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1.
The adrenaline is always the same, no matter how many times he wins. The sight of the chequered flag brings a wave of relief through his bones—that will never change.
“That’s P1, Max,” GP voices in Max’s helmet. “Checo is P2, this is a big one. Well done.”
“Thanks, everyone. Good work,” he breathes out.
“Amazing job as always, Max. You did wonderful today.” Christian’s voice rings through his ears and Max tries not to preen at the words. It’s always nice to be praised by Christian—no, his boss. It doesn’t matter that the two are not mutually exclusive. Praise doesn’t have to come from only Christian for the words to have any weight, he tells himself.
If his dad were here—something about Mexico being too far to travel to, a flippant excuse Max tried not to dwell too much on—he would say something about how proud he is of him. Or maybe those words are only reserved for championships. What’s one more Grand Prix win to his dad, anyway.
Whatever.
He leaps out from his seat and the celebrations are the same as always—albeit not any less jubilant. When he escapes the stifling group hug the mechanics trapped him in, his eyes find Checo.
His teammate is standing off to the side in an aloof manner, although his visor is up so Max can see the way his eyes are crinkling in a smile. Max gravitates toward him.
“Congrats, Max,” Checo says, voice muffled from his helmet. He brings a warm hand to Max’s shoulder and Max tries not to curl into his touch.
“Thanks, Checo,” he replies. And because he can’t think of anything else to say, he adds, “Congrats to you for P2. Sorry it wasn’t, ah, the result you were looking for.” At your home race, goes unsaid.
Checo doesn’t seem too bothered by his poor attempts at comforting him. They’re both a bit awkward, Max thinks. He finds comfort in that.
“No, don’t worry. I think podium is enough for me. I have my people here to make up for it.” Checo is still smiling like he’s won P1, and Max can tell he means his words.
Max doesn’t understand.
Max knows Checo is just as competitive as him—he wouldn’t be in the sport otherwise. Ruthlessness has carved their path toward F1, no matter how much time tries to erode the blood stains left on their competitors. No matter that it’s P2—it’s Checo’s home race. And he’s fine with his results for—for what?
When Max faces the crowd he’s met with jeering and obscene hand signals. It’s nothing new. Even Checo had admitted that his home crowd could be— passionate, he called it. Max had simply snorted in response.
Even though he and Checo are right next to each other, it’s painfully obvious who they’re booing and who they’re cheering for. Still, Checo waves a finger at the crowd in admonishment. Max appreciates the effort, even though it does little to calm the masses.
Max doesn’t understand.
Before he can say anything more, a man approaches Checo. Max realizes that he’s Checo’s father.
“Sergio!” Checo’s father has an ear-splitting grin on his face. He brings Checo into a bear hug and starts rambling in Spanish, much too fast for Max to understand.
The both of them seem pleased though, if their smiles are anything to go by.
Checo turns to Max and pats his arm. “Sorry, Max. But I have to go celebrate with my father, eh? Congratulations again. We will have tequila later!”
Checo’s father hands him a Mexican flag banner that Checo brings behind his shoulders as a cape. They wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders and walk toward the garage, waving at the crowd.
The fireworks are going off and Max can’t shake off the feeling that they’re not for him.
Checo grins up at his father. His Red Bull is behind Max’s—behind the stand that has a big, emboldened 2 on it. Max remains in the same spot he’s been standing in and—well. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so high on adrenaline anymore.
Max doesn’t understand.
2.
They’re shooting some videos for Red Bull at Suzuka when a staff member approaches them during break. Or rather, Yuki.
“Yuki, your father is here to see you.”
Immediately, Yuki’s face lights up. He turns to Max with an apologetic expression. “I will be back,” he says, before darting off to where his father is.
If Jos was nearby, would Max’s first instinct be to go see him, he wonders. Probably, but not for the same reasons Yuki or Checo have. Max shuffles his feet and makes small talk with Daniel in lieu of opening that can of worms.
When he sees Yuki return his father has his arm around his shoulder. The two are beaming and Max feels the same discomfort as when he saw Checo with his father. He averts his gaze while they say their goodbyes, laughter grating against his ears.
“You seem like you have a really good relationship with your dad,” he says, desperate to escape his thoughts.
Yuki nods, smiling. “Yes.” Then he says something in Japanese.
“What?”
Yuki ponders for a moment. “In Japan, we have a thing called red strings. Akai ito. It’s like. Uh, soulmates.”
