Fih

Blood keeps dripping warm into his palm, snaking down his wrist, and he has no fucking time to wash it off—his gloves will have to suffice in hiding the copper streaks.He tears the tissue and stuffs it to his nostrils. His eyes water at the pain.

Quickly shouldering open the door, he tumbles out into the overcast afternoon and starts racing to the track, messily wiping blood and cursing the way his fingers flinch away, just slightly, every time he brings his hand up to his nose. It doesn't even hurt that fucking bad. He's being a baby.

He rehearses in his head what he'll say if anyone asks why he's covered in blood, streaks down his hands and face, running sticky into his mouth. It's not particularly dry today, but maybe if he says his nosebleeds are chronic. He just needs to figure out the word in English. If he says they are always happening, would people understand? It wouldn't even be a lie if he phrased it like that. It is always happening. My nose bleeding? Me, bleeding? It is always happening.

It's pointless anyway to plan excuses. Nobody ever does ask. Maybe it's better that way—some days, Max isn't sure he trusts himself to say the right things. To hide his bloody teeth well enough. To lie.

When Max gets to the track, his father is scowling. And his face may not be twisted into quite the gruesome image it was just a few minutes ago, inside their tent, his hand harsh in Max's hair, but it isn't much better.

Max struggles to breathe, but he tries not to show it, lest his father's face twist again. He still can't inhale through his nose, and his heart is pounding quick—from the running, from the race starting in just a few minutes. From the look in his father's eye as he grabbed Max's hair tight in his fist and slammed his face into the dusty metal workbench.

Trying to settle his heart rate, he holds his breath for a moment, focusing on the air heavy in his lungs.

Air used to be light. The track used to smell like fuel instead of iron. Maybe, if Max wins, he'll breathe in deep on the top step and remember what that feels like.

But right now, he releases his breath, and the force of it makes his nose twinge. A drop of blood snakes past his hands and into the dip of his lip, sitting on the precipice.

Max doesn't have anywhere to put his tissue—his father certainly isn't going to take it, and if he wastes even more time running to a trashcan instead of getting his ass in the kart, he's going to have even more hell to pay. He shoves as many of the still-clean squares he as can up his nose, trying to angle his face away so his father can't see the way tears gather at the corners of his eyes. The rest, he lets go of. It trails away in the breeze, blood-stained ghost weaving along the dusty ground.

His father hands him his gloves, and his balaclava, and his helmet. Snaps at him to get ready quicker.

Max fumbles, shoving shaky hands he's still cursing into his gloves, covering up the streaks. Nobody will see—his gloves are black. He'll scrub out the invisible blood himself back home.

His balaclava is white this week, and he can already hear his father's reprimands for ruining it, staining it red. Maybe, before he can say anything, Max will take it off and let it trail away in the breeze.

He's getting tired of being introduced to new people. First it's police officers and ambulance workers, then it's doctors, then more police officers and more doctors.

"Hello," a new voice says close to him, and Max looks up, startled; he didn't even notice the man enter the room.

The man smiles at Max. His eyes are blue like his father's, but there's no anger or hatred in them — instead, they are warm, kind, looking at Max like he's a person, and not a victim or a patient he needs to treat.

"My name is Gianpiero Lambiase," the man introduces himself, voice calm. "But you can call me GP, if you like."

Max thinks that both of those options sound silly, but doesn't say anything, thankfully. Talking always gets him in trouble.

"I work in social services," the man- GP continues. "And your name is Max, I've been told?"

Max stays silent. Everyone here seems to know him — a strange flip to his life before, when no one cared enough to even look at him.

"He doesn't speak," says the nurse assigned to Max. "We don't know yet if he's in shock or it's because of all the injuries."

GP's brows furrow, and Max looks away. GP is shorter than his father, but his hands look big and heavy, holding a folio full of papers.

"I was told he wasn't injured?"

"We found no recent injuries that would indicate a fight, but there are a lot of old injuries — likely from domestic abuse. Fractured ribs, damage to his forearms. We're also suspecting a concussion…"

Max tries to tune the words out. He doesn't like how they make him feel.

When they took all those scans, they kept saying, "Poor kid, why would anyone do something like this?"

Max listened to them with shame burning brightly in his core, feeling exposed, gutted open under their pitying eyes.

Because I deserved it? the voice in his head echoed. It sounded just like his father.

He'd wanted to argue with the doctors, say, "You're wrong, it was my fault," but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, throat closing up every time someone asked him a question. It's for the better, anyway. He always says the wrong thing.

