Green Beans & Anarchy

It hasn't been an issue in a while, his vision. It didn't completely fix itself after the season closed out in 2021, but time heals all wounds, and last year it had only popped up a couple of times, and only ever mildly, ground undulating in Austin, lights blinding in Bahrain. Some deep breaths, a clenched jaw, and he'd gotten through it. He always does.

The deep breaths aren't helping so much right now, though. And he's finding it hard to take them anyway—everything feeling like it's pressing in too close. The heat and the darkness and the bright lights. The memories.

Since they were last year's championship winners, Red Bull's motorhome is one to the left of where it was in 2021. So, technically, Max's driver's room isn't the same one, and the toilet he throws up into is different.

It still feels the same.

His head pounds the same, violence sitting close behind his eyes, where the lights drill in. His stomach churns just like it did, and its the same familiar bile that claws its way up his throat which he swallows down until he can't any longer. The world tilts on the same wrong axis, like it remembers all the places it shouldn't be and falls back into order. Maybe the Jeddah Max saw last year was the false one—maybe this, now, and before, is what's real.

Rationally, he knows he just has a flu. Knows it will pass, just like the vision issues did, Silverstone finally left behind in the dust. Knows he'll be able to push through it, just like he's pushed through illness many times before, and just like he's pushed through hell before here.

He'll push through. He always does.

The second step is the same as well. Too short. He's fallen too short again, and the trophy is too light and too heavy in his hold, arms trembling to keep it aloft but it should have been more. He should be stronger.

At least this time, the points aren't tied. Max fought like hell for that fastest lap, and he carries it with him as he winds his way back through the paddock, breathing deep, counting steady in his head. The champagne is too warm and sticky on his skin; it's too cold, chilling him to the bone.

Everything is too familiar. The porcelain resting against his forehead as he tries to gather the energy to flush his sickness away whispers welcome back.

And yet, everything is different now. He's a champion. He has his one-point lead clutched firmly in his grasp. And Copse Corner is long behind him, left in the dust.

Once he musters the strength to stand, he leaves the blinding desert lights of Jeddah behind him, too.

Max jolts awake, desperately gasping for breath as his heart hammers in his throat. His hands fly to his neck to wipe away the ghosts of his father's fingers.

The remains of his dream are still playing in front of his eyes, vivid against the darkness of the room — his dad's angry scowl; blood, scarlet red staining the carpet.

He's been having the same nightmare since he got to GP's house. Every night he goes to bed and relives the day his dad died.

Sometimes he feels like his life now is a dream, something his brain came up with while Max sits next to his father's corpse, a fantasy where he gets to live and have someone who cares for him, who thinks that Max is good.

But then, the fantasy is real — Max gets to wake up every morning, while his dad sleeps in grave that Max still hasn't visited.

Maybe the nightmares are his penance, for what he's done.

Max's hands are shaking, cold night air sticking to his sweaty neck. He gets out of bed, with his heart still beating fast in his chest, and goes to the kitchen. He keeps his steps light, avoiding the floorboards that creak. GP keeps saying that this is his home too now, but Max can't stop feeling like an intruder every time he leaves his room.

The door to GP's room is closed, but this is the first time it doesn't bring Max comfort. He feels strangely sad looking at it, but he can't figure out why. He stands there, gripping his glass of water like a lifeline, watching the door as if it could give him answers.

Max doesn't want to go back to his room, where his father's ghost lingers in every dark corner, but what other choice does he have? He could stay here and sleep on the couch maybe, but that's wrong, what if GP sees him? Or maybe he could knock—

No, that's a stupid idea. Waking people up is bad. Max hasn't yet figured out if waking GP up is bad, but he's not going to try it now. And what would he say anyway? That he's had a nightmare? He's not a stupid kid anymore, he can deal with having a bad dream.

Max wills his hands to stop shaking and turns to go back to his room. The lamp he left on spills light onto his bed, luring him into the false sense of comfort.

He takes one last look at GP's door and goes back to his room. It's fine — he's always been good at receiving his punishments.

***

The door flies open with a bang that rattles through the ceiling.

Max jumps up from the couch, trying to run away, but his father catches him, arms winding around his body like iron bars.

His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, eyes hazy and burning right through Max with anger. It's like a physical weight pressing him down, making him weak.

Fingers wrap around his throat, hot and heavy, as the other hand grabs Max by the hair; pinpricks of pain shoot through his scalp, and he can't catch his breath.

"Ungrateful son of a bitch," his father spits into his face, squeezing his throat harder and harder.

Max thrashes in his iron grip, panicked, pleading his father to let go, scratching at his arm like a prey animal in the claws of its predator.

His vision swims, blood rushing in his ears, limbs going weak and numb from the lack of oxygen.

Max takes a desperate choking breath —

And wakes up.

Just a dream, just a dream, he repeats in his head over and over, trying to calm down.

He frantically wipes at his cheeks, and in the pressing darkness of the night, the wetness on his fingers feels too much like his father's blood.

Max flings himself out of bed and out of the room. He bumps his shoulder into the doorway, but catches himself in time, almost stumbling into the couch.

It's like he is floating above his body, watching himself first get a glass with shaking hands, then almost drop it onto the floor as he tries to pour water into it.

