Chapter Text
It’s been two weeks since Max's father died and exactly one week since he chucked his phone in the ocean. Jos Verstappen died of a heart attack two days after Max placed fifth in Silverstone, and for a moment, when the news first reached him, Max had wondered if perhaps his bad result had been the final nail in the coffin for the old man. And if him dying hadn’t been bad enough, everyone finding out about it and making it Max’s problem certainly didn’t help the situation.
The constant notifications from people reaching out to him were driving him insane. Everyone wanting to know how he’s doing, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, where he is, if he wants anything, if he needs anything, and Max has no idea how to tell them that he doesn’t need anything.
He’s fine. He might have broken a trophy or two, a few plates, his TV, and one of his closet doors the hour after he got the call, but that all came to pass. He expected to feel more for someone who had raised him for most of his life, for the man who had been there for every step of his career and the one who had pushed him the most toward his dream, but Max felt numb.
Because despite all of that, he was also the man who was never truly there for Max. The man who had made Max’s childhood a living nightmare, the man who couldn’t give a compliment without following it up with at least two insults, the man Max spent most of his life trying to please and continuously failing to.
So Max is doing quite well, all things considered. He is convinced the staff on the boat are holding him on some sort of suicide watch and sending updates to his team, but as long as he’s not forced to update them, or talk to them, or talk to anyone for that matter, he’s content to simply lay on the sundeck and soak up the sound of the waves crashing.
He can’t, of course, avoid them forever, and he has no intention to. The Belgian Grand Prix is only one week away and Max is almost excited for it, his fingers itch with the desire to grip a steering wheel and his body longs for the rush of driving his heart out. But he feels apprehension seeping into him at the thought of the media circus that surely awaits him, the way he’ll be paraded around like a zoo animal for everyone to question and prob and dissect. And while he’s sure he could get out of media duty if he wanted to by playing up the emotional impact of his father’s death, he’s also sure that it’ll only cause him more trouble in the long run.
In the days before he chucked his phone he did manage to get a few phone calls in with his sister and his mother, and while Max remembers very little of the conversations that were communicated through tears and snot and crying and laughing, he does remember what his sister told him.
“Avoiding the press isn’t protecting yourself, it’s protecting him,” and Max is done doing that. He’s done defending his father and taking the blame for his mistakes, and he’s done burning himself for someone who wouldn’t piss on him to put the fire out. So he has already decided that he’ll do as much press as is required of him, he’ll answer people’s questions to the best of his ability, and he’ll finally be himself, even if he barely knows who that is anymore.
1.
From the moment he shows up everyone around him seems to give him a five meter radius of space, and Max would have found it funny if it wasn’t so blatantly obvious that it’s for the wrong reasons. Everyone seems afraid that he’ll lash out with anger or push them away if they try to get close, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Free practice is alright, he has missed his car and it takes him a few trials and errors to get the corners right, but he’s confident he’ll do well in qualifying. And he does.
“Max, over here, please” Max shifts his gaze from the couch to a reporter to his left, “congratulations on third. This is understandably a very tough week and a tough race for you, do you think that affected your driving today and if so what are your thoughts for tomorrow? Thank you,” the silence that follows stretches for an uncomfortable amount of time as Max stops to think about his answer.
It would be a lie to say that he’s completely unaffected but does he think that's why he came in third place? No, and he tells the reporter as much. “What affected my driving the most today I believe was my steering, it wasn’t quite where I wanted it in terms of feeling, and the lock up in Q2 was a bit of a setback. As for tomorrow I’m thinking I’ll give my best, race hard, and aim for a better position than today.”
He puts the microphone down next to him on the couch and crosses his legs, hoping that the answer is enough to satisfy the reporter so that they can move on to other topics, but judging by the narrowing of the reporter’s eyes Max doesn’t think he’s quite out of the thick just yet. “If you win tomorrow, would you say that it’s for your father? in honour of him?” Max can’t help but let out a snort, thankfully with the mic still on the couch the sound doesn’t resound throughout the entire room, but Max can tell it didn’t escape his fellow drivers on the couch or the first row of reporters.