"…As long as he's not in shock and can think clearly, we should be fine," GP's voice seeps slowly into Max's brain, reverberating against the sides of his skull. He's getting a headache again. "I'll handle all of the appointments after we get the paperwork sorted."

Max looks up at him sharply, instantly regretting it when pain shoots through his neck. Paperwork? And why will GP handle the appointments. What appointments are they even talking about?

The confusion must be clear on his face, because GP smiles at him, saying, "My apologies, Max, I got sidetracked and didn't even tell you why I was here."

There's a serious look in GP's eyes, and Max isn't sure if he likes it.

"I am going to be honest, your situation is very difficult. Not in the least because of the way you were brought into the country…"

Memories flash before Max's eyes, unclear and muddy like he is looking through murky water. Max, small and scared, stuffing his blanket in a backpack; dark van, so cold his fingers couldn't stop trembling; shouting voices; his father tugging his hand, too rough, bones grinding against each other.

"…wanted to ask if you have any other family members you know about? A mother, maybe a sibling?" GP offers.

Sometimes, Max dreams about his Mama's smile, her gentle eyes crinkling in the corners as she looks down at him. He remembers Vic, small and so fragile, sleeping in Max's arms. But those memories are disant now — an impression left from Max thinking about it, replaying it over and over in his head, desperately trying to stop himself from forgetting.

He shakes his head. If they're still- if they are somewhere out there, Max doesn't know about it.

GP nods solemnly. "We will keep looking, but it will take us a very long time to untangle all of that," he says.

"In the meantime, you will need a place to stay," GP pauses, taking a deep breath. Max is definitely getting a headache.

"Normally, we would just put you in the foster system, but because of your," he purses his lips, frowning, "situation, we think it would be best for you to have a temporary caregiver, until we can find your other parent or you reach legal age."

Max feels like a kid again, small and scared and unsure of what's happening around him.

Stupidly, he wants his dad back. But that's impossible now, because he-

Because Max-

He blinks, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the jagged edges of his nails dig into his palms. Shame burns through his chest once again. He's being s pussy, crying for his father like a useless child.

"I am sorry, Max," GP suddenly says, catching Max off guard. Isn't he the one that should apologize? "I'm putting a lot onto you, especially after such a traumatic thing."

Max bristles. He's fine, he can handle it.

"But I just need you to understand why I am doing this. Like I said, I will be your temporary caregiver, until you are eighteen or we can locate your mother."

The words are just starting to sink into his muddled brain, but he still can't make sense of them. Why would anyone- let alone someone like GP, want to adopt Max?

"Here." GP reaches into his folio and takes out a stack of papers lined with neat black printed letters, "It's all official lingo, but you can still read it, if that works better for you."

Max reluctantly takes the papers — he hopes he doesn't stain them with blood — and skims the first page.

Temporary guardianship. Information about the guardian. Last name: Gianpiero, First name: Lambiase. Current physical address. Information about the beneficiary. First name: Max...

The writing looks legit, every box ticked and filled. When Max gets to the last page, the bottom is empty. Shouldn't there be a big red [APPROVED] stamp?

"Sorry," GP says. Max still isn't sure for what. "I know it's overwhelming — we wanted to check if you knew anything about the rest of your family before approving the paperwork."

GP sighs. "I wish you had any say in this, but it's time-sensitive now. I've been running around putting these together for the past-" he pauses, "two days, since we got the call."

Has it really been two days? Max doesn't remember staying here that long. Maybe that's why he's so tired.

"So, here's what we're going to do. I was told the hospital needs asnother hour or two to get everything in order. It will take me around the same time to get these papers approved."

He stops, waiting for Max's reaction. Max doesn't know what to give him. He doesn't feel anything, except the bone-deep exhaustion.

GP's voice gentles. "And after that, we can finally go home."

Home. Max isn't sure he knows what that means anymore.

***

GP is a strange man. Living with him for the past couple of weeks has been one of the weirdest times in Max's life.

He doesn't seem to follow any of the rules. He lets Max keep the door to his room closed all the way, and knocks before he comes in.

Max couldn't fall asleep the first night he moved in, and GP didn't walk into his room even once to check if he's awake. He also didn't say anything about Max getting up to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, even though the cupboard made a loud creaking noise and GP was very tired.

He's also weird about food. He keeps asking what food Max likes, and makes sure there's always something to eat before he leaves for work.

When they were buying groceries the first time, GP and him stopped before an aisle with canned soup. Out of habit, Max reached to take a few cans.

