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Everyone was gathered around in a dingy room, one that Netflix wouldn’t be able to sneak their way into. That was for sure, there were practically guards outside each door. Max wasn’t worried about a meeting with the FIA before, but now that he saw the grim faces of the federation and the lengths they were going to, to not leak this news to the public. Let’s just say Max knew it wouldn’t be good.
He sat next to his old teammate Carlos on one side and Valtteri on the other but Max didn’t especially feel like talking. And so, he sat thinking about how the weekend would go. His first practice of the season was tomorrow and there was a lot of improvement needed from last year. He was up to it though, he’d been training so hard. Max just hoped there would be something to show for it.
“Right, glad you could all join us here,” some member of the higher ups in the FIA announced as Daniel was the last one to arrive, that man was always late but with his that smile he seemed to get away with everything.
“Sorry. I was lost?” Daniel says a bubbling laugh tinting every word as he sits on the opposite side of the room to Max, the only seat left.
The whole grid has to swallow laughter when met with the irritated faces of the FIA.
“As we were saying. Glad to have you all together so we can talk. It has come to our attention that two nights ago there was a ‘start of season party’. Yes, we’ve heard about you all drinking till the early hours of the morning. Of course, that’s unacceptable and you all know you shouldn’t drink on race weekends. It isn’t safe and is highly unprofessional but there were also rumours that drugs were present at the party.” The man with an ever reddening face pauses watching the room for a reaction.
They are right, there was a start of season party but isn’t there always? They should learn by now that some drivers are just gonna drink and party all they want. It doesn’t really seem to affect their racing, although Max himself has been forbidden to drink on race weekends by both Christian and his Dad, which to him overruled the FIA. He desperately wants to keep his red bull seat so if he can't drink just to stay on their good side, that’s fine with him.
However, he didn’t see any drugs at the party. I mean, Max did leave quite early on, just past midnight, but he was tired and wanted to be well rested for FP1 today. What can you expect really though, with these exclusive events filled with rich party go-ers? Some ex-driver probably showed up with a bag of weed to smoke. It’s not Max’s kind of thing but also not that big of a deal, so why all the precautions?
“We heard about the presence of cocaine and heroin which are both highly illegal and if any of you have traces in your body of these drugs you will be banned from racing at least for this whole weekend.”
Well, fuck maybe a little more serious than weed. Max didn’t know it was that kind of party, but surely no one had done any of that on a race weekend? He hoped for their sakes no one had.
Max looked around the room but everyone looked just as confused or irritated that this was happening. Either some people had really good poker faces or the FIA spies had really done a shit job at incriminating them.
“Instead of doing a urine sample from each of you, we would like to do a more in depth assessment. Therefore we’ll be doing a blood test on each of you. We have checked and it shouldn’t affect-“
Max couldn’t focus on the rest of what the man was saying because it felt as if everything had just frozen around him. The whole room had stilled under his fingertips, fear emanating off of him.
Max remembers when he first realised it. He was only, what, seven? His dad and mum had always argued, snappy arguments or prolonged grudges but never like this. He and Victoria were upstairs, it was late in the evening and Max remembers it was far past his bedtime when he woke up with a start.
Downstairs he could hear his dad’s thunderous voice, it echoed off the walls making the whole house shake. He spoke in furious dutch, to what one had to assume was Max’s mum. Cautiously, Max had pushed open him and Victoria’s shared bedroom door, careful not to wake his little sister, and walked over to the stairs. The light was still on in the kitchen and from here he could hear more clearly the whole conversation. If you could even call it that anymore, to Max it sounded like a war cry.
“You are hindering his career. You selfish woman, how dare you try and take this life I’ve given him away!” Max’s small frame trembled at every word. Why was it always about him?
“Can we please just go to bed, Jos? Quiet your voice, it’s already midnight.” His mother sounded weak, Max had never heard her so defeated.
“No! I will not just leave it like this. You cannot take this away. Max has talent, it’s generational. He will make it and it is not worth him pursuing other frivolous activities.” A silence. Then it all blew up.
“Jos, stop it! This is not Max’s career, it is not his dream, it’s yours! Why do you insist on him karting? He needs to live a normal life first, for Christ's sake he’s only seven years old. There is no-” His mother’s voice was cut off, a loud slamming of metal colliding with something rang in his ears. Max clung onto the bannister until his knuckles lost their colour.