“Uh, no,” he chuckles awkwardly, he had prepared for many questions but stupidly enough this hadn’t been one of them. “I mean, if I win tomorrow it’ll be for myself and for my team, and of course all of the fans,” he glances over to the two others on the couch and quickly averts his eyes when he finds that they’re already looking at him. Oscar, like he can’t quite figure out where the conversation is going, and Lando like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“He wasn’t a very sentimental man, I wouldn’t say, so I don’t even think he would appreciate a win in his honour, to be quite honest with you.”
“Not even from his son? His greatest pride?”
Max looks down at his left hand that’s gripping his leg tight enough to hurt, “well, depending on the day I could be his biggest disappointment, too,” the words feel like they’re being forced out of his mouth but strangely Max doesn’t try to hold them back. This time when he puts his mic down he doesn’t have to pick it up again for a couple of minutes as the reporters mainly focus their questions on the two other drivers, but the energy in the room is different. Oscar’s answers are short and serious and Lando’s are long and bordering on rambling, a nervous trait of his.
Max worries that even when he’s trying to do things right he’s still causing trouble.
2.
Max sits in between Charles and Hulkenberg, with Ocon, Gasly, and Kimi to the side of them and for once he’s thankful to do an interview with multiple other drivers, if only to minimize the chance of the focus remaining for too long on him. He gets a few questions here and there, mostly about the upcoming race, his feelings regarding the championship and his position, and some questions about his cats. But the reporters avoid bringing up his dad, perhaps to avoid any more awkward silences and tense pauses.
It’s unfortunate that almost all roads lead straight back to him.
“Max, your nails are a bit of a hot topic today and they’re already trending on the official F1 tiktok page with many people liking the new look, care to comment?”
Max rubs his neck sheepishly, feeling his cheeks heat up from the sudden turn of heads on the couch. “Ah, it’s just something stupid I like to do sometimes at home,” he can feel his face turning the same colour as Charles’s race suit as everyone waits for him to continue, “it’s the first time I’ve worn it in public, today. They… uh, match my helmet.”
He smiles softly, waving his hand in front of his face to show off his nails before quickly tucking it under his thigh, hiding it away from any more prying eyes. “Did you take inspiration from anyone in particular? It’s quite a bold fashion statement from your side.”
He pauses before he speaks because he’s honestly unsure of how to phrase his answer. On one hand, it is new, and it is bold, but on the other hand it isn’t new at all, not to him at least.
“No, not really. I think I’ve always enjoyed it. I remember I did it once as a kid actually and my father hated it, of course,” he chuckles to himself, remembering the scene like it was yesterday, “it made him very angry at the time, said it was unbecoming of a man and least of all a race driver.”
Charles squirms on the couch next to him and he feels rather than sees how Hulkenberg turns his whole body toward him, giving him his full attention. “I couldn’t race for a week because my eye was swollen shut,” he shrugs with a tug of his lips, as if he hasn’t dropped a piece of information that requires several business days to be processed for everyone in the room. He looks up and catches the eye of Gasly on the end of the couch, and the older man simply shakes his head with a sad look on his face that makes Max's skin crawl. Pity, that’s what’s painted onto his face so clearly it might as well be branded onto him.
Max suddenly feels the need to defend his comment as the stifling silence becomes too much to ignore and he adjusts his cap while reaching for the microphone again, “you know how he was, he was a tough man,” his words sound choked even to him and he clears his throat and gestures for the journalists in front of him to do something, anything.
Thankfully a dutch reporter picks up on his distress and raises his hand, “question for Charles,” and so the press conference continues. No one asks Max any more questions.
3.
Max doesn’t know what he’s doing on this particular couch on this particular day. The goal is clearly some sort of karting reunion with Charles, George, Alex, Lando and himself being placed together for a joint interview and Max feels out of place the moment he steps in the room. They’ve known each other since they were kids but Max was never truly a part of the group, he was the odd one out, the weird one, the one that no one liked, and worst of all, Max finds that he can’t blame any of them.
