max's helmet being stained with red in silverstone because it scraped so hard against the red wall and it was horrifying at first but everyone calmed down realising it was just paint and now max's balaclava being stained red in silverstone but this time its actually blood and its impossible to calm down
Paint
There had been a moment. A split second when he had first gotten a glimpse of Max's helmet. A moment where he could have sworn it was blood. Bright red blood that had somehow leaked through the helmet. Snapped his neck and bled out and leaked onto the outside somehow. Pierced a hole straight through the carbon fiber where the only thing left was bright red blood.
But it wasn't.
It had been paint. Just paint. (Pait scraped off of the side of the barrier due to the intensity of the impact, but just paint nonetheless.)
That had been 2021.
The 2021 Silverstone Grand Prix was a day GP never wanted to relive.
But it was no longer at the absolute bottom of his list.
There had been a moment. A rather long moment. (Almost five years to the day.) A moment where no answer came over the radio. But there was the possibility of a malfunction. The camera caught movement. The gloves were transporting life signals. It was a scary moment but only a moment.
Until it wasn't.
Max gets out of the car on his own. He hadn't answered due to a technical problem. Or claustrophobia perhaps. The overwhelming need to get out of the compact space of a flipped car.
The cameras are glad for movement, for proof that the rollover would affect little but champions points.
Until Max takes off his helmet.
They never would have shown it if they had known. That much is certain. The broadcast would have stayed far away with only vague non answers about the drivers’ conditions.
But they had already shown Charles and Alex and Pierre. And now there was only one driver left to show.
It made sense really. They had thought all was well. Hadn't considered the way he scrambled to undo his helmet straps. Hadn't thought it odd the great Max Verstappen stayed on his knees while the world watched on.
They don't realize the ramifications until it's live on the air.
And GP is watching. Eyes glued to the screen the moment it happens. When the helmet comes off and the only thing GP can see is the red.
Bright red.
Blood red.
Paint.
It's paint.
It has to be.
Paint from-
Paint from inside the helmet.
Paint from-
Paint from the red Ferrari.
Paint from-
Paint from something.
The broadcast cuts away immediately. The cameras relegated for team use are not. Not fast enough.
Not before Max’s balaclava is off and the… the paint is smeared all over his face. Around his mouth. On his nose. Cheek. Forehead. Mingled with his hair.
Not before then.
The cameras disconnect. All of them from that part of the track. One by one. The close up first. Then the wide shot. Even the track angle that only caught the edge of an Alpine in frame.
He's suddenly staring at blank screens mixed in with the telemetry and statistics and a wide shot of the pitlane as Lewis Hamilton pulls his car to a stop.
The Ferrari gleams in the remarkable sunlight over Silverstone. It gleams red. Bright red. Ferrari red. (Blood red.)
After a year of lurking in the F1 fandom, I feel compelled to speak my truth: Nico Rosberg’s LinkedIn page is the richest text that nobody is talking about.
As the foremost Nico LinkedIn critical scholar* of our times, I’m begging someone, ANYONE, to get on my level with this.
*[amount of time I've spent scrolling his posts redacted, but trust me, whatever you're thinking, it's more]
If you’re not in his target demo of loser, sorry I mean millennial-to-genX grindset startup bro with a hard-on for networking with venture capitalists, then you’re probably not in Nico’s LinkedIn circle and you might not know that he is ACTIVE. He is posting 2-3 times a week, he is responding to comments, this is his primary social media output, and the content isn’t crossposted anywhere else.
For years, his beat has been dreadfully boring stuff like ~optimising your performance for success in business~, and you should know that thematically he's currently mid-villian's journey, pivoting his content from ~here's how Europe can be a leader in sustainable transport~ to ~here's how we can use GenAI for literally fucking everything.~
His comment section is dozens of fintech reply guys engaging earnestly with his productivity tips and totally missing the POINT. The point being:
breadcrumbs about his relationship with his dad (keke rosberg) and also his relationship with his dad (toto wolff), which are both totally normal you guys thanks for asking
a surprising number of performative meditation photos, very important in order to prove why neuroscientists have given him such a good grade in brain activity
the sanitised-to-fit-the-current-brand, darkness-still-lurking-within brocedes of it all, which is usually something like: "during my @ Formula1 days, lewis brought out the most evil, self-loathing version of me on account of how perfect he was, which made me miserable, but thankfully also led me to a deep wealth of venture capitalist wisdom 10-15 years later!!!"
cheery framing of the most fucked-up psychological damage wrought upon man by professional sports and reinforced by the sexy, evil father figures in charge
I also need you to know that Nico is unintentionally HILARIOUS. He isn’t setting out to be funny. He’s earnestly trying to be insightful/inspiring. For him it IS that deep, it’s the most serious thing in the world whether your mindset is primed to extract max performance from your douchey job. But oh my god does he wind up being funny.
Like, ok, how about illustrating a list of really obvious advice about bettersleep4betterresults with this selfie... conveying through eyebrow acting how unsatisfying his previous REM cycle was due to not following his own advice :(
Or a 40th birthday roundup of bland life lessons like 'great teamwork beats talent alone!' that obviously must be illustrated via slurping a vat of celery juice against decorative wallpaper (he likes this photo btw as it shows up in more than one post):
Or my personal favourite: his interpretation of the cliche advice that your business plan should be concise enough to fit on a napkin. Ah yes, I should have a napkin around here somewhere. Not a poor person's paper cocktail napkin, but how about this giant piece of nice fabric, which might actually be a pillowcase or perhaps a tablecloth? Surely it's fine to sharpie all over this and then throw it out? And definitely this exercise is about writing teeny tiny on an A4-sized surface so you can fit in as much as possible? Anyway, let's finish with a <3!