“You bitch, how dare you speak back to me! For fucks sake i’m going out. To hell with you, Max’s racing will be left in my hands. Understood?” Max held his breath.
He thought he could make out a tiny reply but it was too cracked and splintered to really decipher.
The front door slammed climatically.
Max left his standing post and tiptoed to the kitchen. It was eerily quiet.
“Mama?” He thought his voice had gotten lost in the debris swirling in the air, the leftovers from his father’s earthquake.
Max opened the kitchen door, and that image is one he has tried so hard to forget. There's a beer glass smashed to bits on the floor, a chair that has clearly been thrown across the room and half a mother sitting curled against a table leg. His father always had to break everything in his wake, not leaving a person unturned.
“Mama?” he’d crept in on the scene he wasn’t meant to touch. He should run, he should go back into his bed and pretend it never happened.
“Oh, honey.” His mother looked up, removing her hands from her face to reveal a gash that travelled from her hairline down to her lip. It was fresh and generous amounts of mocking bright red liquid spasmed from it.
Max felt himself recoil. Bile had begun to rise in his throat and he started to choke on it frantically before clinging onto the table as he threw up his dinner all over the already terrorised room. Max remembered feeling like his breaths were rationed, as if he was saving them. He tried so hard to scoop them out of his lungs, began to claw at his chest but it was no use.
His mum had tried to help but the closer she got, the closer that monstrous slash on her face did. Max flinched and he knew it probably hurt her. He couldn’t help it. It was the worst pain he had ever felt, being unable to breathe, all his mouth could do was gag. That was the first time he had ever shut his eyes so tight he wished they would never open again.
—
“Lewis Hamilton up first please go to the room on my left and Esteban Ocon please go to the room on my right.”
They were calling them up one by one.
When would it be him?
Max didn’t want to think about it. He tried not to think about it. His palms were slicked and a familiar feeling of cold sweat coating his scorching body was apparent. Max pulled at the neck of his t-shirt. It felt awfully tight and left him feeling scratchy and restless. During a plane landing you get the feeling of your stomach dropping for a split second. Max’s stomach was stapled down permanently, leaving his head feeling too heavy for his body. Just plummeting, and plummeting down.
He looked around the room. It’s good to focus on your surroundings, it’s meant to ground you; a sentence he’d read far too many times online. Looking up he saw a room of drivers all sitting stoically. No one was bothered to care about what was happening. They all could’ve passed as waiting in line at a supermarket.
Max felt like he was the only one worried about being taken into a cramped white room like an asylum patient. For robot-like gloves to be forced on an arm. To feel them prep the area tantalisingly, before pulling out a sharp needle to plunge into the skin. Watch the insides of his body be gathered, to be pulled out of veins, to see the crimson liquid that will one day crust and turn brown. The way it slithers out of the muscle is enough to make Max feel like he should be running. He should be pushing past the men guarding the doors but his feet are strapped to the chair legs.
Lewis exits the titchy room, his sleeves are rolled up enough to see a plaster on the interior of his elbow. Max flinches looking at it. Lewis just keeps on walking, joining a conversation as if he never left. Max almost wants to laugh but he fears if he does it might sound more like a sob.
“Carlos Sainz. To the room on my left please.”
Max thinks someone must be grabbing onto his lungs and squeezing as hard as they can, or clinging onto his trachea like it’s a fireman’s pole. Everything had suddenly felt so tight and he’s sure his face is screwed up. All his muscles have locked preemtively. Max pictures his mother, he can't help it. He sees her clawed face, an image forever ingrained in his mind. Bile creeps up his throat that he fights to keep down.
His mind started to drift, oxygen not quite managing to circuit the way it should. Max began to zone out.
The second time Max remembers his, what some would call phobia of blood, being a real problem was when he was twelve years old. His parents had only split up a few months ago, it’s hard to explain how that feels to someone who hasn’t been through it. His mum and dad had never been perfect. In fact, they’d caused more harm to each other than good. They were still family, two halves of the same story. It was just a nagging hurt that he wanted to fix so badly but it would never be in his hands. It left Max wondering whether they had ever even loved each other. All those arguments with Max's name at the center played on his conscience more than he would like to admit. Maybe they had loved each other once, but Max had just been too much. Too heavy a burden.