They’re playing a true or false game and Max hopes he’ll be able to fake his way through most of the answers, but by question ten it becomes clear that he knows very little about the other men as a kids except for anything pertaining to their racing; the interviewer spares no time pointing this out.
“Well Max was never interested in friends as a kid,” George quickly replies and Max feels himself freeze, “I remember we asked him to play football with us a couple of times but then we stopped, you lose motivation after a while when someone continuously declines, you know,” Max wants him to shut up, needs him to stop talking.
“He was winning most races and I guess little Max was just too good for us,” he sends a smile Max’s way but Max doesn’t feel comforted by it. Instead he feels cold and disgusted by his own childhood behavior, “actually, I really wanted to play, but I couldn’t.” This garners some laughs from the rest of the couch and Charles throws his hands up in the air, “ey, come one mate we were ten, none of us were good at football but we played anyway.”
Lando’s laughing and Alex is pushing Charles, telling him to speak for himself because at least one of them was adequate at the sport. Max would have found it funny if he wasn’t so desperate to be understood, “no I mean, I couldn’t play, my dad wouldn’t let me,” the laughter dies down slowly and Max can see the other guys begin to fidget on the couch. “The first time you asked me I was so happy that I ran to my dad immediately to tell him, but he got so angry that I had to say no to joining,” George isn’t smiling anymore, neither is any of the others. Max thought they would be happy to hear that he really did want to be their friend back then.
“I cried the entire ride home but, of course, that only made him more angry,” he chuckles quietly while looking around the room, twirling the true-or-false paddle in his hands as he waits for someone to break the silence but none of them do, they just watch him as if he’s a puzzle to solve. Clearing his throat Max adds, “I would have liked to have friends, so I hope you don’t still think I said no because of you.”
It’s Alex that saves the day.
“Well, I’ve got a ball in my motorhome so how about a rematch before quali tomorrow?” Max almost feels like kissing the man because it immediately seems to break some of the tension as the others let out nervous laughs and nod their heads in agreement. “If anything Max might be the secret weapon, we have no baseline for his football skills,” George adds, charming as ever, and the interviewer seems to think that is the perfect moment to continue on with the other questions.
4.
“Never have I ever peed my pants outside of the car.”
“Outside the car?! No way!” Kimi exclaims with a laugh, holding up his ‘never’ sign.
“I can’t say that I have, mate, maybe before being potty trained,” Lewis holds up his ‘never’ sign, “but not even drunk, no.”
“Well no, that would be disgusting,” George pulls a face, “I’ll have you know I’ve never gone in the car either,” he says firmly, holding his ‘never’ sign up with an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me anyone said they have?”
“Everyone has gone in the car, but outside? no,” Alonso laughs. “Well actually, some people said they’ve never,” the interviewer responds and Alonso holds his sign up while shaking his head, “they’re lying. Anyone who says that is lying.”
“I have not, no, but I have helped someone who did,” Carlos holds his sign up with a cheeky smile, shaking his head when the interviewer asks who he helped, “I cannot say, I would like to survive the next race.”
“Yeah,” Lando doesn’t elaborate, only holds his ‘I have’ sign with a bashful grin and stares into the camera. “Care to elaborate?” Lando swings his body side to side, debating his answer before settling on, “...no.”
Max holds his ‘I have’ sign up without a word, thinking that will be the end of it. It is not. “You are one of two drivers who have answered ‘I have’ to this question, is there an embarrassing drunken story hiding behind that answer or…?” Max suddenly wishes he had lied, it’s not like they would have known.
“Uh, no, I was maybe around 16, I think. I made a mistake during the race that almost cost me the win- it didn’t, but it could have- and my dad wasn’t happy with me. We drove home in complete silence and I remember I really had to go to the bathroom but I didn’t wanna annoy him, you know. We were stuck on a highway because of a minor accident upfront and I just couldn’t hold it,” he laughs quietly and looks down at his feet, face heating up, “as soon as we were off the highway he told me to get out and I walked the rest of the way home. He was very upset but I get it, of course, it was pretty disgusting.”
