Chapter Text
When Max offhandedly opened his emails on an uneventful Tuesday evening, he hadn’t expected to start screaming.
But there, in his inbox, addressed to him was an email from RedBull .
It was unheard of, completely unheard of. They were offering him, a 17 year old who hadn’t even competed in F2 a seat on the main team.
Horner had written that he had ‘enough faith to take the risk’ , and also that Danil Kvyat, who was originally meant to be in the seat, had been suddenly removed. He didn’t go into very much detail, but Max, even with his admittedly limited social cues, could tell there was something annoyed in his tone.
He didn’t care, he had the seat , he was going to be an F1 driver .
Everything , years of practice and sacrifices, all leading up to this. It was worth it now. He was worth it.
His grin stretched from ear to ear, practically vibrating on his chair. He felt childish, uncontrolled but it didn’t matter . He was allowed this, his dreams were materialising right in front of his eyes and fuck he was so, so hopeful.
He swung the laptop into his hands and bounded down the stairs towards the living room, where his dad sat watching whatever shitty show had piqued his interest this time.
He straightened himself as he reached the doorway, hiding his twitching hands behind his back.
“Dad!” He tried his very best to keep his overflowing excitement out of his tone. It didn’t work as well as he wanted.
Jos looked unimpressed, not quite angry yet though, so at least that was good, “ What, Max. I’m trying to watch something here.”
“Read this!” He shoved the laptop in front of his face, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for his father to say something.
Jos read through it at least twice, letting the silence hang around them. Max felt increasingly more antsy waiting for him to just speak .
His eyebrows quirked up, just slightly before falling to their neutral position.
Max couldn’t help himself, “Isn’t it good? They want me on their team! And they think I’m good enough for the main seat. I’m going to be an F1 driver!” He rambled, losing all of his emotional control.
But come on , he was going to F1 . His father would love this, they’d been working for this, surely he’d be-
“You’re lucky they were so desperate for anyone to fill their seats. Don’t mess this up.”
Max felt his chest tighten.
“Yeah,” He breathed, “Yeah, I won’t.”
Jos nodded, looking away from Max and back to the TV. Max went back to his room silently.
“YES! YES! Let’s go!” Max screams. P2. His very first race in F1 and he gets P2.
GP is screaming back at him, Horner too. He feels weightless. He’s on top of the world. The car is perfect beneath him. He could do anything.
He springs out of the car the moment he stops behind the little P2 sign, ripping his helmet off. His team is screaming at him from behind the barricades, pumping their fists into the air and chanting his name like a prayer.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, he gets pulled around to see Lewis Hamilton . He stops, a little star stuck.
Jos never allowed him to have posters of other drivers, “ They’ll be your competitors. You’ll be better than them .”
But if he had been able to, no doubt Lewis would have proudly sat above his bed.
There was something insane about just how good he was.
And sure, Max doesn’t want to be Lewis. He obviously wants to be better.
But being like Lewis would be reallyfuckingcool .
“Well done, mate. That was really good!” Lewis grins as he speaks, exposing his little gap tooth that Max has never really noticed before.
He looks genuinely happy for Max as he pulls him in for a quick hug. Warmth explodes through him; he almost wishes it lasted a little longer.
“Thanks!” He says, probably a little too loudly and a little too Dutch. “See you on the podium?” He adds. Because it sounds cool. It makes him sound cool, and nothing like the excited teenager who can’t control his happiness.
“Of course,” Lewis replies easily, way too smooth with his little wink and he goes to pull away but-
“Actually,” Max cuts in. He cringes a little to himself as he loses every ounce of coolness he’d just earned, “Where is the podium? How do we get there?”
He’s had podiums before, obviously. But everything’s more official in F1, and he hadn’t even done F2.
He’s only mostly sure he knows how it works. Mostly means there’s room for error.
Lewis laughs, Max is pretty sure it’s not at him, at least it doesn’t seem to be hostile, “Go celebrate with your team, they’re itching to throw you in the air, starboy. Then come back and we can go together, okay?”
