Chapter Text
Marina Bay Street Circuit, Singapore, September 17, 20:53.
The Lion of the Netherlands stood tall, surrounded by employees of every level. He sipped from the silicone straw attached to a branded water bottle, staring off into the distance through the open space of his helmet. People were talking to him and telling him what to do, but he wasn’t totally present.
The events of the prior evening dampened his present hopes, leaving him with a neutral and empty sort of feeling. Though his desire to win was stronger than any small mishap, it definitely left a sizable dent in his prospects. All he could do was push the car to its limits.
A worker tapped his shoulder, tapping harder and jabbing with every second Max failed to respond. He turned his gaze when he heard a pen clack against his helmet.
“Max, are you listening?” He chided.
“Sorry. Come again?” He replied hastily.
“Mate, race starts in 10. You should get on that practice lap.”
“Sorry. Will do.”
—
Marina Bay Street Circuit, Singapore, September 17, 21:58.
Lap 60.
Max felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, and on every turn his neck felt every atom of force exerted by the fast-moving atmosphere. Numerous times he tried to overtake the Ferrari ahead of him, but to no avail.
He didn’t expect the race to go the way that it did tonight. Everything that could have went wrong went wrong, which was what he blamed for his underwhelming current P6.
Max went through a good handful of setbacks; he relived the safety car incident when Sargeant had a crash on lap 20, had to pit early to change from mediums to hards, was the victim of dirty air that made his overall lap time slower, and dropped to an astonishing P15 on lap 42. And, as if it couldn’t get any worse, he was stuck behind a second safety car because of Ocon. On top of all this, his teammate was all the way behind in 8th with a penalty to boot.
He heard the team radio chime,”Final lap, Max,” and he leaned his head forward just to will the car past his opponent. Neither of the two were far from the race leaders, all four of them in a concerning proximity.
When he saw George make contact with the wall and crash, his heart almost skipped a beat; but it was all short lived when he saw each car cross the finish line in succession. Then came Charles, and then came Max.
He rolled his car into the Parc Fermé, fireworks exploding in the warm night sky. It was hotter than usual — maybe it was just the abundance of car exhaust, or it was his sheer disappointment that boiled in the cavities of his cheeks.
When he was freed from the cockpit, he spotted his team. The sea of navy blue were giving back pats to Checo and sending him towards the garage. He approached them when they beckoned him over.
Even though he placed in fifth, they welcomed him with open arms. He felt a sea of hands entangle him, all jostling and grabbing at the fabric of his suit. It lifted his spirits by a fraction no matter how disappointed he was, absorbing the many,”you were still phenomenal,”s and “we’ll get them next time”s.
He looked out upon the distant track while he unstuck his velcro collar and unzipped his suit, letting air into his white fireproofs. The team dissipated, engineers going this way and pit crew going that way. People barely stayed around if their drivers didn’t make the podium, which was evident by the Spanish anthem grating his ears.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up when the crowd parted. That familiarly sickening feeling made it’s home in his chest, and he brought a hand up to his shoulder blade to clench on for comfort.
He looked up and made unfortunate eye contact with an older version of himself, who had been standing there and surveying him.
Out of instinct, his feet started to make their way to him. If he had any self control, he would have steeled himself to the ground he stood upon and fought it — but his fathers gaze was cold and frigid.
The contact followed it’s normal script, but Max kept his helmet on so as to avoid meeting his eye.
“What was that?” He spat, color rising in his cheeks. “How could you have done that?”
‘How could you have done that?’ .. It wasn’t Max’s fault, he knew it. Nothing about it was his fault. It had been an unlucky race, and he was caught up in it.
He didn’t respond, not yet. The weight of Jos’s frown bore into his skin like a thousand sharp stones, though, a response clogging in his dry throat.
“Max, I asked you. How could you have done that? P5, really? Are you listening to me right now?”
“It was a bad race, that’s it. I didn’t mean to drop so low.” Max choked, immediately regretting it. His eyes twitched dangerously, and he blinked so as to contain the salty moisture colonizing his eyes.
Jos’s lip visibly trembled as he thought of the most vile and sickening thing to say next. He was angry, and he wanted to make Max feel as awful as he was, to hoard power over the young man. He wanted the world to burn below the both of them, to scorch his child’s feet and melt his flesh.
