i read @anemptyflask's ficlet abt gp and max talking after the silv gp (fic here) and thought max's exhaustion with the season manifesting as anger was very good very juicy very painful. and then i thought... you know what else would be painful?
1.1k, mostly below the cut.
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Max is in his driver's room, only halfway out of his race suit, sleeves dangling at his waist, lying limp on the couch by his sides, when a knock sounds at his door.
He can tell from the rhythm of it alone that it's GP asking to be let in.
Max allows himself one moment to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe deep to gather himself before he calls, "Come in." He doesn't want to argue. He's so exhausted. He just wants to go home.
GP opens the door; shuts it qucikly behind. He's all nervous energy, hands tapping at his legs, eyes flitting up and down Max.
Max slumps forward—braces his elbows on his thighs and buries his face in his hands. He doesn't have the energy.
"Don't apologize. It probably is not your fault." It comes out muffled, spoken into his palms. GP is used to deciphering his voice by now, though, after years of translating crackly radio interference into words.
"Mate. I was on the radio with Pierre before you even mentioned the snaps—we saw it on telemetry. He said it was fine. Laurent said it was fine. They said it was tyre deg, and too much front end, and—"
"And you believed them?"
Max runs his fingers through his hair. It's too short to grab hold of and pull at right now. Purposefully. Kelly keeps sending him to the hairdresser like clockwork as soon as he starts to anxiously tug at the strands.
When he looks up, GP looks stricken. Max doesn't want to argue. But he's... He's just. Tired.
"You thought that I would say something if it was just normal things? GP, I know what it feels like when there is tyre degradation and the car is too sharp. You know what it looks like on the telemetry. When did you—?" He cuts himself off. This is a pointless argument; it's pointless. GP didn't purposefully send him into the wall—hell, neither did Pierre and Laurent. They need to do better next time, sure, but being petty won't get them anywhere.
But GP's brow furrows, and his hands still in the air by his thighs. "Max. When did I what? What were you going to say?"
Max could brush it off. Could scrub a hand across his face and say, it's nothing, he's tired, he just wants to forget this weekend (like all the others) and go home.
But he's sick of people not wanting to hear what he has to say. And GP is asking.
"When did you stop listening to me, too? When did you stop trusting me?"
Because therein lies the root of all evil. Somewhere along the line, Max's voice across the radio turned to static again.
"Max, I always trust you!" GP says, hands flying out wide. "You're the only one I can trust to do anything right here anymore."
Max gnaws at his bottom lip. "Yeah. Okay."
"I just—" GP massages his eyebrows, fingers pressing deep creases into the bridge of his nose. "What do you want me to do, Max? Directly go against everyone else and tell you to retire because something might be wrong?"
"Yes!" Max exclaims. The weight of his exhaustion turns to something sharper. "Or at least... Take my side. Give me the option. If you are saying that there might be something wrong with the car, then I can decide if it feels like it is too dangerous to keep driving or not. But if you are just believing the others, who are not even in the car, and telling me that everything is fine when it is not, then it can go very badly! I do not mind to take risks if I am knowing which risks I am taking, but with this car, it is like I cannot even trust it, because it keeps doing these things, and then when I ask, you all are telling me it is okay, so I cannot even tell when there is something really wrong!"
Max's chest is heaving. His fingers are gripping vise-like onto his racesuit sleeves, crumpling the sturdy fabric.
"You say that you trust me still, but you do not show it. And... I cannot trust the car right now. And I cannot trust anybody else because it feels like— It is like... I just cannot trust that anybody else will tell me the truth. I need to be able to trust you, GP."
GP's lips are pursed so tightly they're turning white.
"I really thought that everything was going to be fine. We were so close, Max. You almost had it."
"It is no longer about being close to the podium, or to the win," Max sighs, shoulders slumping. "I am not going to be champion this year. I already have won many times. If it is a choice between getting another trophy or seeing my daughters again, I rather would be staying at home. I want us to win again, GP. But we cannot do that if the car is killing me because you did not say that something was wrong."
GP's fingers are back on his eyebrows. He looks nearly as exhausted as Max.
"I know. I know, mate." He sighs. "I can't fix the fucking car, and I can't make the French fucks see reason, but, Max, I promise you—I am on your side. Your word above all else, here on out. I can't promise to start you from the pit lane, because that's not my call, but as soon as you say the car is fighting back, I am no longer an employee of Red Bull, I'm the head engineer of Team fucking Verstappen."
Max wants to give GP a smile. He finds he just... can't.
GP himself hadn't even been smiling, but his mouth still wilts at the edges.
"Rest up," he says, voice turned suddenly soft. "Forget about all this until Spa. Say hi to the girls from me."
Max rubs his fingers across his forehead. Snags a lock of hair between his fingers and tugs.
"Yeah. Will do."
The door shuts behind GP. His footsteps—familiar beat—disappear down the hall.
Max falls back into the couch and closes his eyes. The arms of his racesuit lie limp and crumpled by his sides.