I also love when he experiments with style, like this brief foray into notes-app insights (didn't perform well, never tried again):
The wording of his posts is a dialect of its own, which has invaded my brain. He describes 1-3 things as “super” in every post, and it’s unclear whether he is aware of other adjectives. He overuses exclamation marks and emojis. Most posts contain a simple message illustrated via an extremely tenuous link to an F1 anecdote, and he is tagging the official @ Formula1 LinkedIn page at even the slightest opportunity. Someone once gave him the tip to ask a question to drive engagement, and he’s made that tip his religion.
Once you start narrating your own life as a Nico LinkedIn post, it’s super hard to stop! It’s super fun, like winning a @Formula1 Grand Prix, which Nico did on 23 memorable occasions. 🏆 What’s a vocal tic you’ve adopted from a girldad entrepreneur in his 40s? 🤔 Let me know in the comments!
Despite all this, Nico has kinda won me over? He is cringe and he is free and he’s so himself. There’s some really sweet tidbits in there when you go digging!!!
He posts surprisingly often about both gender equality and karaoke - usually at separate times, but on one memorable occasion, together!
He comes across as really, genuinely loving of his family, invested in quality time with them, and supportive of their interests and successes. Like this - getting his wife to repeat the confidence-building phrases from her own childen's book when she's anxious! I find this very sweet!
And while he expresses it as though his every thought has been fed through a machine that increases corporatespeak and cheuginess by 175%, I have come to believe that he has genuinely self-actualised after retiring from the F1 torture machine, at least to the extent that he is trying to spend his one, wild, and precious life in a way that's authentic and meaningful to him.
I'll leave you with the one post so baffling it haunts me. The text is pretty innocuous and filled with his usual stuff: I love my family! Family time is more important than work! And luckily, family time will make you even better at work!
But ohhhhh my god the picture.
what on EARTH am I looking at here????? This monstrous creature has to be AI. Am I to believe that Nico and his young child have constructed a snow rabbit as tall as a pine tree???? with cartoon features not resembling any household objects one might use for a snowman face, questionable texture and colour gradients, and perfectly shaped (those paws!!) to an unlikely degree. This couldn't possibly be real snow???? And did he think we just wouldn't notice???? I have reverse image searched to compare it to real snow bunnies made by real human people and like... nico.... who are you trying to fool here...
The comments are equally insane work, like SIMPLE CRAFTS??? Are there LinkedIn bots? Surely these are not serious people.
And who I can only imagine to be the few fellow truthers... have been ominously ignored.
So like... has he made the entire story up? Has he 'built' the snowman on ChatGPT with his daughter, entirely undermining his put-down-your-phone thesis? Did he make a snowman but he was so ashamed by it that he felt the need to spruce it up in post? It's just such a bizarre thing to lie about... like... nobody was saying Nico, Nico, we simply must see the quality of the easter bunny snow sculpture you made with your children, without it we couldn't possibly take your word that enjoying simple moments with your family is a critical element of health, happiness, and productivity!
I'm not stupid, so I know there is a chance that every single post is written by GenAI and I have been duped into character analysis that is actually based on drivel written by a water guzzling soulless machine trained on self-help books. (Although I'll say that his style has remained pretty consistent for years, since before this would have been likely.)
He might also have never had the password to his own accounts, and this is the work of a social media girlie who texts him stuff like 'hey boss, when you get a sec could you pose with some green juice for me, and then maybe a second one looking really upset in bed?'
Or........ and maybe I am deluded by the unlikely degree of charming and fun I find him, but I do genuinely think there is just enough weird human decision-making here to indicate that this is the case..... is Nico typing out the earnest inner workings of his heart between networking happy hour and trackside commentary gigs and gruelling sessions with his philosopher-slash-psychotherapist-slash-mindset coach?
Regardless, like Nico I believe in the lifechanging power of gratitude, so uhhhhh. Thanks for posting the funniest content on the whole website, you corny, corny man!!
So, I remember ages ago someone commented on the lack of platonic fics in the f1 fandom, and I took it to heart. So worry not, here we are announcing our very own Platonic F1 Fic Fest.
This is for people who want to see more of the grid family dynamic, rookies, teammates, and mentors. Whether it's angst or comfort, we desperately need more fics of them being just friends. Bring us your mentorships, your teammate bonds, your found families, your chaotic group dynamics, and your favourite driver relationships... So long as they're platonic!
If you have any questions feel free to message us, @jup1t33r or @maxineverstappen, or you can even send us an ask or message here.
Schedule
Prompts open: 24th June 12:00am cest
Prompts closed: 2nd August 11:59pm cest
Fics due: 4th October 11:59pm cest
Fics released: 6th October 12:00am cest
Rules
1. The main characters in the fic should have a completely platonic relationship.
2. Background/Minor relationships are fine but they should not be the focus of the story.
3. A/B/O dynamics are okay as long as it stays platonic from start to end.
3. Absolutely NO AI generated works.
4. Prompts can be claimed more than once, and you can claim as many prompts as you'd like.
5. You can also submit multiple prompts (up to 10!).
6. There is no minimum or maximum word limit, go crazy.
7. If your fic is multi-chapter, have at least the first chapter ready to go by 4th October.
8. If you are uploading these fics on Tumblr as well please tag them as #platonicf1fest so we can reblog them.
9. Do NOT share any art/writing related to this fest outside of fandom spaces.
Links
The main page for the fest is here.
Here is where to submit prompts and sign up.
Here is where to view and claim prompts.
All the fics will be uploaded here.
Have a tonnnnn of fun writing and reading these fics, and do not hesitate to send or claim prompts. Ask away if you have any questions, both of us do not touch grass. See you soon :>
Silverstone 2026 || 1.1K words || GBB Weekly 2026 Round 18: Illusions/Miscommunication || Also on ao3
I saw that Max reportedly locked himself in his motorhome and then I read @anemptyflask and @jup1t33r pieces about silverstone 2026 (Go and read them here and here!) that really inspired me and I kind of wanted to write something about it. I sat on this for about a week and finally ended up finishing it (but didn't edit it because I'm being lazy). Also supposed to be for #GBBWeekly26 Round 18 prompt illusion except the connection to the prompt is almost as thin as my sanity going through the 2026 season. :) Oh and the fact that I'm like a week late.