"Tomato soup, huh?" GP noted, watching him, "Can't say I'm a huge fan of it."

Max's stomach sank, and he went to put the cans back. That was fine, he could live without some stupid tomato soup. His father always said it tasted like shit anyway.

"Oh, no no, it's fine, you can have them," GP quickly said, "I just meant that I'm probably not going to eat any."

He grabbed a can while Max slowly put the two he was holding back into the basket.

"It's been so long since I had it. We used to eat it with grilled cheese, just dip it in," he said, "Do you eat yours with grilled cheese too?"

Max shook his head. He'd tried to make it once, but he was small and clumsy back then, and his father really didn't like the mess that he made. Just soup was nice though.

"Oh mate, we have to make it then! Come on," GP exclaimed, waving Max towards the cheese section. "It'll be our dinner tonight."

The day didn't get any less strange after that. The grilled cheese and tomato soup were very nice, and then GP let Max have a chocolate bar, even though he couldn't quite finish his dinner.

Max wishes GP stopped being weird, though. How is he supposed to know he messed up, when GP doesn't tell him?

***

When Max is feeling especially sorry for himself, he replays in his head the conversation he heard between two police officers when they first brought him to the hospital.

They were standing just behind the corner, so Max couldn't see their faces, but he remembers their voices well.

"Poor kid," one of them had said, voice low and gravelly from smoking too much. "Three days alone with his dad's corpse. I would go nuts."

"Yeah," replied the other one. His voice was nazally and cracked on every other syllable. Max hated it.

"If the neighbors didn't call us, who knows how long he would have to sit there," his voice broke again, getting high in excitement.

"They thought it was weird, that it was so silent upstairs. Because, usually- you know." The first man hummed, like he knew.

Max remembers the anger that filled him in that moment — that man was lying, clearly. He was an adult. Adults don't get hurt like this, they know all the rules.

"And then it was silent for two days, and then the blood…" the officer with the nazally voice trailed off.

The first man clears his throat, phlegm rippling. "Didn't they think it was the son who died, first? The noise must've been…"

And isn't that fucked up, Max thinks to himself. That their neighbors heard everything: the shouting; the thudding each time Max tumbled to the floor after a shove. The begging.

Once his dad threw a glass at him, hitting the wall just above his head, and Max had had stray shards stuck in his hair all of next week — his neighbors must've heard that too. And yet.

And yet, what made them call the police was the silence.

Sometimes, Max wonders — if he had stayed silent, if he was good, would the neighbors call the police earlier?

He's getting tired of being introduced to new people. First it's police officers and ambulance workers, then it's doctors, then more police officers and more doctors.

"Hello," a new voice says close to him, and Max looks up, startled; he didn't even notice the man enter the room.

The man smiles at Max. His eyes are blue like his father's, but there's no anger or hatred in them — instead, they are warm, kind, looking at Max like he's a person, and not a victim or a patient he needs to treat.

"My name is Gianpiero Lambiase," the man introduces himself, voice calm. "But you can call me GP, if you like."

Max thinks that both of those options sound silly, but doesn't say anything, thankfully. Talking always gets him in trouble.

"I work in social services," the man- GP continues. "And your name is Max, I've been told?"

Max stays silent. Everyone here seems to know him — a strange flip to his life before, when no one cared enough to even look at him.

"He doesn't speak," says the nurse assigned to Max. "We don't know yet if he's in shock or it's because of all the injuries."

GP's brows furrow, and Max looks away. GP is shorter than his father, but his hands look big and heavy, holding a folio full of papers.

"I was told he wasn't injured?"

"We found no recent injuries that would indicate a fight, but there are a lot of old injuries — likely from domestic abuse. Fractured ribs, damage to his forearms. We're also suspecting a concussion…"

Max tries to tune the words out. He doesn't like how they make him feel.

When they took all those scans, they kept saying, "Poor kid, why would anyone do something like this?"

Max listened to them with shame burning brightly in his core, feeling exposed, gutted open under their pitying eyes.

Because I deserved it? the voice in his head echoed. It sounded just like his father.

He'd wanted to argue with the doctors, say, "You're wrong, it was my fault," but his tongue was heavy in his mouth, throat closing up every time someone asked him a question. It's for the better, anyway. He always says the wrong thing.

"…As long as he's not in shock and can think clearly, we should be fine," GP's voice seeps slowly into Max's brain, reverberating against the sides of his skull. He's getting a headache again. "I'll handle all of the appointments after we get the paperwork sorted."

Max looks up at him sharply, instantly regretting it when pain shoots through his neck. Paperwork? And why will GP handle the appointments. What appointments are they even talking about?