“You’re performing like a karting driver. I don’t understand it, how could you be doing so well and then suddenly drop positions?”
Max didn’t know. He never knew. He was so used to being on top that he never thought he could reach such a point. He couldn’t answer this.
He gave Max one of the most sour expressions he could muster, staring at him like a piece of trash on the sidewalk. Max had been given this look before, but the feeling still felt fresh every time. He could never truly get used to it, no matter how much he was the victim of such an offense.
“I apologize.” He said. “It was bad on my part. All I can do is train harder.”
There was a pause. Jos didn’t answer.
“I’ll make you proud.”
“Thank you,” he said. It would suffice for now.
“I won’t be in Japan next week. I’ll watch from home.”
He provided a curt nod, declaring the end of their chat. Max’s eyes followed the sharp turn of his heel, staring at where he once stood. Now, he was alone, left with his head hanging in the warm night air.
—
Max closed his eyes, probably to salvage what was left of his sanity for the night. He didn’t know how to cope with this, the only person who was meant to be his support system having left him deflating in the dust.
An old scene replayed in his head like a cassette, the film enveloping his brain and squeezing it painfully. He was eight or nine, blowing air onto cupped hands and rubbing them with vigor in the back of a van. It was the middle of winter, and he was practically an ice cube whenever he jumped outside. The van was parked next to an empty circuit, tall and slender trees hugging its boarders atop frosty parched grass. They were dark, emanating something sinister with every motionless sway.
“Max,” he heard his name be called. “Where are you? You’ve been gone too long. Come on, ten more laps.”
“But Pa, I’m cold!” He yelled back, rocking in place. “One more minute?”
“It’s been three. You’ve had enough time.”
Max hopped out of the back and trotted to a circuit where his dad was with the kart. Cold air battered his face, and his cheeks welled with color.
“Hop in,” Jos ordered, jabbing his head at the small vehicle beside him. “I’m timing it.”
Max did as he was told, getting in the kart. He could hardly feel his fingers, frost paralyzing his tendons and hardening his bones. He shivered every time his body had to touch a new piece of frozen metal.
“I can hardly move the steering wheel!” He exclaimed, looking backwards. All Jos did was stare back at him, tapping his finger on the stopwatch. Defeated, Max turned back slowly, putting pressure on the gas pedal.
The present Max opened his eyes for a split second, staring at the ground. It hurt his head to see his feet were really there, and he forced his eyes shut again; the scene had changed, though.
He was in a moving car, about fourteen years old. his body jostled softly in the back seat, secured by the seat belt. Late sunlight pooled in his lap, stuttering behind wispy evening clouds.
There was a tension drowning the silent car. Max peered at an older figure driving, one hand turning the wheel with feigned calmness. The other rested on the cap of a water bottle, rubbing their thumb in circles around the serrated rim.
He remembered.
He had been in Southern Italy after a karting race, much like the one his future self experienced in Singapore. He couldn’t even remember what position he placed, but knew enough that it warranted him back-seat privileges. He remembered his father driving and refusing to acknowledge his sons existence.
He wanted to speak with his father, to ask him what was wrong. He wanted to talk it over. His mom had always taught him to express his feelings by talking it out, but how would he do that with someone who made him walk on egg shells?
“Pa,” he asked innocently. “Pa, I want to talk about the race. If that’s okay.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He knew he would have shut the conversation down immediately, but he wasn’t satisfied with it. He wanted a real answer.
“Please? I could improve—“
“I said I don’t want to talk, Max.” He shot. Max heard the delicate plastic bottle crunch a little under his frustration. He went silent momentarily, not wanting to push further.
He returned the watching the scenery outside, fields rolling along. The otherwise green grass showed golden in the setting sunlight, looking dry and arid in the moving vehicle. He knew there was fresh, young greenery underneath it all, but couldn’t help but perceive it as dead.
Max scooched up in his seat, sitting forward and placing his arm against the headrest. He leaned a bit between the gap in the seats, trying to catch his fathers attention.
“See, I was thinking about it. If I could just form a proper strategy against the other karting boys—“ he began, but stopped when the wind was knocked out of him.
The car braked at an alarming, sudden stop, unrestrained things sliding forward in the car. He caught his flying helmet before it could go any further.
He caught his breath, letting his organs realign themselves after being knocked out of position in the halt. He coughed once, turning his head to look at his father. What he saw was a mistake.