The divorce didn’t break just his parents, evidently enough. It left Max and Victoria numb and anxious. When his mum went to buy a new house, start a new life, it hadn’t been a question in his mind whether he would go too. But the moving van came and went, as Max watched from the window senselessly It left him asking himself at night, who was the one who left that little boy destroyed more: his mother or his father?
With Both his mother and Victoria ripped away, Max had his stress increased tenfold while also losing any type of semblance of what a normal boy his age should be doing, how they should be acting.
It was only one afternoon.
Max had gotten an invite to a birthday party, everyone in the class was invited. He felt excited for the first time since his family had been torn down the middle. Except, Max had karting. Unofficial, just practise with his dad. Then again all karting was official to Jos. That Saturday he had snuck out. Could you even call it sneaking out? Max had just opened the front door, looked back at his Dad who was drinking his pre-practice beer in front of the TV and sprinted out that door. He’d never been a runner but boy, was he flying.
A young Max Verstappen had turned up to the party grinning with a flushed face, his whole body sweating and with nothing but the clothes on his back. Some of the parents, and children for that matter, had eyed him sceptical but said nothing.
That was the first day Max had ever joined in on a football match. He was terrible, never having kicked a ball properly. But the feeling of being out of the shadow of his dad, not stuffed in a car with a helmet obscuring his breathing was so fresh. Max couldn’t stop smiling.
It was fresh until the cake had been eaten and the boombox had been turned off. Fresh until everyone went back to their parents and piled into cars to be driven back to a nice safe house.
Max had gone home filled to the brim with righteous petrification.
That night the house had been curling with fury, his ears were sore from hearing his father non stop yelling. He'd succumbed to the same fate as his mother, curled up in the kitchen and hoping against hope that he’d be saved. Except, Victoria and his mother had left him to the dogs.
He’d thought it was over. The shouting was enough. The disappointment was enough. The drunken breath that wafted in his face and the saliva spat his face was enough.
At nine P.M that night Max was still huddled up against the table, his head resting on his knees. The party had ended at lunchtime.
Max had thought he was in the clear. The roof still sat neatly on the house. His father sat neatly in the living room. He was in the clear.
Except he was so wrong, footsteps of thunder were storming his way. Two by two they charged. The kitchen door flung open to reveal a monster who was now more often than not the likes of his father. His hands were flying, so was his drink. Then so was the cutlery and the tablecloth. Next he knew it, Max was being picked up by the collar or his T-shirt and pushed up against the cabinets.
“You don’t know how lucky you are, you spoiled, insufferable brat! Just like your mother.” and with that Max was being dropped into the abyss before crashing his head onto the countertop. He was out cold, instantly.
He remembers waking to the light of the next morning, surrounded by the ruins of the kitchen and his father nowhere in sight. When trying to get up a facade of dizziness overtook him. His small body felt far too cold and he looked down at his reflection in the sink; he was too pale.
Then he felt it.
Everything stilled again, time stopped. Max reached to the back of his hair, pulling his fingers back to see them coated with drying, copper coloured blood.
That day he’d spent it all dry heaving, throwing up small amounts of the previous day's cake every time he tried to clean his head until he could only produce stomach acid. He knew he couldn’t let it get infected but he was trying so hard. He wanted his mother. His body was shaking as he looked in the mirror at his blood stained head. He wanted to be held.
He tentatively dabbed a piece of loo roll on the abrasion, blood had run down past his ear and began to clump in a horror movie-esque way. Looking at the tissue spotted with his insides was the last straw. Max had forgoten how to breathe for a few moments before passing out on his bathroom floor, alone. He didn’t even want his mother anymore, he just needed her.
—
Esteban came out of his testing promptly after Carlos came in. Always had to make a fucking entrance didn’t he.
“Mate, they actually took a load of my blood. I could see it going in the little tube.” He strolled back to his seat nonchalantly.
And Max? Max couldn’t wait here anymore for them to call his name, his breathing was coming too fast. The bile in his throat was pooling in his mouth. He knew his skin would be burning but Max couldn’t stop jumping and shivering as if ice cold piranhas were nipping at his sides.
