Chapter Text
“And Max Verstappen has forced Carlos Sainz off the track!” yells the commentator, in shock of watching Max seemingly nudge his car into the Williams livery and causing it’s driver to spin off into the gavel. Not enough to retire him from the race, and with a good recovery move Carlos managed to only lose a place to Max. “Lucky for Sainz but detrimental for Verstappen who is dangerously close to a race ban in penalty points”.
- boop boop –
- boop boop -
Max storms through the paddock ignoring every camera in his face and every person trying to speak with him. It’s been a rough season. His car is borderline undriveable and any recommendations for improvements fall on deaf ears, despite him, you know, being the one who drives the damn thing and knows what it needs.
“Max! Max” Rumours are circulating that you may be losing your seat due to performance reasons, can you comment?”
“Max, what happened out there today? Did you do it on purpose or is this how you drive now?”
“How does Christian feel about your lack lustre performance lately? Do you think you will be able to podium again this season or is this it?”
Max knows he has done what he needed to do in the race. He stopped giving a fuck about taking risks a few races ago, doing whatever was needed to show what he is capable of. Unfortunately, others don’t see it that way. He keeps his composure despite the many voices questioning his downfall, feeling the pressure rush to his head and making him see red. He pushes forward to the Red Bull building, making a bee-line for his driver room. In the corner of his eye, he sees his father losing his mind at some engineers, his ability to maintain composure considerably less than Max’s. Despite his best efforts to avoid, Max catches Jos’ eyes, seeing his face change to disgust as if he was the most pathetic person he had ever seen. Max feels the pit in his stomach grow, his vision blurs as he finally makes it to his drivers room. He can feel his heart beat in his throat, desperately needing something to punch, throw, or scream into… but his plans are thwarted as he sees Christian sitting on the couch with a blank expression. Max keeps the door open behind him, staring directly at Christian.
“Get. The fuck. Out”
“Sit down, Max” Christian replies, staying seated. His voice feigns calm, but Max can tell he is pissed. Max slams the door behind him, knowing Christian to be just as stubborn as him. His knuckles whiten from holding his own grip, as he walks over to the mirror to take off his hat and fix his hair. Max’s cheeks are a patchy, flushed red and his lips slightly bruised. He didn’t realise how forcefully he was biting his lips to stop from blowing up. He lightly brushes his hair with his hands and turns around to meet Christian’s gaze again, his back leaning against the table behind him. The silence fills the room, but Christian gives in and breaks first, “Today was unacceptable”.
Here we go
Max pushes off the table and paces to the other side of the room, smirking and shaking his head in disbelief.
“And why was it unacceptable Christian? Because of me? Not because of the car bottoming out? Not because of the fucking steering being impossible? Not because the car is FUCKED and no one is listening?”
The red Max is seeing gets even deeper as he continues to pace, fuelled by frustrated energy.
“You know exactly what was unacceptable. That little manoeuvre you pulled on Carlos? What were you thinking?!”
“I was thinking about how to win! Shocker! Competitive driver drives competitively! Call the fucking media! I saw a space; I went for it.”
“There was no space Max. There wasn’t last race, or the race before that, and yet you continue to terrorise the track”
Max picks up a pillow and throws it down to the floor, choosing not to respond.
“We love your determination, but this recklessness needs to stop” Christian pleads.
Bullshit.
Max takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the notifications, one standing out from his father with a link to an article. “Look at what you are doing” Jos writes, with the article title glaring at Max as if it was coming out of his phone and jumping in front of his face.
Verstappen – A Dying Legacy.
Max throws his phone at the couch, watching it bounce onto the floor. Christian flinches, watching as Max turns his attention to the papers filled with car data on the table, using one arm to clear them by forcing them to the floor.
“You need to talk to someone” Christian says, his tone calm and empathetic but his stare stern and directed, not that Max would know while he stares at the floor at the chaos he created. His chest rises and falls dramatically with his heavy, frustrated breath.
“I don’t need shit, Christian! You know what I need? You to stay in your fucking lane and I will stay in mine” Max retorts. He may not be looking, but he can feel the burn of Christian’s glare blister his skin. He abruptly stops his pace in the middle of the room, bravely meeting Christian’s gaze. Max glares back, annoyance apparent on his face that his antics haven’t forced Christian to leave the room yet. Christian does not falter, but his body fails him as Max notes his deep, shaky inhale.
