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Death.
What a strange thing isn't it? People all around the world veiw it differently. Back home, in Mexico, they not only mourn, but celebrate a life of their loved one. It's how Checo grew up. Holding the memories close to his heart while mourning the possibilities of what could've been.
Death was no stranger to him, or any other driver on the grid, had never been. The grim reaper seemed to follow them every race, trailing behind them, waiting for a simple mistake to snatch their souls away.
Their lives.
Death has always been a part of this sport.
But not this way. There was nothing to celebrate in a death like this.
The news had taken a while to settle in his brain. At first he had thought it was a sick, twisted joke. He sits in the darkness for a long time, tears fall freely as he drowns in guilt. He could've done more to help. Should have.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a helmet. Not just any helmet. Max's Helmet. The one he had gifted to Checo when he last visited. Just a few days ago he was here, nervous and giddy about the upcoming race. The one that would determine who the winner would be. The one that seemed to have determined whether Max would live or die.
He stares at the helmet, a lion glaring at him, accusatory. A harsh reminder that Max is gone. He'll never see him again, never hear him make a stupid joke that Max himself laughs at. Never go in an endless rant over things Checo has no idea about.
Max may not have been young enough to be Checo's son but it surely had felt like that. A little brother at least. Sighing, he lets his head fall back against the wall.
He felt lost.
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_________
The first time Checo meets Max he thinks the kid is a bit of a nutcase. Not necessarily in a bad way. He recognizes that the boy has talent and will, he just needs time to mature, which will come with years. They don't speak much, not until they become teammates.
And that's when Checo starts to notice things.
He's not the kind of a man to make a big deal out of nothing, so he doesn't want to make any serious assumptions, but the signs are just so glaringly obvious that he can't just ignore them.
Max says things, he likes to ramble, and Checo always listenes to him. Even if the meaning of sentences gets lost on him, either because he doesn't understand the topic, or he just can't make out some words through that thick accent. But he listens and Max seems so genuinely happy whenever Checo lets him babble.
He likes to talk with his hands, throwing them around and demonstrating as he mimickes some sounds with funny expressions, completely engrossed in whatever he's explaining.
He has some bad days too. Days when he'll go quiet and barely make eye contact.
That is Checo's first sign.
He doesn't understand what it is about at first, thinks it's related to racing. They are in a very competitive sport after all, they all have their downs.
But later on, after some more of Max's 'quiet days' the Mexican notices it. Slight discomfort in the boy's expressions as he moves too abruptly, winces of pain at certain movements, tenseness throughout the day, observing his surroundings with a watchful, cautious gaze. With slight fear in his eyes.
He doesn't think talking to Max himself will bring any good, rather create a distance between the two. So he watches the young man. Looking out for answers.
Then Jos Verstappen attends a race and Checo understands. Max isn't just quiet that day, he's afraid. And like a scared animal, he snaps too easily, at things he would usually joke about, things he wouldn't mind on a normal day.
Even without analyzing Max's each movement, seeing the cold gaze of Jos Verstappen is enough for Checo to understand everything. The man holds no warmth to him.
He is a kind of person that drains the room of any positive energy the moment he enters it.
A person that drains Max of any positive energy.
Checo decides he doesn't like him one bit.
The race itself is uneventful, save for the fact that Max dnf's and Checo only gets p10. He isn't satisfied with his result but he's more worried about Max. So he seekes the boy out as soon as he's released from his duties. He walks around the paddock for a few minutes and then sees Jos, storming off to his car, fists clenched at his sides. Checo doesn't like that. He heads towards the direction the man had come from. Only to find Max.
he kind of wishes he hadn't for his own sake. the Dutch is on the floor, leaning against the wall, has clearly been crying.
He doesn't know how to offer support, so he says nothing as he walks over and tentatively sits next to him, down on the floor. Max says nothing at first, tensing up at having been seen in such a state, but after some minutes, he starts to relax.
Checo looks over at him and feels rage boiling inside him, spotting an angry, red mark on Max's face.
It won't bruise, but it tells enough.
After that day, he never leaves Max alone with Jos if he can stop it. Tells his family to watch out for his young teammate. They never question it, they just take Max in with open arms and Max melts in their embrace.
It doesn't take long for a Max shaped space to appear as the little dutch makes himself comfortable in their hearts.
The space that is now an empty, gaping hole that feels like it's bleeding.
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_________
There seems to be endless buzz on the track. It's confusing, as the season had come to an end already. Lewis Hamilton crowned champion. Yet he's here, and with him, the rest of the grid. No exceptions.
Except for one. Which, of course, the press seem to absolutely love, hungrily taking pictures and soon enough, a very notable absence of a certain Max Verstappen is all over the news. Even though no one really knows why the rest of the drivers and teams seem to be here. Even retired drivers are present.
Amidst the confused whispers and interviewers trying to drag at least one driver into a conversation, a line forms.
It takes a few moments to notice one thing. Every driver seems to be wearing Max's helmet.
Photographers are quick to gather, trying to get the best shot possible, already seeming to be happy at how big the profit will be. It's a race of who will get the best shot, who will get the biggest bone to chew on.
The pilots kneel and the sound of cameras snapping increases, if that is even possible.
For the next minute, that is all that can be heard. Cameras.
Then, Lewis stands, while the rest remain kneeling, heads down.
The world seems quiet to Lewis. All he can hear is blood rushing to his ears, disgust and anger gnawing at his heart and soul. Anger at Jos, disgust at the press. What kind of people are they?
Guilt weighs heavy in Lewis' heart. Could it be his fault? If Max had won, would he have lived? Was a championship title truly worth it? Worth a life of the young kid that had taken over the racing world like a storm.
No. It wasn't.
He doesn't hide any of his emotions as he speaks his first words. Max is dead. At the hands of his own father.
Snapping of cameras gets louder and Lewis feels bile rise up in his throat. No one says anything.
They all look at him, look at his fellow drivers, and see a spectacle. See a news article to sell and earn money from.
It's all a game. A disgusting, vile game.
Is this really what Max died for? What so many drivers have given their life for? For other people's entertainment?
He looks around and sees no sympathy. Just empty, robotic gazes staring back at him, flashing cameras circling them like vultures, looking out for a weak link to pounce on.
Sebastian is first to stand and walk over to Lewis, the rest follow.
Current grid separates from the retired pilots, who usher the press off the track.
They get into their cars, dutch flag attached to each. flashing of cameras never stops.
Lights go out and they race. Race for one they have lost. Race for a young boy who had found peace in speed. A boy that had, despite everything, managed to get to the top step with his head held high. A once in a generation kind of talent. Second to none.
No other driver will take the number 33. it will forever be Max's number.
Maybe years later, when a child asks their parent about the number that all drivers wear at the back of their helmet, Max will be remembered. Remembered as the fierce kid with untamable talent. Forged in fire, molded with harsh and cruel fists of his father. Yet still a beautiful soul with so much to give.
Taken from the world by an evil man who would forever rot in prison, paying for the sins he had committed. Sins that could never be amended.
But even so, the world moves on. The dutch wonderkid written off as one of the many drivers that had died for this sport.
Forever the number 33.