Max feels his cheeks get a little warm at the starboy comment, because really, that’s not true. He’s just got a good car, that’s all. He’s a good driver, but not quite good enough for Lewis to be calling him starboy .
It also happens to be maybe a little comforting that he doesn’t need to make a fool of himself because he has a guide now.
Lewis doesn’t even know what he’s signed himself up for. Max has a little safety net now in the form of one kind seven-time world champion and he plans on using it .
“Okay! Thank you!” He rushes out, Lewis claps his shoulder once before turning to his own team, which Max takes as his cue to sprint straight at the sea of RedBull.
Max gets thrown into the air like he weighs nothing, there are hands patting him on every available surface and he’s laughing with his head thrown back, entirely carefree.
There are shouts of, “ It’ll be a race win next!” In his ear and he must be in heaven.
True to his word, Lewis waits with a grin on his face, watching Max get carefully lowered back to the ground.
“The Redbull lot don’t play around with their celebrations, do they?” He says, throwing an arm around Max’s shoulders and guiding him along.
“No, they don’t,” Max agrees, focusing on not falling over.
“Your after party will be insane though, can you drink yet? Do you drink yet?”
“Uh, well you can’t drink in Bahrain anyway, right?” Max wouldn’t do it either way. It’s his first season, he wants to be in his best form. He won’t let hangovers or unforeseen consequences get in the way of that.
“Eh,” He makes a so-so movement with his head, “You sort of can, you’ve just got to be in the right places. Nobody can be bothered with that though, we all start drinking on the planes.”
“Ah,” Max hums, and wracks his brain for something a little more useful so he can actually continue the conversation.
“Actually, how are you getting back? Are you going back to England?” Lewis asks, staring at him questioningly.
Max feels a little smaller under the gaze, it's not entirely terrible, “Uh. Yeah, I’m going back to England with the team. They’ve got the flights booked.”
Lewis snorts, “That won’t do. You can’t drink on commercial flights, that’s not a proper party. I have some room, come back on my jet.”
Max very almost loses his footing, “Oh- uhm- well, actually I won’t be drinking anyway, so, uhm.” He stutters, averting eye contact as hard as he can.
“Ah, keeping fresh for the team meetings I see? That doesn’t matter, come anyway. We’ll get you drunk by osmosis, you’ll have a great time!”
Max desperately searches his brain to find out what the fuck osmosis means. He thought he was fluent in English, but clearly not.
He nods along anyway, not willing to appear too stupid in front of him. “Sure! I mean, I would need to check with my team, but that sounds fun.”
Lewis pats his back again, “Atta boy. I’ll send you the details.” Max is confident Lewis doesn’t have his number. He doesn’t want to mention that, though. “Right now we’ve got the post race interviews,” Max could see Valtteri, who came in third, doing his. “You’ll be next. Just go up and say the car was good and you’re happy, then talk to Val for a bit, then we can all head off together, alright?” Lewis says, watching Max for confirmation.
Max nods dutifully. He’s going to have to stop soon before he gives himself a headache.
Valtteri starts to walk away and Max gets a light shove between his shoulder blades towards Nico Rosberg, who’s taking the interviews.
“ Max!” He exclaims, as if they were old friends. “ Brilliant race, your very first race in F1 and you’re on the podium , how do you feel?”
Nico had a hand on his shoulder, it felt grounding, especially as more cameras he’d seen in his life pushed around him.
“ Good ! Really good. I was, of course, hoping for a good result, and this is far better than I’d expected! I’m very happy, and I’m happy with the team, of course. The car feels very good.” He’s speaking too quickly, his smile is probably too wide.
Nico laughs, he seems happy too, “I’m sure it does. Do you think we’ll be seeing some more races like this in the future?”
“Uh, I hope so. I will, of course, keep doing my best, and hopefully we will see good results.”
Nico grins and asks him a few more questions before sending him off again. Max catches a little disdainful expression thrown over his shoulder as he turns to leave, which. Yeah.