---
After the crash, Max goes through the motions. He congratulates Charles and Isack, makes conversation with Kimi, and goes through the driver interviews that hound him with their usual thinly veiled questions. Asking him about what went wrong, why he keeps on crashing, why he’s underperforming, why he can’t save the team he has loved from the beginning from falling apart around him.
By the end of it all, Max is tired.
Laurent, Raymond, and his father are talking to each other below the stairs leading to the Red Bull motorhome when Max makes his way over. They likely are waiting there to catch him-to spew out empty apologies, spit out condescending condolences. Max clenches his fist. A hot wave of anger buried by exhaustion rises again. He doesn’t want to listen to all the stupid useless apologies he’s heard hundreds of times today, the ones he has heard thousands of times throughout the season.
Max sprints up the stairs. Runs through the floor and all the way to his driver room and locks the door. A can of Red Bull stares insultingly at him from up top his desk. It is flying into the wall before he even registers it is in his hand. His eyes sting. He just stares blankly as the can of Red Bull-smashed and broken-slides to the floor, yellow liquid oozing out.
Max hears a soft knock.
“Max” The distinctly French accented voice of Laurent calls out from behind the door.
Max’s mouth opens to spit out a sarcastic remark. Because how much fucking times does he have to explain that he doesn’t want to talk now- that he doesn’t want to hear it? Want go hear them repeating Max, Max, Max with every added problem like a broken record. Max slams his mouth shut. And yet, despite all their stupid apologies, they change nothing. They still do not listen. It is almost like he is twelve again and begging his dad to listen to him and not give up on him after a race he fucked up badly, a broken record saying the same things over and over and over again, shouting into the wind from a clifftop as he pleads that one day he will be listened too even though he has always known deep down that he will not be.
In the end, Red Bull was truly like his second home in the same way.
The can crunches under his feet, ruined further as he hears Laurent’s fading footsteps. The lump in his throat doesn’t even disappear as he shouts in frustration, destroying the can further and further. The remaining liquid from the Red Bull can sprays out onto the floor with a splat, staining the hardwood like a bloodstain. Now the can is an unrecognizable carcass, an empty husk of what it once was.
“Max.”He hears GP’s voice ring out behind the locked door. “Can we talk?”
Max keeps his mouth shut. He hears rustling and a soft plunk reverberate behind the door but no fading footsteps. GP sighs.
His refusal to speak must anger GP. “Mate, we really need to-“
“Go Away”
“Well I don’t plan on leaving, so that’s too bad.”
Silence again before GP lets out another sigh. “Look Max-I’m not going to sit here and apologize again because I know you are tired of it. Today-no, this season is quite shit. There are problems and there us miscommunication”
A bitter, mocking laugh escapes Max. “That was certainly one way to phrase it.”
“Max-“
“Don’t.”
“I want to work things out with you, Max. I really do.” GP’s voice is soft but lined with desperation.
“The team always wants to work things out.” Max spits out venomously. “And yet, every single time after, I say something and the team goes straight back to ignoring me! Because it is one thing if the car tries to kill me, and it’s another if no one even listens to me about me pointing it out-In Canada you don’t listen to my setup feedback, in Austria you don’t again and the rear wing tries to kill me, and now in the UK tries to kill me again! And that’s only the tip of the iceberg- What will it take for you to listen?!” Max tugs at his hair in frustration. “Will it take having the car be crushed and crumpled beyond recognition? Will it take having my guts spilled out across the car when my luck finally runs out?”
Silence again then- “Max.” GP’s voice is steady and filled with something almost like regret. “I can try, but I can’t promise they will listen. They are not listening to me as well.”
Part of Max wants to shout back- demand that GP makes them listen but deep down he knows that would be unfair. His limbs feel like lead and he is an empty vessel, drained of all remaining power and hope.
“Okay.” He Just replies, the fight having already left him.
Max hears more shuffling as GP rises from his seat on the floor. “And Max?” GP says before leaving. “You may not believe it at the moment, but I will always be here for you, okay?”
Max can’t help but let out a choked laugh. “I know.” The fact that it was the truth makes it even more insulting somehow.
Max curls up on the floor as he finally hears the sound of GP’s fading footsteps. His eyes sting. Because deep down, he really wants to believe it. Wants to believe that everything will change, that this is all just a fever dream that he will eventually wake up from. Believe that one day this home will embrace him again like it did for the long years prior. But it feels like the end rather than the beginning of something better. He believed and believed and believed through the years, but the shiny red, blue and yellow was just a glossy finish that covered a razor-thin shell of cheap aluminum, and the illusion of a rebirth for the team he called his home is shattered, crumbling around him. And now he finally has to admit that his beliefs may have been nothing more than a child’s delusion. Of a five year old him who believed that his mother and father and sister would always stay together with him. And now he is eleven again, watching his mother from the rear window of his van as they drove away, finally coming to terms that his family will never be what it once was.
Max stares at the destroyed can. In the end, the thin metal shell was helpless to prevent itself from making a mess all over the hardwood floor.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. And Max is thinking that this is it. That he is never going to answer. That there is not a single person in the entire world who cares enough about him to answer a random phone call from a Netherlands police station.
But hen, “Hullo?”
“Michael?” The word comes out in a sob, relief and sadness and anger.
“Max? Is everything okay, where are you?”
“Are you in Switzerland?” That's a dumb question. A stupid one. What did it matter where he was?
“Max, what is wrong? Tell me.”
“I-” he looks over at the police lady. Michael preferred blunt honesty to anything else. “My father has been arrested and I cannot get ahold of my mother. I did not know who else to call.”
“What? Max- where are you now?”