The confusion must be clear on his face, because GP smiles at him, saying, "My apologies, Max, I got sidetracked and didn't even tell you why I was here."

There's a serious look in GP's eyes, and Max isn't sure if he likes it.

"I am going to be honest, your situation is very difficult. Not in the least because of the way you were brought into the country…"

Memories flash before Max's eyes, unclear and muddy like he is looking through murky water. Max, small and scared, stuffing his blanket in a backpack; dark van, so cold his fingers couldn't stop trembling; shouting voices; his father tugging his hand, too rough, bones grinding against each other.

"…wanted to ask if you have any other family members you know about? A mother, maybe a sibling?" GP offers.

Sometimes, Max dreams about his Mama's smile, her gentle eyes crinkling in the corners as she looks down at him. He remembers Vic, small and so fragile, sleeping in Max's arms. But those memories are disant now — an impression left from Max thinking about it, replaying it over and over in his head, desperately trying to stop himself from forgetting.

He shakes his head. If they're still- if they are somewhere out there, Max doesn't know about it.

GP nods solemnly. "We will keep looking, but it will take us a very long time to untangle all of that," he says.

"In the meantime, you will need a place to stay," GP pauses, taking a deep breath. Max is definitely getting a headache.

"Normally, we would just put you in the foster system, but because of your," he purses his lips, frowning, "situation, we think it would be best for you to have a temporary caregiver, until we can find your other parent or you reach legal age."

Max feels like a kid again, small and scared and unsure of what's happening around him.

Stupidly, he wants his dad back. But that's impossible now, because he-

Because Max-

He blinks, squeezing his hands into fists, feeling the jagged edges of his nails dig into his palms. Shame burns through his chest once again. He's being s pussy, crying for his father like a useless child.

"I am sorry, Max," GP suddenly says, catching Max off guard. Isn't he the one that should apologize? "I'm putting a lot onto you, especially after such a traumatic thing."

Max bristles. He's fine, he can handle it.

"But I just need you to understand why I am doing this. Like I said, I will be your temporary caregiver, until you are eighteen or we can locate your mother."

The words are just starting to sink into his muddled brain, but he still can't make sense of them. Why would anyone- let alone someone like GP, want to adopt Max?

"Here." GP reaches into his folio and takes out a stack of papers lined with neat black printed letters, "It's all official lingo, but you can still read it, if that works better for you."

Max reluctantly takes the papers — he hopes he doesn't stain them with blood — and skims the first page.

Temporary guardianship. Information about the guardian. Last name: Gianpiero, First name: Lambiase. Current physical address. Information about the beneficiary. First name: Max...

The writing looks legit, every box ticked and filled. When Max gets to the last page, the bottom is empty. Shouldn't there be a big red [APPROVED] stamp?

"Sorry," GP says. Max still isn't sure for what. "I know it's overwhelming — we wanted to check if you knew anything about the rest of your family before approving the paperwork."

GP sighs. "I wish you had any say in this, but it's time-sensitive now. I've been running around putting these together for the past-" he pauses, "two days, since we got the call."

Has it really been two days? Max doesn't remember staying here that long. Maybe that's why he's so tired.

"So, here's what we're going to do. I was told the hospital needs asnother hour or two to get everything in order. It will take me around the same time to get these papers approved."

He stops, waiting for Max's reaction. Max doesn't know what to give him. He doesn't feel anything, except the bone-deep exhaustion.

GP's voice gentles. "And after that, we can finally go home."

Home. Max isn't sure he knows what that means anymore.

***

GP is a strange man. Living with him for the past couple of weeks has been one of the weirdest times in Max's life.

He doesn't seem to follow any of the rules. He lets Max keep the door to his room closed all the way, and knocks before he comes in.

Max couldn't fall asleep the first night he moved in, and GP didn't walk into his room even once to check if he's awake. He also didn't say anything about Max getting up to get a glass of water in the middle of the night, even though the cupboard made a loud creaking noise and GP was very tired.

He's also weird about food. He keeps asking what food Max likes, and makes sure there's always something to eat before he leaves for work.

When they were buying groceries the first time, GP and him stopped before an aisle with canned soup. Out of habit, Max reached to take a few cans.

"Tomato soup, huh?" GP noted, watching him, "Can't say I'm a huge fan of it."

Max's stomach sank, and he went to put the cans back. That was fine, he could live without some stupid tomato soup. His father always said it tasted like shit anyway.