Nico and Lewis weren’t really the best of friends after everything. Max can’t help but think they should be happy enough anyway, world champions and millionaires.
Valtteri claps him on the back when Max reaches him. Max can’t help but preen under all the praise.
Lewis pounces on him at the podium, drenching him. Max shrieks, fumbling with his own bottle to spray back at him, accidentally shooting straight into his eyes.
Lewis laughs heartily and aims back and holy shit, it actually really hurts.
His eyes are still burning as someone from RedBull leads him back to the garage, he doesn’t care. He couldn’t be happier.
“Max!” GP runs up to him, pulling him into a firm hug with absolutely no hesitation. Max melts into it, it feels so right . Gianpiero had been nice to him so far, really nice.
He wasn’t even supposed to be Max’s engineer, but he’s so glad he is.
“That was brilliant !” He praises, pulling Max off the fucking floor and into the air.
Max yelps and tightens his hold as someone from the media team runs around him filming.
“ Excellent job, Max. Excellent.”
Max laughs, and it’s a laugh not a giggle. He doesn’t giggle. “Thank you! I’m very happy with it. You were also very helpful, thank you.”
He gets placed on his own two feet again, arms carefully removing themselves, never straying too far away from him though, just hovering nearby like he wants to hold Max again.
“Of course, Max. It’s what I’m there for. I think we’ll have no problem working together if this is how our very first weekend has gone.”
There are more yells from across the room and before Max can reply, Christian comes up behind him.
“ Perfect , just perfect , Max. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. You’re going to be our next champion, I just know it .”
Max hopes so. He really fucking hopes so.
It’s thrilling to see just how much trust Christian is putting into him after just one race.
He has streams of mechanics and engineers and media managers and jobs he’s never even heard of before come past and congratulate him. He’s not sure he’s ever made more people happy.
He heads to his driver’s room quickly to freshen up a little before talking to the media. His dad is there waiting.
He looks annoyed, disdainful too. The way he looks down at Max makes him feel so awfully small. “You were losing time in turn four. If you’d tightened that up you could’ve passed Hamilton.”
Max wants to go back to the team.
He googles osmosis on the car ride to the airport. He’s pretty sure he won’t actually get drunk like that. He never listened particularly hard in class, but getting drunk by being around alcohol seems a bit too much.
Lewis did end up messaging him, Max assumes he must’ve gotten the details from the drivers’ chat. That or he’s being stalked.
He gets another message whilst he’s on the plane
Unknown number: Hey
Unknown number: This is Nico
Nico Rosberg : I just wanted to say again how impressive that race was, man. Especially because it’s your first.
Nico Rosberg: I can’t wait to see where you go
Max smiles and tries to hide it underneath his hands. Not that it matters, they’re halfway through a 6 hour flight and everyone’s already gotten so drunk they’re slurring their words.
Italy is gorgeous, Max can’t wait to try some of the food once the race is over.
He tops a practice session, Lewis finds him in the paddock with his easy going smile.
“Well done, kid. Are we going to see anything else from starboy this weekend?” He says, Max flushes involuntarily again .
He laughs anyway, “You better watch out, I’ll be the one on the top step this week!” It’s part joke, part hopeful. And maybe, secretly, part truth. He knows how he raced last week, he knows the car. He could .
Lewis grins even wider, “Yeah? I guess I’ll have to see you out on track then. Only through the mirrors, though.”
Max snorts, “We’ll see about that!”
Max wins on Sunday. His very first win in Formula one.
His team screams so loud Max thinks his eardrums might burst.
Lewis frowns. Max doesn’t get jumped on at the podium. Instead, he goes straight for Valtteri and then his team.
Valtteri sprays him though, Lewis throws a couple of droplets on him as Max drenches his team.
It’s not an issue. Lewis is allowed to feel upset over losses. Max knows he’s been upset on podiums before.
Later, in the media room, Lewis says Max pulled off a dirty overtake to get the lead, and he’s surprised the FIA allowed it.
Max watches with a frown. There was nothing wrong with his overtake, he’s sure about that. He doesn’t know why Lewis is complaining.