“I am at the police station in Roermand.”
“Okay. Yes, I am in Switzerland. Let me speak to the police.”
this was supposed to be a drabble about the charles&seb guess who video from 2020, but it very much broke containment.
poor @its-an-echo just wondered about seb being an absolute menace and asking charles if his driver was pretty. but i am fundamentally too fucked up to stick to the script. and besides, 2020 is sebastian's anger stage of grief in my narrative.
(1.6k words and certainly no longer classified as a drabble (not that it'll stop me from posting it in my drabble collection!) -- (mostly) below the cut.)
---
Some days, Sebastian hates Charles.
He wasn't supposed to be what he is. Wasn't supposed to come in blazing hot, soul the perfect shade of rosso corsa, and steal the red boots right off of Sebastian's feet, as if they were always meant for him.
Sebastian sometimes wonders if this is how Kimi felt when Sebastian came to Ferrari, First Driver title clutched smugly in his hands, wagging his finger playfully to the tune of Il Canto degli Italiani.
But at least Sebastian had come in as a four-time world champion, still in his prime. Had come in with the expectation of greatness lifting him up from his shoulders.
Charles came in as the second driver, still learning the ropes after having completed just one season. He was supposed to learn from Sebastian, admire him, support him as he tried valiantly once again to dethrone Lewis.
He wasn't supposed to be better than him.
-
Charles reminds Sebastian of Lewis a bit. Fresh on the scene and already shaking up the order, fighting for poles and wins, and slowly crushing his teammate underfoot.
Charles reminds Sebastian of Max a lot.
-
Sebastian heard, somewhere, sometime, when the whispers of Charles moving to Ferrari were still just whispers, that Charles and Max had karted together when they were kids.
When Charles joins Ferrari, he proves it to be true by how he fights with Max on track. No quarter given, going for every move like he knows exactly where Max will be next. Predicting his lines in the way nobody else on the grid can, although they've all been trying for years.
Sebastian, curious, pulls up the entry list for the race of Max's he had attended back in 2013, and, sure enough, Charles' name is there.
Sebastian pulls up the other races—the Cup on the side of the road, the DNF at the fuel station. Charles' name is there.
Sebastian wonders if Charles had ever seen Max's father pull him aside, grip too tight, spit spraying in his face. Wonders what he had done.
Sebastian shuts the computer and tries not to think of it again.
-
In the aftermath of Austria, Charles, fuming with righteous fury, face dark, mutters to Sebastian, "He is always driving too aggressively, too on the limit." Sebastian is about to agree, regale Charles with his own tales of fighting Max and coming off the worse for it, before Charles continues, "He says it is hard racing, but he is just being dangerous. He still acts as though his father will hit him if he does not do well."
Sebastian feels like his stomach has dropped right out of him.
"What—What do you mean?" Sebastian asks. As if he doesn't already know.
Charles' eyebrows pinch together. He swears. "Fuck. Fuck, forget I said that. That was not nice at all. I should not be bringing up such horrible things."
Sebatian lets the subject drop, stomach still in knots, the taste of bile lingering in his throat. But he doesn't forget it.
-
Charles continues to march steadily onwards, grinding Sebastian into the dirt with the heel of his perfect red boots.
Sebastian finishes behind him in the championship. The only other time that had happened was 2014, with Daniel. Daniel, who had become the new face of Red Bull once Sebastian had left. Who had himself left after Max had ground him into the dirt with his own red boots.
Match made in heaven, those two. Charles and Max. Teammate killers, hope destroyers. Demons on track; lit on fire and always burning.
-
Ferrari releases Sebastian from their clutches, and he feels like a lame horse that's been taken out back to get shot.
Or maybe he's more like the dead horse that's fated to an eternal beating, because they can't even do him the courtsey of shooting him yet—they drag it out the whole season, and Sebastian has to crawl and scrape for points as Charles follows on Max's heels, still biting for the chance at a podium.
Some days, Sebastian hates Charles.
-
Some days, Sebastian hates Max, too.
Some days, he can't quite decide whom he hates. Whom he envies. Whom he wants to rip out of the cockpit; whom he wants to get into the face of and scream, It's mine! Give back what you stole—it's mine!
Sebastian's blood is red, but he doesn't know what shade. Torro rosso; rosso corsa. Red car. Red bull.
Max and Charles collide on track, fierce, ferocious, and even when they end in the gravel, they still burn bright.
Sebastian watches. Thinks about how he would gladly set himself on fire for just one more chance to fight.
-
Max manages to pull out a win despite the Mercedes being in another class than the whole field, and Charles is able to drag their scarlet shitbox to the podium a couple of times, but never to the top.
Sebastian finds himself on the podium just once, standing below Lewis and fucking Checo Pérez, and it just feels cruel more than anything. Not quite enough; grasping at straws. Never enough.
It's only adding insult to injury when he's stuck on the third step, unable to disappear into the Ferrari garage to drown out the sound of the fucking British anthem as it plays again, again, again, again, again—
-
Sebastian still hears his own anthem every weekend. Anthem for the winning constructor, and it's Mercedes-Benz, Mercedes-Benz, Mercedes-Benz, on repeat every Sunday until the end of time.
Sebastian still hears his own anthem every weekend, but it's not his anymore, not when he's down in P fucking 13 in the championship, points slipping through his fingers like water, like champagne, like blood. The notes of Das Lied der Deutschen are just a taunt reminding him of what he used to be.
-
It would be a miracle if he ever won again.
In his dreams, he crosses the line first, stands on the top step, basks in the glory.
In his nightmares, the announcer introduces the national anthem, only to be met with silence.
Sebastian doesn't have an anthem anymore. Mercedes stole his, and although Land der Berge, Land am Strome and Il Canto degli Italiani used to sound like home to him, Sebastian left one anthem behind and the other left him, and now his home is nowhere.
He hears them, and they belong to Max. To Charles. To everything he used to be; everything he no longer is.