Esteban lifted up his sleeve to show his plaster, a dot of blood could be seen oozing through its contains.
Max gasped quietly before sputtering and coughing like a madman. He’d dramatically hunched over and was finally able to spit out all the bile from his mouth. It tasted acidic and left him feeling disgusting. A feeling he was familiar with. Everyone around him seemed to recoil, eyes widening as the 21 year old driver fought to breathe. He kept coughing and coughing to try and scare his lungs back into action. But Max was powerless.
He was so fucked.
“Get out of the fucking way, stop gawking.” Daniel.
He’d been sitting on the other side of the room from Max the whole time. He could tell something was up with his teammate but couldn’t pinpoint what. Max had seemed to be overheating, and glistening with sweat but it was a hot day so Daniel had discounted it. But this? What was happening, he wasn’t sure. Max was one of his best friends, how the fuck had he totally missed what was happening to him this whole time?
“Max, mate?” Daniel placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on Max’s back.
Max was still shaking ferociously, his coughs felt more like shouts as bile kept arising out of his throat and landing pathetically on the floor. His whole body felt as if it had been submerged underwater, his lungs were filling so rapidly. All Max could manage to mumble was, “Get GP.”
He could hear Daniel in the background ordering everyone around, but his ears started to ring. He’s underwater and he can’t save himself this time. He’s drowning and he can’t speak.
Max had joined Red Bull after only a year at Toro Rosso. He was more experienced but still young, 18 years old, practically a child. Everything still felt new and exciting, his boyish traits were still very much present even though Max was one of the most serious kids you’d ever meet. Max had grown attached to Daniel the moment they met. He had a smile that could make anyone crack up and quite literally a heart of gold. Max had such an admiration for the man, you wouldn’t believe it. He’d also formed a strong bond with his engineer Gianpiero Lambiase or as his nickname was, GP. He didn’t want to phrase it in such a way, but GP gave him such a paternal warmth. When he hugged Max after a race, Max just wanted to stay in the man’s arms. He was so starved of family touch, it was pathetic.
Max was still very much under the watchful eyes of his father at the time of joining Red bull. Every match, every practice session. Jos would always have something to say, if it went well he’d get drunk and loudly declare what a good job he’d done raising Max. If it went badly, which apparently was anything less than first, he’d mouth off at the mechanics, GP, Christian and finally Max. Now that he was older, Max had grown to want to combat his father. He refused to be pushed up against a kitchen cabinet and left to fall, alone, again. So when Jos corrected Max about the smallest mistakes, Max would come right back at him. F1 career v/s F1 career. Father v/s son.
Max was the one who’d gotten into formula one at 17, setting a world record. Not him.
This would always lead to an argument about him owing his success to Jos. Max couldn’t contain himself and it scared him how mouthy he had become. The idea that he really was a spoiled brat popped up every once in a while but he immediately squashed it down.
If he was so spoiled he would’ve at least been given one emotionally present family member.
One weekend there was a particularly bad fight where Jos had tried to lash out on the engineers and when that didn’t work, had turned to Max. He had tried to pick him up by the collar like he’d been able to do when Max was twelve. Well now Max was eighteen and it wasn’t the same, it shouldn’t have been the same.
Except, Max went pliantly. He remembered the blood on the back of his head from that day and stilled, unable to breathe, but Jos certainly didn’t still. Before he knew it there was a crowd of Red bull workers pulling Jos off of his own son. A mirage of cameras were panning around the paddock but the only one who reached for Max was GP.
Max found out that day that GP was great at comforting him in a way that felt tender and didn’t breach into invading or patronising. It made him feel safe. He knew how to get Max to open up, and Max let him. He had cried that day as GP put an arm round the boy’s form. He didn’t make him explain why or talk about Jos. He just held him and that was what Max needed.
Another weekend he remembers very clearly. It was FP2 in Baku and Max was exhausted for no apparent reason. He’d gotten P6 that day, not horrible to anyone except his father’s standards. He quite literally knew he couldn’t face Jos, he was just too tired. Max stumbled past the engineers and into the depths of the red bull headquarters. He wasn’t quite looking where he was going, just trying to go somewhere. Apparently in his slumber, he’d walked straight into a new weight machine, bashing his knee on its edge painfully and landing with his face millimetres from the floor, only protected by the quick reflexes of his hands.