They’re placed together on media day in Portugal.
“Lewis, a question for you, please. Now that Max is doing well in his RedBull, what do you think the chances of winning the title fight are? Will you lose your eighth title?”
Lewis laughs, it isn’t particularly pleasant, “I’m under no threat from a rookie. I’m going to win.”
Max’s brows furrow.
He’s not quite sure when he upset Lewis, but he’s getting defensive now. The media have found out asking about Max is the best way to get a reaction out of him. He really wishes they would stop. He doesn’t particularly like the most notable man in the sport dragging his name through the mud before he even has a chance to make a name for himself.
Most of the others are nice though. Sort of.
He gets it, he really does. Max enters the sport and instantly starts doing unnaturally well. He’s driven two races and has more wins and podiums than half the grid.
Nico’s always nice to him. Max found it odd at first, when he sought Max out to talk him through the track. Max wanted to be offended because obviously he knew how to drive. He was doing well in all the practice sessions.
Then Nico started talking about Lewis . Max started listening.
He told Max probably an unfair amount, but he was glad to know somewhat how Lewis thinks.
Thinking back on it, he’s not terribly sure how much he can actually trust, considering they’re nowhere near friends now.
Either way, he’ll have to try some of the moves during the race.
Lewis wins, in front by 29 seconds.
He saunters over to Max with a grin, clapping him on the back, “Good racing there, kid. Did a good job keeping Val away from you.”
Max grunts out something agreeable in return, it seems to be enough for Lewis, who goes back to his team.
He just doesn’t get it .
Lewis had been bad mouthing him to press all weekend, but now, when Max is behind, he decides he’s perfectly content to be friendly again. And he wants Max to be friendly.
Max doesn’t do that. He doesn't do false niceties and fake smiles. At the beginning, he didn’t have to. Lewis was an excellent racer, Max had no issue admitting that, and he was fun .
He dragged Max up from his seat on the plane to dance to bad music, shoved an entire bottle of vodka into his hands with a wink even if Max had no plans of drinking it. He playfully spun Max's shoulders around to ‘ Make sure he didn’t get lost’ . He laughed with him in the driver’s parade, stood next to him as he greeted other drivers just so he’d be more comfortable with everyone. He’d been so nice . But now…
“Lewis! Lewis! Do you think Max has a chance to win the championship this year?”
“I doubt he’ll win another race this year, frankly. He’s a good racer, but he’s done well in a few lucky races, he hasn’t had real challenges yet. He’s just not ready to be on the top step.”
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“Man, Hamilton really doesn’t seem to like you, does he?” Alex says as he stares up at the TV.
Max scoffs. He doesn’t need his approval. Hamilton can do whatever he wants.
They’re both sitting on Max’s bed in his driver’s room, waiting for the team debrief to start whilst watching Sky Sports’ broadcast. It’s boring.
“He doesn’t like that I’m doing well,” Max mutters. It’s true, he’s sure of it. But still, it’s maybe not the best thing to say to his teammate who’s not quite doing as well as him.
“You’ll just have to do better, then. Take his eighth.”
He appreciates the confidence Alex has in him. He isn’t sure he feels the same.
“ What was that, Max?” Jos spits the moment he sets his eyes on Max, “ 29 seconds behind? I didn’t fucking raise you to lose, and especially not that badly. It’s embarrassing .”
Max shrinks a little, “Dad-“ He tries to reason, but he’s already storming away, just expecting Max to follow behind him.
Max follows behind him.
“There wasn’t much I could do , the cars weren’t on the same level and-“
“No. ” Jos bites, “I don’t care about the car, I care about the fact that you can’t fucking race after I’ve spent seventeen years trying to make sure you didn’t end up as a fucking truck driver , and this is what you do! You throw it all away! You’re useless , Max. Fucking useless.”
“Dad,” he says and it comes out wrong . It’s not fighting and assertive, he sounds like an injured animal, whimpering and whining not to be put down, but his dad just isn’t seeing . He’s not understanding , he just needs to listen .