-
Max and Charles spin off the track together, under the floodlights. Blaze of glory, painted red.
Max kicks the wall, tears off his gloves, frustration etched into every muscle.
Sebastian watches later, on the replay. How Charles slows, lets Max calm down as he maps the turns of the cars with his hands in the air.
Max isn't fifteen anymore. Doesn't need Sebastian to help him drag his car away from the circuit after the race. Never did.
-
Some days, when Sebastian is feeling particularly nasty, he thinks that at least he had helped Max. Had given him a meal, a warm car, a person to spend the darkening hours with.
Charles, in all likelihood, had only ever added to Max's collection of bruises.
-
Some days—more than any of the others—Sebastian hates himself.
-
Ferrari still drags him forward, dying horse on broken legs, squeezed of every drop he's worth.
In Abu Dhabi, they sit him and Charles across from each other, ask them to play just one more game before the season is complete. Before they can't make him do anything ever again.
Sebastian squints at the tiny faces of all his fellow drivers cut into neat rectangles and laid on the table before him. Everybody is a Musical Chairs of what never was, what maybe could have been. Right place, wrong time. Champions, if only they had the car. Cars who didn't have the right champion.
And maybe Sebastian only ever got lucky. Only ever won because the car dragged him over the line. It's what people say. And he never believed it before, when he was standing golden on the top step again, again, again; but now Charles is sitting across from Sebastian with the same car and triple the points, and maybe Sebastian's replica championship trophies should live in Adrian's cabinet instead of his own.
Maybe he was only ever golden in the right light.
-
It's hard to think of the drivers by their physical attributes, Sebastian finds. He looks at them and can't help but count them by their podiums, their wins. Their losses.
Sebastian stares at his own face as Charles tries to guess him, and wonders how much quicker Charles would win if he could ask anything else. Has he won a race? A championship? Four? Did he write his team into the history books? Was he golden?
Instead, Charles asks about the clarity of his eyes, and Sebastian snickers to himself, tries to pull himself out of the miasma inside his head, and asks Charles if his driver is pretty.
Charles stares intently at his tiny drivers, mind whirring. "I don't know!"
Sebastian wants to stop the game, push his tiny rectangular face into Charles' hands, and ask, Is he golden? Is he golden, still?
Wants to hear anything other than, "I don't know."
-
Max wins. Again.
Sebastian finishes right behind Charles, out of the points. P14. Not even close.
In the end, neither of them can touch Max. They couldn't back when he was in karts, and they sure as shit can't now. He's always one step ahead. Too fast, and only getting faster.
-
Sebastian kicks off his boots for the last time and thinks about how much he hates the color red.
you can blame @bitingdrivers for the idea and me for the execution
inspired by jos' apparent debt pre- max-in-f1, and, as tysh so cruelly pointed out, the believability that he would hold that over max's head
mostly below the cut
---
Max keeps a list in his head of all the people he owes.
It's not a very long list. He's good at paying people back. Give him the goods; he'll give you the glory. His mechanics spend the night fixing his car; he gets on the podium and gives them the trophy—literally. Van Amersfoort takes a chance on him, straight out of karts, still spotty with youth, and he brings the car across the finish line for win after win after win.
Red Bull are the next to take a chance. And he hasn't been able to pay them back for it yet, but he will. He will.
After all, it's not the mechanics and the team bosses and the pit walls he has trouble repaying his debts to. All they ask from him is that he wins, and Max can do that in spades. Has. Will. Sure as the sunrise.
There are harder things to pay back, though, than contracted employment, a car for a victory, a team for the checkered flag.
Like a marriage destroyed, and a family torn apart. A mother and a sister abandoned. A father who dedicated his whole life to Max, and then some. Every drop of blood and sweat, his blistered fingers piecing together the engine a mirror to Max's, tight on the wheel. Every cent he owned, plus more and more and more.
Max doesn't forget it. Can't.
The list of the people he owes isn't very long, but there are three names sitting heavy at the top, etched in blood, and Max doesn't know if he'll ever be able to scrub them away.
The car dies beneath him during the first race, but he pulls it through the second, speeding over the line, points gleaming next to his name, at last.
He'll be written in the history books for that one. Name never scrubbed out.
Max may not be paying Red Bull back quite yet, but he has time, and his paycheck still comes in, every cent accounted for. Contracts fulfilled—a car for a point for a dollar.
But Max is only seventeen, and his father has given him everything—everything—so when he says, firm and complete, that he'll handle Max's finances; that he'll divvy up the pot between them; that Max owes him, Max just clenches his fists around nothing, wheel not in hand, and nods.
Still, though. His father's name is not the only one on his list. And he made a promise.
"Can I have at least enough of the money to buy Victoria a bag? It is only for this once."
Max's father scowls, but Max hasn't done anything wrong—he's steadily repaying his debts. He's in the car, he's in the points, and his paycheck is sitting heavy in his father's bank account, scale finally tipping towards the green.
"Fine," his father snaps. "But you owe me."
It's a useless reminder. Max knows. He'll never forget it. His list is stained with blood.
A snippet from from a fic I’m writing right now, focusing on Max and GP.
Let me know what you think!!
“I think I’m going to die driving a F1 car”.
Silence, just for a second, an attempt to digest the abruptness of the statement. Then the desire to recoil surfaces, subdued only by a mind used to the particular bluntness.
GP hadn’t quite heard this one before, but the response that leaves his tongue seems familiar.
“Any preferences regarding the track?”, he asks, absentmindedly stirring his drink.
He indulges Max, of course he does, though the quickness of the response surprises even him. “Spain”, spoken with a quiet adoration that contrasts the careless movement of Max’ hand. Dismissive, even though his eyes literally lit up at the question.
GP smiles, asks which Spain, even though he knows. Max is bad at pretending and there’s excitement bubbling over even now. “Well, what do you think?”