"Oh, no no, it's fine, you can have them," GP quickly said, "I just meant that I'm probably not going to eat any."

He grabbed a can while Max slowly put the two he was holding back into the basket.

"It's been so long since I had it. We used to eat it with grilled cheese, just dip it in," he said, "Do you eat yours with grilled cheese too?"

Max shook his head. He'd tried to make it once, but he was small and clumsy back then, and his father really didn't like the mess that he made. Just soup was nice though.

"Oh mate, we have to make it then! Come on," GP exclaimed, waving Max towards the cheese section. "It'll be our dinner tonight."

The day didn't get any less strange after that. The grilled cheese and tomato soup were very nice, and then GP let Max have a chocolate bar, even though he couldn't quite finish his dinner.

Max wishes GP stopped being weird, though. How is he supposed to know he messed up, when GP doesn't tell him?

***

When Max is feeling especially sorry for himself, he replays in his head the conversation he heard between two police officers when they first brought him to the hospital.

They were standing just behind the corner, so Max couldn't see their faces, but he remembers their voices well.

"Poor kid," one of them had said, voice low and gravelly from smoking too much. "Three days alone with his dad's corpse. I would go nuts."

"Yeah," replied the other one. His voice was nazally and cracked on every other syllable. Max hated it.

"If the neighbors didn't call us, who knows how long he would have to sit there," his voice broke again, getting high in excitement.

"They thought it was weird, that it was so silent upstairs. Because, usually- you know." The first man hummed, like he knew.

Max remembers the anger that filled him in that moment — that man was lying, clearly. He was an adult. Adults don't get hurt like this, they know all the rules.

"And then it was silent for two days, and then the blood…" the officer with the nazally voice trailed off.

The first man clears his throat, phlegm rippling. "Didn't they think it was the son who died, first? The noise must've been…"

And isn't that fucked up, Max thinks to himself. That their neighbors heard everything: the shouting; the thudding each time Max tumbled to the floor after a shove. The begging.

Once his dad threw a glass at him, hitting the wall just above his head, and Max had had stray shards stuck in his hair all of next week — his neighbors must've heard that too. And yet.

And yet, what made them call the police was the silence.

Sometimes, Max wonders — if he had stayed silent, if he was good, would the neighbors call the police earlier?

Max's blanket is the first thing he shoves into the bag. Worn fabric pressed close to the bottom. A bundle of clothes goes on top of that, and then that's it. Max's eyes skirt around the room as he thinks, surely, there must be more than a blanket and some shirts.

But there isn't. And all he really wants, anyway, is what he can't have: Mama and Vic, sleeping sound in the other room, breathing steady, curled up next to him.

The backpack zips, too light.

And Max disappears from his home like a shadow.

-

It's a few months before his father slurs to Max that he should get rid of that stupid fucking blanket, Max, you're not a fucking baby.

But maybe Max is a baby, because some nights (most nights), the worn fabric pressed close to his skin feels like the only thing that's getting him from one day to the next. The only source of comfort and softness and warmth. The only thing that doesn't hurt.

It doesn't look like his mama, and it doesn't smell like her anymore, and it's not quite the same when Max tucks himself into bed. But if he closes his eyes tight enough, sometimes he can imagine that his fingers are hers, wrapping him up tight, tucking the edges of the blanket below him.

And maybe Max is a baby. Because he doesn't want to lose that. Can't.

So he tells his father, yes, sir, and he tucks it into his pillowcase, where it won't be found. And he sleeps with it, still, but he always makes sure his other blanket is covering it, so if his father comes into his room in the dead of night, he won't be able to see.

And, miraculously, it works.

-

Max's father has been permanently banned from the liquor store down the street, so he drags Max to one a little farther into town, where they sell shitty little magazines and keychains and snacks.

They cut through one aisle down the center to get from the wall of booze to the checkout, and Max's eye catches on a tiny pocket of stuffed toys on one of the shelves.

In the center, there's a bunny.

Victoria had had a bunny plush. Max doesn't remember a time she didn't—it feels like she came home from the hospital, a day old, clutching its arm.

It was called, simply, Bunny.

Max remembers it being a tatty thing, despite Vic being so young when he left. She would drag it everywhere, and screamed when anybody but Max or Mama tried to touch it.

Sometimes, Max wondered if the only reason their father hadn't thrown it away was that Victoria never let him near it in the first place.

On Max's first day of school, Victoria had been near inconsolable to see him leave. And she'd given Max her bunny—pushed it into his arms. Told him that Bunny would keep him from being sad when he was alone without her and Mama.