“That’s not fair,” and he sounds like a sulky child who never learnt how to control himself, “There was no way I could’ve-“
“Shut up ,” and Max is flying- no, falling- and his skull is crashing against the hard wall behind him and his dad is leaving and Max couldn’t even speak and now he can’t think and everything’s miserable .
He feels fuzzy and everything’s just so much worse than it was moments ago.
He draws his legs up to his chest and drops his head onto them, the same way he did when he was younger.
He shouldn’t be acting like this anymore. He’s 17, he’s almost an adult and here he is sulking over a little shove.
He shouldn’t even have to be shoved anymore, he thought they were past that.
Jos had always used a more… hands on method of training him. He needed it though. It’s the only reason he’s good enough to get into Formula 1 now.
You can’t be the best without a little push.
He needed it then, he shouldn’t need it now. He needs to course correct, he needs to do something right because otherwise, his dad will have no choice but to go back to their old training methods.
“Max? Are you okay?”
Max’s head snaps up to see the voice.
Nico Rosberg stands there, cheap coffee in one hand and some sort of mix of concern and confusion plastered onto his face.
“Uhm- uh- yeah .” His voice was squeaky and unconvincing.
Brilliantly done, Max.
“Okay…” Nico, unsurprisingly, doesn’t quite seem to believe him as he goes and takes a seat on the ground next to Max with a groan.
“ Fuck , my knees are not what they used to be.”
Max snorts, it’s wetter than he’d like it to be “Getting old?”
Nico grins and shakes his head, "You don't know what old is .”
He ruffles Max’s hair, Max almost leans into it but Nico snatches his hand away instantly. Max holds back a sigh at the disappointment
“ Max !” He says, urgently staring at his own hand in horror, “You’re bleeding!”
And huh . Yeah, there is some blood on Nico’s hand. Quite a decent amount.
“Oh.” Is all he can reply with. It’s not dignified in the least, but his head is really beginning to hurt. Nico was a nice distraction at first, but it still wasn’t enough to dull the ringing in his skull.
Nico’s eyebrows are pulled into a deep frown as he manoeuvres Max to face further away from him so he can fiddle around with his hair.
“Max this doesn’t look great, I’m going to take you to medical.”
Max doesn’t really register the sentence before Nico is up, coffee forgotten on the ground and two hands out to help pull Max up.
It’s probably too late to argue, so he takes the hands and lets himself get dragged off.
It’s probably for the best that he gets it disinfected anyway.
Max gets second in Spain.
It’s not good enough for Jos.
Lewis tells the media that Max will never be able to win anything when Lewis is on track unless something catastrophic happens to his own car.
When media asks about his thoughts he tells them Lewis is trying to cling onto his prime.
Mad Max is in all the headlines within hours.
That, apparently, is the final straw for Lewis, breaking their splintering friendship.
Max cannot believe him. Lewis had been throwing out subtle jabs for weeks , some of them weren’t even subtle! Just outright attacks on his racecraft or age or character, and the second Max says one bad thing back, suddenly all hell breaks loose.
“I think he’s far too inexperienced to speak on this topic. He’s young and arrogant, he’ll get a reality check this year, I’ll make sure of it.”
Max’s fist tightens underneath the table. Lewis doesn’t get to talk like that. Max would certainly be burnt at the stake for saying that, but clearly Lewis’ fanbase is far stronger, seeped into the inner workings of F1 to make sure nobody is neutral.
He thinks it’s maybe a little unfair that the same people wearing 44 hats and singing Lewis’ praises are the ones that he has to sit down with in interviews that he just knows will lead to an article that makes him look like the devil.
It’s not his fault his opponent is one of the sport’s most loved members.
“Don’t listen to him, kid. He’s full of shit and everyone knows it. You’ll show him how it’s done on track, yeah?” It’s a mechanic from Alex’s side of the garage. Max doesn’t know his name, but still. He appreciates it.
He just wished everyone else thought Lewis was lying.