Oscar holds his ‘never’ sign up, thoroughly unamused. “Did anyone say they did?”
“Lando and Max,” Oscar snorts and shakes his head, “of course Lando would say yes, but Max is quite the surprise. Was it a championship celebration?”
“No, he said his dad didn’t let him go,” Oscar hopes to god they cut this part out of the youtube video because he can feel his face drop as the words register. Slowly he lowers his sign as he looks over to the side where his manager is standing shaking his head, warning Oscar not to say anything stupid. “Well…” he pauses while trying to find the right words, “I’d say only one of those counts.”
5.
“Max, could you talk us through your latest instagram post? There’s been quite an extreme change of tone in them compared to the previous ones,” it’s a ridiculous question in Max’s opinion, who wants to know about his instagram when they can ask about his racing or his cats instead?
“I mean, of course I respect all drivers on the grid and I like congratulating them after a job well done by sending them a text, but it’s also nice to do something public, I think,” he looks over at the two others on the couch, sharing a smile with Lando when the other grins at him.
“Quite a change in mindset from before, don’t you think?”
“No, not really,” Max frowns at the reporter, “I’ve always thought this but there wasn’t much I could do before,” the reporter looks down at her notes before leveling Max with a look that borders on a glare. “In 2021 you wrote ‘a rocket ship can take anyone to P1, doesn’t make one the best driver or deserving of their place’, and you were of course referring to the Mercedes at the time. However, yesterday you posted after Norris’s P1 position in qualifying ‘a good car can only take you so far, the driver is the one with the ability to make it or break it. Congrats, mate’.” Max gets the slight feeling that the reporter doesn’t like him.
Max simply shrugs and looks over to Lewis who looks pensive to the right of Lando, “well, yes, but now my instagram is my own so I can write stuff like that,” this throws the reporter for a loop and she looks at him confused, tilting her head as if to figure out what angle Max is going for here.
“Your own?” she prompts and Max lets out a heavy sigh, wanting to get this conversation over with, “I had no access to my instagram up until recently, I of course saw the posts and the comments but I couldn’t change anything,” he lets his eyes wonder over to Lewis, “some of the posts are very unfortunate,” he adds, his cheeks flushing and turning red as his eyes dart around the media room.
Lewis shifts on the couch as he reaches for his own abandoned microphone beside him, “so the post after Silverstone? in 2021?”
Max grimaces and shrugs helplessly, “that was my father,” his voice is quiet, almost meek and he hates how weak it makes him sound, “I would never say stuff like that to you or any other driver, and like I told you last year, I don’t blame you for the crash.”
Lewis’s gaze feels like it’s burning a hole into Max’s temple but Max is too much of a coward to look at him, to meet his eyes and tell him he was too scared to stand up to his father even as an adult. “I’ve removed that post from my account now. That was one of the worst and I always hated it, but the one time I tried to tell him it was too much and should be deleted he pulled my hair so hard I had a bald spot at the back of my head,” he laughs nervously, reaching up to rub at the back of his head where he swear his hair is still thinner than the rest, “that’s why I almost had a bit of a mullet going on afterwards, so I could comb over the spot.”
This time he does meet Lewis’s gaze tentatively, but he sees none of the irritation or animosity that he’s expecting, “I looked ridiculous, no?” he continues, wishing and hoping to bring a laugh out of the older, or a simple huff of amusement, just something, anything to erase that worried crease between his brows. The typing in the room grows louder and Max is acutely aware of the fact that his every word is being recorded in every way possible, recorded on every device imaginable and transcribed in word documents and with pen onto paper.
He looks away from Lewis and settles his gaze on Lando instead who looks like he’s frozen on the couch, his gaze locked on Max’s head as if he can see the spot and everything else that lies underneath. “Don’t- don’t knock the mullet, mate,” Lando tries to joke and Max is grateful for the exit. “Nah, yours was good,” he tells him with a smile and lightly taps Lando’s shoulder. The younger barely even lets his lip twitch, Lewis remains silent.