“Get out,” he ordered, pointing at a lone petrol station to their right. They had stopped in the middle of the road’s straight.
“What?” Max panted, taking a minute to process what his father said.
“Are you hollow? I said get out. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He snapped his fingers impatiently — Max took a second to take in what he was asking, but ultimately succumbed and unbuckled. He sidled to the door, pulling the handle. He looked back at his father, who’s hand was still pointing. He was looking forward again, as if nobody else was in the car.
Max got out as per instruction, closing the door behind him and standing idly. He took a few steps back before the car hit its gas and shot down the street, leaving him alone. Just him and his helmet.
He stood there in the middle of the road, lips pursed and dry. It baffled him. Was he really being left here, alone?
He looked around. There was nothing out here for miles. A light in the station’s corner store caught his attention, and he frowned realizing he really was going to have to go and call for a ride home… all because his father couldn’t accept a minor loss.
—
Everything felt hazy to Max. He was holding onto a railing, the kind that would be placed to box in fans waiting for autographs. Despite everything he had just relived, time had hardly passed him up. The top three were probably still on the podium, yet he felt like an hour had passed.
In his memory, a straw wall had always stood between the many facets and versions that were Max Verstappen. Every moment of his life was woven beneath and above itself, forming thick barriers that kept him from seeing what Jos Verstappen trapped inside his mind. He clung to this wall, and it kept everything nasty at bay while he lived his life as a successful racer. But, when things flew south and ate the fibers that kept the wall strong and secure, there was no way to contain any of what Max had buried in the bottomless pit of his heart.
The more he went on with his life, the more the straw built upon itself. New space opened throughout, forging mysterious pathways Max could unwilling go down. Some were long and twisted, some leading to a dead end to block Max from seeing what was behind it.
—
“Maxie?”
Someone was calling him. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Maxie.”
He heard it again. He thought it was his mother, painted inside his memories like his father was. She always had sweet nicknames for him that made him feel all fuzzy inside.
“Maxie!”
His eyes snapped open, awoken by the impatience and urgency in the voice. He elevated a shaking arm to raise the visor of his helmet. Sweat and tears clamored where his face was squished together by padding, mixing and dripping down his nose.
He located the source of disturbance, eyes darting from left to right. They shot past an arm, skidding where they overshot and creeping back. It was clad in red, holding onto a water bottle. The cold made it sweat, precipitation falling over the bumps and ridges.
His eyes moved up, now identifying the matching red helmet as Charles Leclerc, a number sixteen engraved on the side. The crest of the Scuderia embossed his forehead, and concerned eyes stared down at his feeble form.
“I’ve been calling your name over and over,” he said, standing upright. “Are you okay? Have you had any water?”
He held out the moist bottle to Max, who only looked at it without grabbing. He focused on the way Charles pronounced each word, his accent impeding his pronunciation.
“You look worse for wear,” he continued. “Did something happen?”
Max couldn’t answer that. He couldn’t really even produce sound, his dissociation trying it’s best to pidgin-hole the recent resurfacing back into those endless walls again. He shook his head, a headache clawing mercilessly at his temples.
Holding steady onto the rail, he supported himself enough to get into a standing position. He vaguely remembered being like this a few times in the past, but never would it stick with him — nor was it ever this severe.
He held his arms out weakly. Oh, how he craved the touch of another man, the touch of anyone, to hold him in their arms and crush him until his blood vessels popped. He wanted someone to be with him, to assure him he was real and not lost to space.
He watched Charles lean down and put the bottle on the ground. When he came back up, he took the silent request and leaned into Max’s space. He twisted his arms around Max’s back, holding firm and garnering shallow fists of race suit. Because of their helmets, they had to move their heads out of the way of each other, faced to the sides.
Max was acutely aware he was crying, pained noises spilling from his lips. He felt his vocal chords vibrate, but he couldn’t hear them. He felt a hand run in circles over him, paralleling the fragile bottle so far back in his past. It was accepting, understanding his pain. It refused to crush him and dent him like a throwaway piece of plastic.
He would never survive, going on like this. He knew that. He knew that he would be trapped in a never ending cycle of wins until it came crashing down in a torrential downpour… But even with being in the arms of a track rival, he knew that he would be okay. Despite sorrow leaving his eyes, dripping under the helmet and down his neck, he knew that he would be okay.
Grief.