He’s not even sure if Lewis is lying.
“Thanks. The car’s looking really good, I think we have a good chance this weekend.”
The mechanic grins, patting his shoulder twice and walking off.
Max really likes his team. They’ve been nice.
GP took him for ice cream after his win in Italy, which Brad graciously built into his diet plan. He felt like a kid, driving through the streets of Italy to find what GP swore was the best gelateria - He forbade Max from calling it anything else- in all of Italy. Max had three whole scoops.
At least half of the staff ruffle Max’s hair when they walk past. Max has long since come to terms with his hair looking like a mess, because clearly, none of his team likes the gel.
If he ever dares to stand somewhere by himself, he’ll have barely a second before someone tucks him under their arm, chatting to him about god knows what. It’s nice, really nice. He doesn’t even need to listen , he just gets to stand there and enjoy the warmth. It’s entirely nonsensical, but he feels almost protected , like he’s shielded by a wall of willing bodies, all decked in navy blue.
They all have something nice to say when they see him absolutely not moping in the corner. They never treat him like he’s dumb just because he’s younger. He wakes up from naps with blankets he’s sure weren’t there to begin with.
When he asked about it they all just said they were fostering talent .
Alex had laughed and said they had practically adopted him. Somehow, Max didn’t hate the idea.
Alex is great too. They routinely barge into each other's driver’s rooms, usually for no reason other than to ramble on about something irrelevant. They’d brainstormed so many ideas to try and avoid press duties, unfortunately, none of them worked anymore because someone had made the media managers suspicious.
(Alex had told them he couldn’t go because he needed to walk his dog. Whilst they were in Portugal. There was not a single dog for Alex to walk.)
He also stands by Max every time he’s surrounded by drivers who clearly harbour some underlying animosity towards him. It’s unnecessary , Max could absolutely handle that by himself. The support feels nice, though, just a little.
RedBull’s good, it’s also a very pleasant distraction from literally everything else.
Jos isn’t attending this Grand Prix.
It had sparked up a small uproar online, apparently, people were outraged that a 17 year old was travelling to places alone. He wasn’t even alone, Max had the whole team with him on the way here.
He's not really sure why people are more bothered by him travelling alone than by him spending his weekends in a deadly metal box.
His dad would definitely be watching too, just not in Monaco.
Max had received a long phone call from him, telling him not to fuck up and fail.
He won’t. Max is good. He’s always been good.
And his dad is upset, and he will continue to be upset until Max gives him results. He needs this.
He could also do with shutting Lewis up a bit too.
“ YES! ” He screams as GP confirms through the radio that yes, he has won the Monaco Grand Prix.
It’s great, it’s perfect, he’s not sure why GP doesn’t sound more excited, nor why Christian chimes in to say he needs to come straight to the team before any sort of press, and it’s important.
It doesn’t really make sense, and Max is like 70% that it's against the rules. He doesn’t dwell on it, though. Lewis came in seventh . That means not only had he won, but he’s tightened up the championship by a lot .
He has a clear shot at leading the championship.
He just needs one more good race.
The team feels dulled down, they aren’t screaming and shouting and celebrating like they should be. Max had gotten more energy from his P 2 s.
They should be happy. The championship is within s ight .
An uneasy feeling begins to pit itself in his stomach.
Christian comes out of nowhere, grabbing his arm and dragging him off to a secluded corner.
He’s glaring at all the cameras facing them, but there’s a clear undertone of panic, and Max really begins to feel like he’s missing something.
“Christian? What’s going on?” He asks, far meeker than he was just a minute ago.
“I’m so sorry, Max, this really isn’t how I’d like you to find out,” He looks unbelievably stressed, and he looks worried , “I just can’t risk you finding out from one of the interviewers and-”
“Christian ,” Max cuts off, he’s scared now, actually scared. Something’s happened and it’s bad enough to make Christian upset, “What happened .”
He got this defeated look on his face, “I’m sorry, Max,” He sighed, “I’m so sorry. Your father’s dead.”
Max’s face goes white.