Its Lights Out and Away We Go!

He already caused enough of a disruption on Friday, when he passed out after FP1 like a fucking idiot. He knows better than to be fucking weak in front of everybody like that, and it's not as if he had meant to collapse in the middle of the garage after climbing out of his car, but he should know how to stay on his fucking feet like a man, too, so it's really no excuse.

His father trained him better than that.

He had brushed off everybody's concerns the best he was able, convinced them to stay hush to the media about it (which Helmut had backed him up on instantly, thank fuck), and got back into the car for FP2.

And when that session finished, and the world was going dark at the edges again, he'd stayed on his feet like a fucking man until he could collapse in the safety of his own driver's room, away from all the eyes.

Everybody at Red Bull has been incredibly hardworking and supportive, but that's because Max got them a win on his first race with them, and because he's been getting them podiums, and because he gets in the fucking car and gives them points to knock them up the championship order. They're not there to coddle a kid who can't even stay on his feet.

Max isn't a kid anymore. He's nineteen now. Happy fucking birthday.

So after the race, he pulls into parc fermé in front of the P2 board, next to Daniel, and he ignores the dark shadows in the corners of his vision, and he gets to his feet. Goes to the cooldown room and, despite the name, doesn't stop sweating.

His voice cracks when he asks for a sugary drink—curse him. In front of the cameras—in front of everyone. But he asks again because, fuck, it's better than passing out on the podium.

He makes it through. The champagne does nothing to cool him, feeling instead like it's evaporating as it comes into contact with his burning skin. His father's eyes are the only thing that cools him—shivers down his spine when he sees him in the crowd, staring silent.

Max stays on his feet like a fucking man until he makes it back to the garage. His champagne isn't in his hand anymore—who knows where the fuck it went. It doesn't matter. All that matters is getting open the stupid door to his driver's room so he can collapse in peace.

(If he was more of the man his father wanted him to be, he wouldn't need to collapse at all. At the end of the day, maybe all he is is fucking weak.)

His sweaty hands can't get a grip on the knob. His knees buckle, his weakness catching up to him. Fuck him, honestly. He got a podium today, but it could have been the win—Daniel proved that—and now he can't even keep it together enough to get into his room. Red Bull took him in mid-season; they'd have no problem throwing him away. Carlos could be in his seat by next race. His father reminds him every day.

He remembers the gentle hands on him when he had blinked bleary eyes open the other day, drenched with water, finally cool. The kind eyes that swam into focus, mouths twisted with concern.

Max isn't used to expressions like that. Kindness. Concern. They must think he's so weak. Fragile, to need to be handled like that. It's a miracle they let him back into the car. It will be even more of a miracle if they do again, if they find him like this.

Groaning, breathing as deep as he can, Max tries to push himself to his feet. Braces his hands against the door to help him. Wishes it would just fall open and he could tumble to the floor in peace.

Instead, the loud voices from the main garage start moving closer. Max slams his head against the door as they round the corner, finally standing, but shaking violently, clinging onto the doorknob he still can't twist for dear life.

Back in the Toro Rosso by next week for sure. His father is going to kill him.

The raucous voices halt. "Max?"

Max should really lift his forehead from the door. He should turn and say, "Hey, guys! Great race—thank you," and then twist the doorknob and go into his room.

He doesn't do any of that. He pants heavy and tries desperately to stay standing.

"Max, mate. Are you okay?"

There's a voice next to his ear, soft—Callum's. A hand on his back, between his shoulder blades—warm, but not scalding. Gentle. God, he's so weak. They must think he's so weak.

"Okay, let's get you into your room," another voice says—Ole. The steady pressure on his back shifts—a hand envelops his over the doorknob. Gently, they twist it open.

Max starts to fall forward. The hands don't let him.

He ends up on the couch. His couch. His head is in someone's lap, and his feet are in someone else's. He should get up. Tell them he's alright, beg them not to tell anyone—no, not beg. Demand. Begging is weak. Begging gets you nowhere—gets you nothing but more pain.

He should get on his feet like a fucking man.

Greg's voice, from somewhere, says, "You did good today, kid. Real good. Get some rest."

Max isn't a kid. He's nineteen now. And besides—he hasn't been a kid in a long time.

A hand—gentle and warm, cards through his hair.

"Attaboy, Maxy."

He can't help it. At the end of the day, all he is is fucking weak.

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 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?

“You and Nico,” Max starts one day, attempting to keep his voice neutral but already a hint of something that makes Gabriel bristle. “what is going on there?”

“What do you mean?” He thinks he knows. But Max of all people has no right to pass judgment on his less than traditional relationship with an older teammate.

Max shrugs, “You seem close, that is all.”

“Is this a bad thing?”

“No… I was just wondering.”

Max seems unsure of himself. This is odd. Max is always sure of himself. Especially when speaking with Gabi. There's a long stretch of silence before, “I have always liked Nico. He always has been kind.” Gabi let's the silence sit. Max will get to his point when he is ready. “But I know that kind people are not always good in their heart.” That was… an odd thing to say.

“Nico is not a bad person.”

Max looks at him. Look is a soft word. Max stares at him, squinting like he's trying to figure something out. “I believe you.” He finally says, relaxing slightly.

“Max?”

“You are different form the other rookies.”

It's an odd thing to say. A nervous laugh slips out, “Yes? In what way?”

“I do not have to worry for you as much. I know this.” Gabi nods slowly, an agreement but still unsure of what he means. “But-” and there it was. Whatever the actual point is. “I do not want you to think that because of this you cannot come to me. I am still here for you as I am the others.”

Gabi frowns, “I know.”

“Good.”

Silence settles, but it's not the normal, comfortable silence that rests between them. It feels heavy. Tense. “Max…”

“Hm?”

“Is something wrong?”

Max smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. “No, why do you ask?”

But something is wrong. Something happened. “I know Nico is older than me and it may be odd for us to be so close but it is nothing bad. I do not mind that he is older.”

Max is studying him again. Blue eyes piercing and discerning and looking so… old. He must find whatever he was looking for, because he nods again. “That is good. It is not wrong to want that. I just want to make sure you do. That is all.”

Gabi has questions he knows better than to ask. It's on the tip of his tongue. Did something happen with Daniel? Is it just that things ended bad or is it something more? And many others. But the most glaring question that Gabi knows he could never ever ask, Who hurt you? Who made you this way? Because he had been friends with Max for a long time now. And he sees the cracks. He sees the isolation and the true belief that his presence is barely tolerated, never wanted. And he can guess where this comes from. From his father. From the old guard of drivers. From a lot of people.

But this? He's been hurt. Gabi can tell.

He's heard similar things from Enzo. Warnings about the kind of people in motorsports. Things his brother had seen and heard and experienced that he would do anything to keep Gabi from experiencing. He knew to be careful in any power imbalance. That things could spiral out of control very quickly and be used against you. So he was careful. He knew he had to be.

Maybe it is just like that. Things Max has seen. Gabi can see how from the outside his and Nico’s relationship could be grounds for concern, but there really is no reason for it. Gabi is not an idiot. So maybe Max has just seen things in the past and wants to make sure everything is okay. Maybe Max had been approached by someone when he and Daniel had gotten so close and he was simply returning the favor.

Or maybe… maybe Max was speaking from personal experience.

But even if that were true, what could Gabi do about it?

Maybe he would check with Enzo. See if Max had ever said anything to him.

“I appreciate it.” Gabi finally says instead of all of the thoughts running through his head. “But I am okay. I would tell you if I was not.”