“Part of my job, as annoying as it may be to you, is to make sure you can do yours. You don’t have a choice here Max. If I don’t step in, the FIA will, and they are more annoying than me. You are so close to a race ban. It is unbelievable that you didn’t get penalised today” Christian remains fixed on Max, his relaxed body language incongruent with his tone. This fake calmness pisses Max off more, as he pelts his empty water bottle at a wall near him. Christian doesn’t react, being witness to many of Max’s tantrums in his career. Usually, these tantrums would be brief and intense, but lately Max’s anger is a flame with endless fuel.
“Step in and what mate? What the fuck do you want from me? To see a shrink? Talk about my daddy issues and the pressures of professional sport? Fuck off.” Max runs his fingers through his hair again, pulling at the root before throwing his arms up exasperatedly. “Might as well admit me to a ward at this point Christian! That’s what they’re all saying right? Max Verstappen has lost the plot! Cracked under pressure! Ruining the family name and the good name of Red Bull Racing”
He can feel his face burning, his flushed cheeks turning into a full face rash. Max’s inability to control his emotions made him someone to be feared. Everyone knew not to fuck with him because it would either fuel further success as he channels his anger into his driving or result in an intense, hostile encounter. Unfortunately for Christian, he is exposed to the latter.
“What did you expect mate? You are driving like a suicidal maniac. It is beyond competitiveness at this point. Look, I know times have been tough lately and your dad hasn’t been help-“
“Don’t” Max interrupts. There was only one thing worse than Max when he is red hot and causing a scene, and that is Max when he is dead still and void of emotion, preparing for a second onslaught. Christian gets the message and softens his gaze, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
“You are under immense pressure. You need an outlet that is separate from the track, or you won’t be on it anymore.”
Max scoffs, the threat against his future career stoking his flame even higher. He resumes his pace, placing his fingers to his temples and rubbing to find relief from the overwhelming pressure.
“I won’t be on it anymore? HA! What a joke! I am a 4-time world champion. The FIA aren’t going to ban m-“
Shit. ShitshitSHIt.
Max’s eyes widen with the weight of the realisation hitting him hard and fast, it’s not the FIA. Christian is threatening to drop him from his seat. The rumours were true. “The rumours were true, they wouldn’t ban me but they aren’t the issue are they?”
“World champion or not, you need to pull your head in. You are seeing a psychologist next week. I will email you the appointment details.” Christian gets up, his muscles tense. His gaze is no longer soft, and his volume is now louder than ever. He gets to the door handle and turns around, contemplating making one last-ditch effort to get through to Max. He knows it will probably piss him off more, but maybe enough that it wakes him up a bit. “Just because he raised you to be like him does not mean you have to comply”.
Horner slams the door behind him because Max picks up the glass on the table and smashes it against the wall.
“FUCK OFF” Max yells loud enough for everyone in the hospitality to hear.
The glass shatters across the floor of his room, glittering amongst the other items that have met the same fate. His body is on overdrive. His heartbeat is overwhelmingly fast, pounding in his chest so hard he feels it in his throat. He feels it in every limb, the anger and frustration. His blurry vision worsens and he starts to feel sickeningly dizzy. His legs give out as he sits on the couch. Still and sullen, he massages his temples for relief before cupping both hands over his face. Teardrops break away from his cheek and falls on his racing suit, and he is grateful that Christian left before he could witness the pitiful aftermath of Max’s pathetic feelings.
Max used to be able to calm himself down. He used to have a network of people he could call and rant to – other drivers, friends, partners, a seemingly proud father… but no one cared now. He pushed them all away enough for them not to care or check in anymore. Now, he can’t control his emotions even when alone. They consume him, swallowing him whole. Max’s breath starts to quicken, nearing hyperventilation and he knew all too well what was happening.
No no no fuck stop
The problem with always wanting control is the panic that happens when it slips through your fingers, and the emptiness that follows. Here was that panic, right on cue, attacking his nervous system quicker than he could manage. Max quickly takes off half of his racing suit, hoping his body feels less restricted but it is not enough. His eyes can’t hold the load of tears brimming at his waterline as he starts to sob. He grabs a pillow with his shaking hands and holds it for dear life, his head forced into it as he lets out a muffled yell.
Stop fucking crying stop fucking crying
He rocks back and forth, clamping his eyes chut against the fabric of the pillow. Max throws the pillow across the room, matching the fate of the last pillow. He strikes the top of his head with closed fists. Once. Twice. Three times… until he runs out of energy. He knows how much pain he will be in tomorrow, but it works. His breathing slows, but his body feels heavy and lifeless. He musters up enough energy to reach for a water bottle on the table and waits until he is able to walk out for the race debrief.