“Your first win”, GP says, because that’s what Max wants to hear, finally taking a sip of his drink. It burns on its way down his throat and he relishes in its bitterness.
“Zandvoort or Austria are special as well, of course, but there are many fans there. I think they would be sad to watch me die there”. And now GP has to suppress the laugh threatening to bubble over, simply because he thinks it wouldn’t work well with his drink and he wouldn’t want to disturb the melancholy mood Max finds himself in right now, probably imagining the completely unlikely scenario he just created. He manages to reduce it to a soft exhale.
Max knows a lot. He knows all about Formula One cars and all about the many peculiarities of the RB22. He knows all about Geography, an attempt to know all about the places his dad went when he was younger. He knows all about the games he plays, the football players he impersonates and the maps he fights in. He doesn’t seem to know just how much his fans love him, after years of unwavering support and undying loyalty.
If Max were any less confident, GP would start crying.
“You know, you don’t actually have to die in order to be remembered. Ayrton Senna was an exception, not the norm”. The suggestion that Max would try and impersonate Ayrton Senna of all people was guaranteed to snap him out of his melancholy.
“That’s not what I meant. You know this, GP, don’t joke”.
Now he does laugh, because why would Max expect him to know exactly what he means with death, before sobering up and taking another sip, because he realizes Max is right. As he’s about to analyze why he knows this, Max speaks again, seemingly not noticing the switch in GPs attitude. “Do you think the drivers in the future would honor me on their helmets? When they race in Spain, of course”.
They would, GP doesn’t say. He can imagine some young hotshot including a lion in their helmet design, jaw open in an eternal roar, clinging on to the memory of the beast that used to prowl the countless tracks the calendar consists of. He can imagine them incorporating the red-white-blue of the Dutch flag, alluding to the national pride he once carried with him, right above his hip bone, hum the notes of the Dutch anthem as they stand upon the podium.
That Mercedes boy would definitely, he thinks, might go as far as to kiss the dirt Max’ grave consisted of in an attempt to taste the victory that once defined him. Then he thinks about how Max wouldn’t appreciate such a thought, as hygienic as he was, would come back from death just to reprimand him.
The mental image this creates makes GP stifle another laugh, and he catches his breath long enough to answer no. Max simply nods, not seeming hurt in the slightest. At the lack of a sarcastic response, GP realizes Max is thinking, which, considering Max is incapable of keeping his thoughts to himself, might lead to another hypothesis GP doubts he’s capable of comprehending, let alone understanding.
If Max could share the process of how these statements come to be, that would be great, especially for someone who works with precise diagrams and confirmed data on the daily.
To combat the total eradication of brain tissue, GP asks yet another question, an attempt to distract and lure onto a different path. “Why now, when you’re so close to retirement?”. He keeps his tone light, lets Max believe it’s a joke, but a part of GP does consider the timing stranger than the statement itself.
A young Max would’ve said that, 18 and desperate, ready to prove his worth, when all he wanted was a WDC.
Max in 2021 might’ve said that, forcing GP through 15 seconds of radio silence in Silverstone, waving away righteous concern to instead focus on finally winning.
Max now, a loving father, having completed all he wanted to complete in Formula One, would not.
“It’s not about when I want to die, GP, it’s about logic. Logically, I’m most likely going to die here. It makes sense”
How Max came to that conclusion and how he persuaded himself into believing it, GP has no idea.
Logically, Max will be protected, even if he crashes, survival cells, halos, helmets, all of it saving him from what would’ve been certain death a couple of years back.
Logically, Max knows how to minimize crashes, brake-throttle maneuvers to keep him in the race, to keep him safe.
Logically, GP wouldn’t let him die. Not like that.
“It doesn’t, Max. Not even in the slightest”. The Dutchman scowls, but otherwise stays silent. His gin and tonic remains untouched.
It’s unnerving, a confrontation with a doppelgänger not quite able to replicate the original, a trip down the uncanny valley in which GP slowly realizes that the person sitting beside him is not the person he’s worked with for a decade now. For the fist time since this conversation started, since the indulging turned into genuine questioning, GP feels something akin to worry.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve thought about this”
Fully convinced, Max had answered Spain, immediately ruled out Austria and the Netherlands, had talked about logic. GP should’ve realized immediately.
What first seemed like a spontaneous thought, some spur of the moment attempt at replacing the silence, now resembles a fully planned scenario, and GP knows, suddenly, if he were to ask, Max could name the exact corner he’d crash at. The exact lap he’d connect with the barriers. What gear the car would be in and what gear he was about to change it to.
He wondered if Max would offer him any last words on the radio.
“Of course it isn’t. But it’s okay, don’t worry. It’s not a bad way to die, I think”.
Max knows a lot. He doesn’t know how much GP cares about him.
can’t wait for the next installment of dwtd, and thank you for all the content in the meantime!! I’ve been wondering about a Charles POV on Max going MIA and not answering his texts…also wondering if Charles (or anybody else) has noticed that George is also MIA and put the pieces together 👀👀
1.2k words
Charles tries to catch Max. He does briefly. Enough to whisper, "Please, Max, can we talk? I am worried." Max doesn't look at him when he answers, "I have to go." And then he's gone.
He's pulled the opposite way by his own press manager, left staring at Max's retreating back.
He knows better than to try and corner Max. Knows it is a very bad idea and that Max will always react in this manner. But he can't help it. Max will barely speak to him. He is withdrawing from everyone. Except, for some reason, George. But George has been of no help this weekend. Charles doesn't know if something happened between them or if they are both just being stubborn. Charles thinks that whatever it is, George should let it go and be there for Max. When someone as special as Max lets you in, you hold onto that. You do not give it up for any reason.
It is not until later that night that he sees the carnage left behind. It has completely taken over his feed.
“Why do you insist on bringing it up every chance you get? Is it difficult? Am I distressed? It was ten years ago!"