Max is sad a lot of the time now. He's been without Vic and Mama for over a year.

The bunny on the shelf doesn't look anything like Victoria's Bunny—it's too small, too cheap. Too pristine—not loved for even a second. But still...

Still.

Max's father snaps at him to keep the fuck up, boy. And Max tears his eyes away from the toy, and he falls into step.

He doesn't stop thinking about it the whole way home.

-

The next time they go to the store, Max's steps don't falter as his eyes dart around for security cameras and store staff.

The next time they go, he keeps walking steady as his hand flicks out from inside his jacket and pulls the bunny towards him.

He feels like he's on fire the whole time his father pays, the toy burning a hole into his pocket, but the cashier doesn't say anything.

And he feels sick to his stomach the whole walk home, just waiting for his father's hands pushing into him, tearing, but his father doesn't notice.

When Max shoves the bunny into his pillowcase, he's shaking—heart beating fast. But the fabric is soft beneath his fingers, and he keeps his hand there for a moment, rubbing a fluffy ear.

His next breath comes steadier. For a moment, he thinks he almost remembers how to smile.

-

It's the middle of the night when Max's father throws open his door. It hits the wall with a bang.

Max is awake before the blankets are ripped off him, and his heart pounds, just like every time, but his father doesn't notice that there's a square of ratty blue fabric tucked beneath Max's actual blanket, and it's dropped to the floor in a messy heap, safe from his hands.

What he does notice is the tiny bunny clutched tight in Max's arms.

Max doesn't even have time to say please.

-

The last time Max sees Bunny—Vic's Bunny—the side of its nose is still stained pink with strawberry jam.

The last time Max sees his bunny, its face is streaked red with blood. It almost looks like it's crying.

--

GP drags Max out to the shops to get some new clothes, telling him that he doesn't have to get anything if he doesn't want to, but, honestly, you dress like a cartoon character, mate.

Max gets overwhelmed with the options pretty much immediately, so GP takes him for a lap around the store. Says they'll try again in a minute if he wants.

Max is still getting used to the way GP reacts so calmly to everything. He's still trying to work out what the catch is. But for now, he follows him in a meandering loop around the store, breathing steady.

His breath hitches in one of the aisles when he catches sight of a stuffed bunny. His steps falter.

It's been years. His memory is hazy. But he had a bunny once. Streaked in red, but... not always.

And before him... Vic. Victoria had had a bunny. Pink jam nose. Tattered with love. Tucked into Max's backpack on the first day of school. Arm clutched tight in Victoria's chubby fingers.

He doesn't think this one looks quite the same. Too floppy. Too brown.

But... still. It looks soft.

GP appears at Max's side, and he jumps, tries to fall back into step, but GP's not walking anymore, and he doesn't snap at Max to keep up.

He looks at the bunny thoughtfully. Says, what a nice bunny. Asks Max if he would like it.

He doesn't touch the toy. His hands don't close tight around its neck. He doesn't shove it harsh into Max's chest or throw it onto the floor. He just looks at it, eyes calm and kind.

Max should really shake his head and move on. He's done this dance before; knows the steps. Knows that sometimes it's more painful to have something ripped away than to never have it at all.

But... But GP doesn't touch the bunny. And he's never touched Max's blanket, even when Max pulls it free from his pillowcase in the evening and brings it into the living room to wrap it around himself when they watch the telly. He's never told Max to get rid of it or to put it away, and he's never ever touched it.

And GP takes Max out to get new clothes, and GP doesn't get angry when Max doesn't finish his dinner, though he always reminds Max that there are tins of tomato soup in the cupboard if he gets hungry again later. And GP doesn't crash into his room, tearing his blankets off his body in the middle of the night, screaming in the early morning, hands rough, breath sour.

His hands are never rough. His breath is never sour.

Max's hand darts out. He hugs the bunny close to his chest.

GP just nods. Tells Max it's a lovely bunny.

Max tucks his face into the top of its head. Its fur is soft against his lips.

I’ve been putting this off and almost decided not to bother, but the idea won’t quite leave my head so here I am making myself relive Spain 2025. The race that was a microcosm of my Max as scapegoat child of F1 thesis. But we can’t really start with that race. There are things that come before it. 

Crashstappen comes before that race. Was the moniker unfair or reasonable? There were years that it was in fact reasonable. During the 2017 and 2018 seasons were a chaotic mess for the teen. Max was always going to fight hard for wins. That was why he was brought to Red Bull. It was what the team not only wanted from him, but fully expected from him. The problem was that the car just wasn’t there. It wasn’t as fast as either the Ferrari or the Mercedes. Immense pressure + isolated young driver = risky driving. He was pushing hard to win. Too hard. Too impatient. Max himself would say that he was an impatient driver in those days. 