Max frowns in confusion. “Like, the string connects two people?”
“Yes. Red string of fate, we call it. People say it is tied on our pinky.”
“So like you and Pierre.”
Yuki just throws his head back in laughter. “I guess. But that is the romantic kind. I think they’re not—always like that. They can just. Be.”
Max nods in understanding.
Yuki continues, his smile settling into something softer. “My dad and I have a red string, I think. Even when I left Japan, I can still feel our, ah, bond. Very strong, our string.”
Max stares at his own pinky. He lifts it to—test something, maybe. The only pull he feels is gravity tugging his finger down.
“And you believe it exists?” Max asks to prevent himself from saying something stupid. Something like how if he and his dad ever had a red string, it would’ve been tattered and fraying by now. That it had started rotting, friction rough against the thread long before the day his had left him alone at the gas station. That maybe it was never a string around his little finger, but a collar around his neck that connected him and his father.
He runs a jittery hand through his hair instead.
“I do. When I told Pierre, he thought it was silly.” Yuki shrugs. “But that’s okay. I can take care of both our strings by myself. He should be grateful.”
Yuki smiles at him and Max forces a smile back. He racks his brain for a list of names who would be willing to cherish their string with him and comes up empty. He forces a passive expression on his face and ignores the empty weight resting on his finger.
3.
Max had been told at the beginning of the year that they wouldn’t have a championship-winning car. Which—he wasn’t fine with, of course he wasn’t. But when he had gotten a call from his dad demanding why the car was so shit, he found himself defending Christian and the rest of the team.
“They did the best they could, dad,” Max had said for what felt like that fifth time. His tongue felt like a deadweight in his mouth, eager to end the conversation.
Jos had ended the call with a huff, saying, “I see your heart isn’t in it this year.”
And—what the hell could he say to that?
Max had stared numbly at the wall of his driver’s room for a solid five minutes before he was called in for testing.
-
They trade points with Mercedes throughout the year, although it’s not nearly as close of a fight as the media makes it out to be. Max knows that he’ll be stripped of number 1 by the end of the year but a sick, twisted relief bubbles inside him. He’s strangely glad he doesn’t have to shoulder the burdens of the championship battle for the first time in a while, although the guilt of that thought causes his stomach to lurch.
Lewis wins the championship at Las Vegas and Max feels nothing but happiness for him. Not that he could even afford to conjure up the negativity he felt toward him all throughout 2021, what with the shitbox he was given.
After the mob of Mercedes workers suffocating Lewis settles down a bit, Max approaches him.
“Congratulations, man,” he claps a hand on Lewis’ shoulder. He hopes his words come across as genuine.
Lewis swallows thickly. His eyes shine with tears. “Thank you, Max. Huge pleasure.”
Max nods, nothing left to say. There must be dozens of other people Lewis would rather receive a congratulations from, anyway.
He retreats back to his driver’s room and leaves the celebrating to the Mercedes team. He tosses his phone on the other side of the room like a ticking bomb—waiting for the inevitable, the berating that always comes with a big loss. Still, he can’t bring himself to switch his phone on silent.
The string that tethers them together, whatever remains of it, is still ironclad in the power Jos holds over Max.
He focuses his attention on the TV screen instead. He sees Lewis still celebrating. He’s with his father, jumping up and down in glee and—well.
Max doesn’t think he’s ever seen pride radiate from anyone quite like Lewis’ father. His hands cradle his son’s face in a gentle caress and suddenly Lewis is a boy again, not a world-champion driver pushing 40. Max’s fingers twitch.
He can’t hear the words they’re exchanging but he can only imagine—the unconditional praise that must be coming out of Lewis’ father’s mouth. Max can’t help feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment. He frowns before grabbing the remote to turn off the TV.
He waits for the phone call in the sharp silence of his room.
+1
When Bahrain rolls around Max is rejuvenated. He has an actual car this time rather than the tractor he had to lug around last season—Christian had looked awfully proud to divulge that bit of information to him. Now that he knows the taste of defeat he doesn’t want to lose again.
But it’s like his first race all over again. Nerves leave him a jittery mess and by the time FP2 rolls around his results are embarrassing.
His frown deepens when he gets out of the car to see Jos waiting for him at the front of the garage with a scowl on his face. Max’s stomach tightens.
“Dad-” he begins, hoping to placate his father until they can at least escape into the privacy of his room.
Jos ignores him, spewing out angry words in Dutch. Scarcely anyone in the garage can understand him, but they watch in silence.