Looped again and again. Often with accompanied photos of Max at seventeen. All dimples and smiles. Sometimes the entire video is shown.
"I was over it. I was not thinking about it any more. I did not need to. He is gone! I did not have to worry about it anymore but you will not stop bringing it up. It is all anyone wants to talk about! It happened in 2015, you realize this? Nothing he did to me was worse than you bringing it up every single race. I was fine. I am fine. You choose to make me relive it, not him!”
The smug look on the reporter's face is not seen on the video, but it's heard in the malicious response.
"So you confirm that the article and the charges are referencing you as the underage team member?”
It wasn't that Charles ever really thought that the article was not true. Max's reaction and withdraw had confirmed it enough for him. And yet- there had always been the hope. That maybe it was not as bad as it seemed.
Charles quickly makes note of the network who released the footage and makes a mental note to boycott them entirely.
Once the shock settles a bit, he is filled with a deep fear.
He texts Max, not surprised when there is no answer. There is never an answer. Then he calls just to make sure. Still no answer.
Max had looked distraught. Absolutely horrible in the video. He had looked broken and scared an-
His calls aren't even going through anymore. Charles isn't sure what it means.
Hopefully he is with someone. Hopefully he is okay and jus retreating to regroup. Hopefully he is okay. Hopefully.
He tries not to think much more of it. Starts to avoid social media. A deep sickness setting into his soul at every thought of Max.
Back home in Monaco is when the reality of the situation starts to truly set in. He has been avoiding socials, unable to stomach all of the edits and theories.
Then his phone is showing a call from GP.
There is no reason for this that Charles can think of. Nothing good at least. His heart is pounding when he picks it up.
"Hello?"
"Charles, is Max with you?"
Not good. Very not good. "No, I have not seen him since media. Is everything okay?"
"Okay. Okay, call me if you hear from him." Then the call is ended.
And Charles panics.
Despite knowing it will be little good, he calls Lewis.
"Charles? Everything okay?"
"LH, have you heard from Max?"
"No? Why would I have heard from him?"
Why would Lewis know? Why would Max ever call Lewis if he was in trouble?
There was a time when he would have called Charles.
"GP called me."
"GP? Why is he calling you?"
"Because Max is missing!"
"Missing? Charles, you're not making any sense."
"Have you seen the news?"
"Charles, what news?"
"Some reporter cornered Max and got him to admit what- what Christian did to him."
"What- yesturday?"
"Yes, last night. And now GP is calling me asking if I know where he is!"
"Charles I don't know anything I don't- he confirmed it?"
"Open social media and trust me you will see it fifteen times in the span of five minutes!"
There's a silence on the other line and Charles tries to remember how to breathe.
"I don't know anything about Max." His voice is quiet when it finally comes through. "I haven't been on social media today. I haven't- listen if I hear anything I'll let you know, alright?"
" Okay, alright. That is, that is all I am asking. Thank you." Charles hangs up before Lewis can say anything else.
Charles knows who he needs to call. Who he really needs to call in order to get answers. But he doesn't want to. He really does not want to.
The phone rings and rings and rings before it is sent to an overly polite British voicemail. He texts George too just to see the message remain on sent. Max is missing. George is not answering.
Is it possible that they are somewhere together?
But then why would Max be hiding from GP?
Three hours later he gets a text from Lewis with an attached screenshot.
From Bono:
I don't know exactly what happened but it nearly sent the paddock into lockdown last night. Apparently Max's driver room was completely wrecked and when they went to find him at the hotel everything was still there but his plane is gone. I told GP I would keep an ear out but no one has heard anything.
Not good. Very very not good.
He tries calling Max again. Still nothing.
Then he has a thought. A thought he doesn't much like.
He calls George.
There's no answer.
He calls again.
Still no answer
He is very near to losing his mind. He thinks he may already have done so.
He's considering calling Alex to see if he knows where George is to see if George knows where Max is.
Or maybe Pierre knows something? Why would Pierre know something? There wasn't really a reason he would. But he'd been the one to bring the article to him, so maybe he knew more now? But anything he knew, GP probably knew.
He's saved the continual spiral as well as telephone tag, when he receives a text from GP.
I found him. Thanks for your help.
He's not sure what "help" GP is referring to. He doesn't think he was any form of help at all. But he assumes if there was an actual problem that GP wouldn't waste time to text Charles that he was fine.
He's relieved. And worried. Still worried. He doesn't know if he'll ever stop being worried.
He needs to talk to Max. He needs to corner him outside of the paddock, when no race is on the line. He needs to corner him and make him talk. Because Charles can't keep living like this. With the fear. With the worry.
Yes, he'll have to talk to Max.
But he has this nagging fear that he's running out of time.
I love dark dwtd so much it’s so sick but seems rlly well thought out and also much more heartbreaking
I always see Fernando and max as really close, Fernando almost like a father figure to him and whatnot, could we maybe get some dark dwtd Fernando reaction ?
Remember in the main timeline when Fernando asked Max if he wanted him to kill Christian for him? lol.
tw blood
377 words
When the screen goes dark, the crowd gets louder. Fernando doesn't hear it. He doesn't hear anything except the rushing of blood in his ears. He doesn't see much either. Everything is tinged red, his sight narrowing to a pinprick. He feels like a hound hunting for fresh blood. One thought. One goal.
They're frantically shutting up the garage, but Fernando used to drive for Alpine. He's been around the paddock for a long time. He knows how these things work.
Despite it all he slips in relatively unnoticed. Or maybe he's just too far gone to notice them noticing. It's instinctive in a way, but he knows exactly where Christian is hiding.
He's on the phone. Frantic. The words he's saying are lost to the echoes of blood rushing in his ears. They don't matter. No words can save him.
Christian's eyes widen as he catches a glance at Fernando. He steps backwards, hands out stretched. It's only a minor obstacle.
Before Christian can even utter a cry for help, Fernando's fist is connecting with his nose. Then again. And again. And again.