Then he crashed during the practice session of the Monaco Grand Prix, landing him 20th on the starting grid when his car was unable to be repaired for the qualifying session. Looking at this moment and the subsequent race where he pulled the car and himself into points at 9th. Overtake after overtake were clean but brave on a circuit that isn’t known for easy passing. He’d so clearly learned a lesson. But there was in the end, no reward for having learned just as so many others had to learn in their rookie years. Instead, Drive to Survive portrayed him as a brat who couldn’t be happy for his teammate’s win. The show, the sport, and the fans never stopped to examine what might be going on for the young driver. Never stopped to consider this might be a particularly hard loss because he was accepting his own faults, understanding how his impatient driving style had played a huge part. 

As Max grew as a driver he never abandoned his aggressive driving style. He is a racing driver who understands that you must always believe that you are going to win or you won’t win. However it is clear that after Monaco 2018 he had started to learn patience. He had fewer and fewer crashes and collisions each year as he honed his race craft. And yet the moniker remains to this day. 

Our next stop is Qatar 2024. Max had already won the WDC in Las Vegas so the stakes were fairly low for him in Qatar and Abu Dhabi. He just needed to drive his best and try to win the races. As is the goal of every driver… or at least should be. During Q3 George Russell (on a build lap) believes he is impeded by Max (on a cool down lap) and is given a one grid place penalty for the race, taking away the all important pole position. Now I’m going to say right here that I’m working hard not to attack (rightfully or not) any other driver here. In effect I don’t want to scapegoat anyone for the benefit of my favorite driver. This is all about looking at the system not individuals. To that end I think what is important here is that I think by all metrics Max did not impede. Russell was warned in advance that Verstappen and Alonso were moving slower on cool down laps and Max moved aside as soon as he perceived Russell who he could have reasonably expected to see them. In fact in the moment Max, probably rightfully, chastised his own team for not warning him. Again, they perhaps reasonably expected Russell to slow in response to the traffic. All that to say, Max was technically and practically innocent and I think the stewards agreed. The standard penalty would have been a 3-place grid penalty. Instead he got a one grid place penalty and a point on his super license. He wasn’t guilty, but in the face of Russell's vociferous complaint and the pre-existing bias that Max is a ‘dangerous’ driver they were primed to give him a lesser penalty. They knew he wasn’t guilty, but he is always guilty by dint of being himself so they convinced themselves that he was ‘a little guilty’. Max points out in the press his honest opinions on the situation and as we all know everything went right back to the ‘lashes out with anger and violence’ trope we’re so used to. Wash, rinse, repeat. It’s a comfortable place for the FOM and the grid to put him. Because the truth is that Max is a dangerous driver. Dangerously talented and dangerously committed and dangerously honest. For them he has to be the villain. And how the 2026 season has played out I see exactly why this is true for them. If Max isn’t the villain, well then he’s right and they sure don’t want him to be right. 

Ok, ok, so this has already gotten too too long and I’m not even probably half way yet. So I’m going to put this in two parts and will try to link one to the other once they are both up. 

So here we are. We’ve arrived at Spain 2025. A race that I literally hate and killed myself rewatching to write this. It causes me actual pain because Max Verstappen is my ride or die, ten toes down, standing on business driver. I don’t really understand fans who equivocate and yet maybe that’s what I’m about to do. So I don’t know anymore. Anyway, Max is not an angel. He just isn’t. The guy was basically raised by wolves. He has trauma etched into his bones and has very little awareness that the trauma was trauma. He does get angry, he makes mistakes, he makes bad decisions. He makes bad racing decisions and bad personal decisions. To say otherwise would be delusional. And yet this is exactly what is at the heart of the scapegoat child. The scapegoat can never escape judgement regardless of doing what is right or what is wrong. It will only be degrees ranging from nothing to bad judgements. That is the backdrop of everything that happened in Spain. Being clean has never gotten Max much in the way of kudos. Instead a snarky joke might be made of being surprised he can race ‘clean’. For other drivers it is the opposite. They are praised as bastions of good sportsmanship and when they don’t race clean it’s a surprise. It’s an outlier. Something to be discussed and forgotten about. With Max everything becomes the topic of multiple think pieces, podcasts, and headlines. People still talk about Monza 2021 and while they also still talk about Silverstone 21, outside maxblr and other fan spaces one is attempted murder and the other is a racing incident. The debate has become about whether Hamilton celebrated too much and whether that was in bad taste. The crash itself is decided. People either think Max failed to yield or Sir Lewis just made a small mistake. I think the root can be traced back to how Drive to Survive handled both incidents. They altered the radio transmissions to make it look like Hamilton immediately asked after Max’s condition at Silverstone and for the Monza situation showcases Toto and Susie’s worried faces talking about Max’s wheel on top of Lewis’ helmet. Now of course they gave time to Horner’s complaints about the Silverstone incident, but the emotional content is starkly different. Worried vs angry. Righteous, grieving vs furious, conniving. That’s how I read the emotional beats of the show, but could obviously be wrong. And hey, we all know that Horner was a bit conniving… okay a lot conniving, but for Max Red Bull was the place that was home, safe, support. They backed him all the way. Told him when he was wrong, but supported him through even that. They saw him at his worst, but stood by him to grow into being better. 

