

"Max," he says, voice as clear and commanding as he can make it. "It's Sebastian. Ik... bin Sebastian. I'm going to bring you to my hotel room, alright? Do you think if I help, you can stand up?"

Max blinks his hazy eyes. His lips part, but no sound escapes.

Sebastian, desperate, digs his hands in under Max's armpits and hoists. And Max is little more than dead weight, but Sebastian can feel his hands clutching weakly at the fabric of his jacket, can hear his feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick ground below, and his heart clenches, because he can tell that Max is trying.

Somehow, they get upright. Somehow, Sebastian limps them over to his car. Max leans heavily against his side the whole way. His breathing is loud and purposefully steady. It still shakes.

"Come on, Max," Sebastian coaxes after he maneuvers open the passenger-side door. He practically dumps him onto the seat. Max's head lolls forward onto the dashboard.

When Sebastian starts the car, the first thing he does is turn up all the heaters to maximum. Direct them all towards Max. Puts on Max's seat warmer, and then his, too, for good measure, because maybe that will help the whole car get warmer.

"Here," he says, practically speaking to himself, as he fiddles with all the knobs, sending nervous glances to where Max is sitting, slumped and unmoving. "Let's get you warmed up."

Max is still shaking when they get to Sebastian's hotel, and Sebastian himself is too bundled with nerves to even feel the sweltering heat.

But at least when the car stops, Max twitches and pulls his head up off the dashboard. Blinks his hazy eyes at Sebastian.

"Can you get to my room?" Sebastian asks. Gosh, maybe he should have brought Max to a hospital instead. But— Fuck. But Max is still in the championship. And Sebastian knows—he knows—that that would be worse.

Max nods, then squeezes his eyes shut, as if the action made him dizzy.

Sebastian purses his lips, gets out of the car, and helps Max stand.

Max's eyes stay pressed shut the whole time. His weight stays on Sebastian. But his feet keep moving. And his breaths stay steady.

Sebastian sits him on the edge of the couch when they get into his hotel room, and Max doesn't fight him when he starts to awkwardly peel off his clothes. His head is slumped forward. He's still—still—shaking.

Sebastian tries to keep his fingers sure and gentle, but they're shaking, too.

Sebastian remembers how Max had looked right after Silverstone, late at night, coming back to the circuit for his things. Remembers his hazy eyes, the way he stumbled.

Remembers two weeks ago: A crash at the first chicane, Max's wheel on Lewis' helmet. And maybe it had been Max's fault that time, but a crash is a crash is a crash.

Fuck, Sebastian should tell someone. He really, really should.

Instead, he throws his phone aside, and he shucks off his own dripping wet clothes. Dresses them both in pyjama bottoms and helps Max to the bed.

Sebastian tucks Max below the sheets, but when he tries to leave—to go to the couch and try to figure out a way to sleep around the damp spot of rain—Max's icy fingers wrap loosely around his wrist.

"Thank you," he says, lips barely moving. His eyes aren't quite clear, but they're focused right on Sebastian's. "I..." The thought drops off. Max's eyes stay steady.

He drops Sebastian's wrist. "Danke."

The cold lingers on Sebastian's skin. Cursing himself, inner voice screaming that he should call someone, tell someone, get someone, he gets into bed beside Max. Presses their bodies together, skin to skin, Max's chill seeping into his; his warmth seeping into Max's.

Max exhales with a long sigh and a shudder. And then—finally—he stops shaking.

[jup1t33r]

Last Legs

Max just needs to make it one more week. One more week and the championship will be over, for better or for worse, and he can finally lie down and rest his weary body. Close his eyes and block out the world tilting around him, swirling, violent. Max just needs to make it one more week. One more hour. One more breath, then another, then another. In for four, hold for four, out. Max just needs to make it a little bit farther. He can do it. He can. --- Max suffers in Jeddah.

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