Christian is on the floor.
Fernando follows him there. Letting his fist fall until his knuckles are bloody and he can't tell where his begins and Horner's ends.
Someone is pulling him off. Dragging him to his feet.
His fist thirsts for more blood, but the hands won't let him. Someone is saying something is his ear but he can't understand them. The arms hold him tighter and the words repeat.
"Get out of here before the police arrive. Go."
He wrenches free from the hands, seeing Horner still on the ground. No one is helping him.
Fernando spits on him, taking satisfaction in the way he recoils, in the way his face is stained with blood and bruises.
If he had had a weapon, he thinks Horner would be dead at his feet. But he does not. So he will have to settle for the blood.
He's showed out a back door.
When he arrives at the Aston Martin garage, no one asks him any questions. He is simply nodded towards the bathroom to clean up.
As the red blood washes down the sink, his only thought is that it's not enough.
i remember you saying something about a darker dwtd au where what happened with max gets leaked in a worse way. any more thoughts on this? was it the photos themselves that leaked😮
The driver's parade is about to start. George watches from the other side as Max chats up Charles. He looks casual. Happy even. George tries to pay attention to what Kimi is rambling on about. The screens are showing a wide shot of the truck they are all on. But his attention catches when it flickers to something else. The scene is weird. It looks like old footage. It looks like an office. All this is very strange. It’s even more strange when the video shifts to show Max sitting on the floor. A very young max. The door opens and Christian enters. Dread sinks into George’s stomach. He glances over to Max. It seems to have just noticed himself on the screen. As the scene unfolds. George knows exactly what this is. What he doesn't know is how it had possibly gotten on the screen. There's a low murmuring in the stands as fans start to speculate what’s happening. He doesn't blame them for not understanding. Until Christian has Max pinned against the wall. Until Max is trying to push the man off of him and receiving physical violence and response. Max's Frozen staring at the screen his hand is tight around Charles wrist.
George moves without fully thinking. He grabs Max's hand and starts to pull him towards the edge of the truck.
hi sorry but i was rereading dwtd and i couldn't help but think about pierre and alex. two teammates that were so different to daniel - around max's age, also with huge extectations on their shoulders... does a part of max feel kind of threatened by them? maybe that same part that was a bit disappointed when seb admitted what his experience was? i just keep thinking about the fact that daniel *left* and max instead got two younger teammates, where he was the senior driver, yet he had someone else pulling his strings.
anyway love love love the story!!!
The Second Seat
750 words
When Daniel leaves, Max really doesn't care who replaces him. Well, takes his seat. No one can replace him.
It's Pierre, which is fine. It's whatever. Max doesn't care. He's too tired to care.
He's fine with Pierre. They karted together back in the day. There's one particularly embarrassing incident where Max remembers messing up on the track and looking up from his father's lesson to see Pierre staring at him with his mouth open.
Max had been scared back then. Scared that Pierre would tell someone and get them in trouble. But there was also a part of him that hoped. Hoped that this time when someone saw it would make a difference. Make things better, not worse.
But of course nothing had come of it. Life moved on as always.
So Max wasn't worried that Pierre would find out. He didn't expect him to ask any questions when Max's exhaustion from yet another night spent trying to please Christian. He had been worried with Daniel. That he would notice the signs and go to the FIA or Dietrich or, worse, Christian. But he never had. Which was a good thing really.
Really it was.
But that didn't matter anymore because Daniel was gone and Pierre was good at keeping quiet. (Max wonders briefly if Christian chose him for exactly that reason.)
It's different with Alex.
With Pierre, Max had always gotten the feeling that he didn't particularly like him. He wasn't openly hostile. It wasn't like with Lewis or Nico, but he clearly didn't love having Max around. (Probably a trait picked up by spending too much time with Charles).
But Max likes Alex and Alex seems to at least not hate Max. And really that's too much to ask for most of the time.
The mid season swap stresses him out.
It was a decision that Christian had not run by him whatsoever. Which... that was probably normal. But Christian tended to keep Max informed. It was one of the few perks of it all. Knowing what was going on in the team. Because Christian liked to talk and Max was there so he might as well know what was going on.
Probably a power play. That made the most sense. As if getting rid of Daniel wasn't disorienting enough. But the midseason swap reminded Max of things. And he wonders Christian's intentions. Because Max had been a midseason swap. And the reason for that had been abundantly clear.
He waits for it.
Waits for Alex to be called instead of him. Waits to be dismissed early from the meeting so that Christian can talk to Alex in private.
He waits but it never comes.
And as the season continues, Max is still the one called late at night. He's still the one kept behind after team meetings. He's still the one slipped a second hotel keycard late at night after a particularly bad race.
It's a relief. Kind of.
After all, Max is special. He's always been told this. To find out suddenly that he's not, that Christian would take any young driver who can keep up with the midfield, would hurt. And he wouldn't want that for Alex. It would be worse if it was happening to someone else. Max is used to it. He knows how to turn off his brain and let everything happen without thinking too much on it. Alex wouldn't know how to do that. So Max is relieved. (He ignores the disappointment because that would be cruel and stupid because Max is special and if he doesn't stay special then what's even the point?)
Thankfully Alex doesn't notice anything either. At this point it's clear that Max is the favorite so it all makes sense to an outside viewer. (Favorite is right they just don't realize all that it entails.)
But the pressure is building. Christian is starting to get angrier. Tension is building. Alex is getting ignored and scolded at the same time. Max wonders when the breaking point will be and what the outcome will be.
And when Alex is moved to reserve and Checo, experienced and too old and too experienced (and not at all Christian's type), Max is secretly glad. He'll miss Alex of course, but there will be less to hide. Less to worry about. Checo can take the heat of the seat and Christian can focus on Max and his championship bid.
Max refuses to be disappointed. He's relieved. Yes. That's what he feels. It's relief. It has to be.
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