Max winces at his father’s yelling, curling in on himself at the embarrassment of being berated in public. He stares at his feet and it’s like he’s 10 all over again, being told he can’t play at the park like all the other kids and has to go karting instead.
“I think that’s enough, Jos.” Max looks up to see Christian with a hand on his father’s shoulder, expression stormy.
“This is a conversation between me and my son, Christian. Your input is not needed.”
“It wasn’t a question. Either you leave Max alone or I’ll have to call security.”
Max’s heart lurches. “Christian, it’s okay-”
“No, Max.” Christian turns to Max, expression and voice softening. “I will not condone this kind of behavior to one of my drivers.”
Max retreats and wilts when his father faces him with a scathing glare. “We will talk later,” he says in Dutch before walking off.
When Jos is out of sight, Max breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not until his heart stops beating out of his ribcage that he sees everyone still staring at him like he’s a zoo animal. He swallows.
“Christian-” he starts, desperate to set the record straight with his boss. He can’t have Christian’s opinion of him plummeting just from one bad performance.
“Not here,” Christian interrupts, voice still taut. He turns to the rest of the garage. “Show is over, everyone. Nothing to see here.” Just like that, everyone resumes their work like nothing has ever happened.
Christian leads the two of them to his office. Max taps his fingers together if only to maintain some kind of rhythm in this situation. He starts conjuring up different responses to calm down Christian, several explanations for his shitty driving that he hopes don’t sound too much like lame excuses.
The moment Max closes the door behind them he launches into a ramble. “I’m sorry about my dad, Christian. I should’ve done better, and it was quite hard getting used to the car, not that it’s a valid excuse, ah-”
“Max.”
Max snaps his mouth shut. “Yeah.”
“Sit down.”
He wordlessly flops down onto the chair across from Christian’s, bracing himself for the worst.
Christian faces him with a tired expression. “Are you alright?”
Max frowns. “What?”
“I’m asking if you’re alright. My Dutch is elementary at best, but I cannot possibly fathom the humiliation you must’ve felt being talked down to like that in front of an audience.” Christian burrows his face in his hands. “God, I knew from the moment Jos started bothering me about the car that I should’ve banned him.”
Max’s head swims at the onslaught of information. He focuses on the most jarring fact. “You’re not mad at me?”
His boss looks outright insulted. “Mad at you? Whatever for?”
“I did a shit job driving today.”
Christian barks out a sarcastic laugh. He collects himself when Max wilts at the noise. “Everyone has bad days, Max. It’s not even quali, I don’t expect perfection from you all the time.”
Max nods, although he still doesn’t quite understand. In the end, Christian is his boss before they’re friends.
“You wanted my dad banned?”
“Well. I’m more surprised you’ve never outright asked me to block all access to the paddock. Which I’m more than happy to do, of course. Have you seen the way he treats you? ”
“He treats me like his son.”
Christian levels him with a strange look. Max can’t help feeling like he keeps saying the wrong things today. He never wants to feel that way, least of all with Christian out of all people.
His boss opens his mouth and closes it a few times, clearly trying to form a response. It’s not a good kind of speechless.
“Max,” he sighs resigned, tired, “I treat you more like a son than Jos does.”
“He loves me,” Max says in desperation. His throat threatens to close up.
“So do I,” Christian responds gently. “Do they seem the same to you?” Do you know how to spell out love without violence?
“I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore. I’ve lost that privilege.”
“Oh, Max,” Christian says, voice full of sympathy. Always gentle, not a trace of familiar anger in sight.
And Max can’t stop the tears that well up in his eyes. He thinks of Christian in the paddock, always congratulating Max after every win and providing comforting words even when he misses out on podiums. Christian, who has always been receptive to Max’s hugs instead of giving uncomfortable side-hugs that felt more like pandering to the camera rather than actual affection. Christian, who has never berated Max in a way that made him want to claw out of his chest.
Christian, whose string with Max has existed for so long he didn’t even realize it existed.
Christian gets out of his seat and kneels before Max. “It’s okay, Max. I’m here.” He brings Max in for a hug that’s awkward in the angle that they’re positioned in, but it’s the most warmth he’s felt in a while.
Max cries. He weeps for the stifling collar that will forever be leashed to his father’s unrelenting grip, and he weeps for the gentle bow that he now knows is knotted on his little finger connecting him to Christian.
Wrapped in Christian’s comforting embrace, he feels more like a son than he’s felt in years.