He takes a deep breath, keeping it from morphing into a heavy sigh, and leaves the bed.

It went suspiciously quiet in the kitchen after the bang, and GP just hopes Max didn't injure himself — they're both getting sick of the hospital already.

When GP was twenty five and applying to work at social services, he didn't anticipate that, fifteen years later, he'd find himself taking care of a seventeen year old boy.

GP spots the overturned glass on the counter as he walks in, the water still dripping from the side and down on the floor. Max's eyes are big and scared as he notices him, and he quickly wipes down the counter with a cloth before hiding it behind his back, hands shaking.

Noting that Max is unharmed, GP relaxes ever so slightly. "Hey," he says, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "Can't sleep?"

Max, as expected, stays silent. The doctors haven't been able to figure out if it's a trauma response or Max just doesn't want to talk, but ever since they found him in that apartment — hands and shirt covered in blood, sitting next to his father's long-cold body — Max hasn't said a single word.

He's just starting to emote though, small shakes or nods of his head when GP asks him about what food he would like to eat. And GP is pretty sure he saw Max smile at the cat they saw on the street the other day.

Some people, mainly the police, thought it was a deliberate move — keeping silent to hide the fact that Max killed his father. But it doesn't take a lot of brains to figure out what actually happened. The old piece of shit got too drunk, slipped on something or lost his footing, and bashed his head in on the corner of the table.

GP should probably feel more guilt from thinking ill of the dead, but the truth is — he doesn't. Not after they had to check Max for potential injuries and found so many bruises and fractures from domestic abuse it was a miracle the kid was still alive.

The way Max flinches at every sudden movement, cowers away when someone raises their voice or always seems to make himself smaller — if his father wasn't dead already, GP would've made sure he spent the remainder of his miserable life in prison.

Max stands still in the middle of the kitchen, head bowed but watching GP intently for his every move. GP wishes he could hug him, wrap him up in a blanket and make sure no one ever hurts him again.

But that's impossible, not right now, at least, so he has to settle on the next best thing — keeping Max company until he hopefully falls alseep.

GP clears his throat, walking to turn one of the lamps on. "Well, I can't sleep either, so I was going to watch something on the telly. Want to join?"

Max blinks at him, eyes jumping between GP's face and the arm he has outstretched towards the TV. GP keeps his posture relaxed and open, waiting for Max to decide.

When he disappears into his room, GP tries to stop himself from feeling disappointed. Of course Max doesn't feel safe yet for that, it's barely been two weeks of them living together and—

Max comes back and curls up into the far corner of the sofa, clutching his blanket. When they came back to the apartment for his things last week, it was the only non-essential he took with him. An old, tattered and faded blanket that was too small, but Max still tried his best to curl up under it.

"Right- okay," GP says to himself, "Do you want to choose the channel?" He sits on the other end of the sofa and waves the remote towards Max.

When Max looks at him with the same nervous expression, GP adds, "I promise I don't care what we watch. You can put on whatever you want."

Max blinks again, then slowly takes the remote into his hands. They're shaking less, GP notices. His brows furrow in concentration as he clicks between channels, until it lands on a broadcast of cara racing.

GP makes sure to smile in encouragement when Max glances at him in uncertainty, then settles against the cushions.

***

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later, but it can't be that long, because it's still dark behind the curtains.

There's a golf game playing on the screen, vibrant greens and blues reflecting off Max's sleeping face. His legs are folded under the blanket and his neck is craned at an uncomfortable angle. GP thinks about waking him up, but ultimately, decides that letting Max sleep is more important.