The noise pierces through the ringing in his ears, and for a second Max freezes, before panic overtakes him.

He tries to clean the mess he's made, but he's not fast enough, and GP is already up, standing in the doorway to his room looking tired and fed up with Max.

Max wants to grab his own body and shake it up — wake up! He needs to apologize, explain why he's making such a fuss in the middle of the night, but his tongue is still heavy in his mouth. GP is about to yell at him for waking him up and all Max can think about is that he really doesn't want to go back to his room, back to his nightmares and his father's ghost.

He is surprised when GP doesn't shout at him, or tell him off for waking him up. Instead, he offers Max to stay up, and Max is too tired to look for a catch.

He goes back to his room to grab his blanket, trying to be fast before the darkness catches up to him, and goes back to the living room, to the safety of the TV and GP's kind smile.

Max doesn't mean to fall alseep, but when he wakes up, morning sun shining in his eyes and his blanket still tucked up around him, he realizes it's the first time he didn't dream of anything.

***

It becomes a thing.

Max wakes up from the nightmare, and goes to the living room, where, sometimes, GP is already sitting on the couch waiting for him.

Some nights, Max doesn't bother going to sleep in his room, instead curling up in "his" corner of the couch as he waits for GP. It can't be good for GP's sleep, but he always comes over and keeps Max company until he falls asleep.

His father appears less in his dreams, and Max stops seeing his shadow in every dark corner of his room.

His life is slowly becoming something he dared to dream about in his weakest moments, and Max really hopes it doesn't turn out to be a dream after all.

***

The door flies open with a loud bang that rattles through Max's bones.

He tries to get away, scrambling off the couch but he's too slow — his father's heavy hand wraps around his throat, pushing all the air out of Max's lungs.

Max begs his father to let go, scratching and thrashing in his arms, but all he can see in his father's cold hazy eyes is anger.

He is shaking, desperately trying to make his father let him go, gripping where his hands meet Max's neck.

He doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to die, please, he cries, but his father doesn't listen, squeezing his fingers harder.

"Max," his father says, hatred dripping from his voice.

Max chokes on his tears, chokes on the hands around his throat, frantically, desperately thrashing and fighting against the black spots swimming in his vision.

"Max," his father warns again, but Max doesn't listen.

Shaking, he uses the last shreds of his strength, grips his father's arms—

And wakes up, pushing GP aways from him. GP looks at him with wide, shocked eyes—

as he stumbles backwards, too drunk to keep his footing. His foot catches on something, and he falls, hitting the back of his head on the sharp corner of the table.

No.

No, no, nononononononono

Max crashes to his knees next to his father. His eyes are hazy and cold, watching him with—

concern. GP moves closer to him with hands held up like he is afraid Max will push him away again, but Max latches onto him, grips his shirt tight with his shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," Max sobs, broken, as tears blurry his vision.

"I'm so sorry, please," he begs, hands frantically patting over his father's body, over the ugly gash in his head that keeps dripping hot blood onto Max’s fingers; over his chest, where his heart is beating faintly; over his hand, that has no strength to it at all as Max grips it tight, willing his father not to leave him.

"It's okay, you're okay, shh," GP keeps saying, holding Max tight in his arms.

Max shakes his head, face pressed into GP's t-shirt, getting it wet with his tears.

His father's eyes are not looking at him anymore, glossed over and staring into the ceiling with nothing in them. No anger, no hatred, nothing.

Max floats away from his body, watching himself shake and cry, curled in the corner next to his father's body—

curled up in GP's arms, head tucked into his chest. GP keeps rocking them back and forth as he rubs a hand over Max’s back, chanting,

"You're okay, you're okay, I'm here. Just breathe for me, just breathe."

"I'm sorry," Max says again, voice breaking as he keeps shaking and crying, and he still can't catch his breath, but he needs GP to know it, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."

Because he didn't. As much as Max wanted his dad to disappear, to stop hurting him and yelling at him, he never wanted his dad to die — not like this.

But now his dad is dead, and it's Max's fault. He's ruined it, he always messes up, and does the wrong thing and says the wrong thing. He's ruined his father's life, and now he will ruin GP's life, because GP doesn't know that Max is bad, he took Max in and Max pushed him away.

"Shh, I know you didn't meant it, it's okay, I'm here," GP is saying softly, as Max keeps sobbing into his chest. "You're okay, I'm here."

Max wants to protest, wants to say that he is broken, but his stupid tongue is heavy again and he is still struggling to breathe. So he stays silent, shaking and sobbing into GP's chest, feeling small and childish, but not letting GP let go.

***

It takes Max a long time to calm down, but GP never stops holding him.

Pale morning sun seeps through the curtains, shining on both of them, curled up in the corner of the couch. Max takes a final, shuddering breath — he feels exhausted.

GP is fast asleep against him, arms still wound around him. Max should wake him up, should go to bed himself. But here, in GP's arms, he feels so safe — he doesn't remember ever feeling this way, not after they left his mom at least.

Maybe when GP wakes up, he will throw Max out or scold him for his tantrum, but it's a problem for later. Now, Max just wants to sleep.