When Max got up off the tiled floor, he could feel it without looking. The broken skin exposed to air. Before he knew it GP was at his side, he’d been wondering where the Dutch driver had been for a while now and had gone out to search for himself.
Max was so grateful to have an arm guiding him to a nearby sofa because he didn’t want to put full pressure on that leg. He remembered feeling the tears sheening his eyes as GP lay him down gently. GP had started to slowly unzip his fireproofs and pull them down, whilst Max's breathing started to speed up. His toes curled as he felt the stickiness of the blood on the fabric. He had willed himself to calm down but his whole body had been submerged, everything around him seemingly too bright. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as GP pulled off the final bit of fabric to reveal his knee. Even with his vision obscured Max could see his mottled skin, the tracks of scarlett running freely down his shin.
It was all too much, even with GP’s constant reassurances of, “It’ll be okay Max. You’re okay,”. His mouth was dry like a desert and even with his fireproofs stripped off Max felt himself profusely sweating. The room was spinning, or was he spinning? Max didn’t know. He was far too hot and his brain had started to scramble itself.
Max had passed out not long after that, leaning on GP’s shoulder for support.
When Max woke up he remembers being in his hotel room, a pair of Red bull joggers on and a tired looking GP sitting on an armchair opposite him.
Max had felt himself start to tear up again as he remembered what had happened. What if GP told everyone? What if he told his dad?
His stomach curdled.
“Max, you’re awake.” GP had heard the soft stirring and turned to see the 18 year old boy close to tears. “Oh, Max.”
GP was good at being there, like so many weren’t. Max shoved his head into the crook in GP’s neck and sniffled half heartedly, “I’m sorry.”
“Max, you don’t need to be sorry. If it’s personal you don’t have to explain, but is there a reason why you fainted back there?” GP had a way of making all Max’s responsibilities fly away, he felt secure in himself when he was there.
Max had felt the salty tears rolling down his cheeks, staining GP’s t-shirt. His hands clenched and relaxed around nothing before replying, “I have a phobia,” Max tried not to gag on his words, "Of blood." It helped that GP just held him closer.
Inside though, GP was reeling with anger. How had Jos Verstappen failed to tell any of the Red bull medics about Max’s condition? It was already bad enough to see how he would lash out after a subpar race but was he seriously not concerned about his child’s physical health as well as his mental?
Max would’ve been alone as he overheated and lost consciousness if it weren’t for him filling in the role of father. For fucks sake, GP wanted to rip that smug smirk off Jos Verstappen’s face for breaking the vulnerable boy in his arms. How could a father ignore something like this? GP had to restrain himself, looking down at the tear stained cheeks of the young driver and knowing him turning to anger was not something Max wanted right now.
That year GP had managed to convince Max to tell the Red bull medics about his phobia of blood; Hemophobia as they found out was its technical name. It was a step, but a step they could do together.
They’d also gone to numerous appointments of ‘exposure therapy’ but that really was a mistake. Max’s throat hurt constantly from all the stomach acid that kept rising out of it and his whole body felt stiff all the time.
As well as that, it made Max jumpy and on edge which began affecting his driving so they had to stop, hoping there wouldn’t be too many situations where Max was exposed to blood. Being a formula one driver was dangerous, yes. However, it was mostly bruising or aching pains, even bone breaking, but for the most part blood free.
Max could handle it, he reassured himself. But, just in case he couldn’t do it alone, GP was there to help.
—
Max couldn’t stop taking in water, weighing his head down. His legs had turned numb.
Moments passed where he could feel eyes on him but Max couldn’t get up, he wasn't sure he could move at all.
“Didn’t I say you couldn’t make Max do a blood test? Ignorant assholes.” GP stormed through the crowd slowing as soon as he saw Max, keeled over, sweating, crying and pinching his eyes shut tightly.
Max’s fingertips were going numb and he couldn’t stop his whole body racking with hearty sobs.
“Max, can you open your eyes for me?” GP kneeled down next to Max, all the drivers making a circle around them.
He tried, practically prying his eyes open to make eye contact with the engineer but the lights burned him, scorching his retinas. Then, everything started to blur into one. He was sinking. Max let out a soft whine from the back of his throat before slumping forward, the hands of GP stopping him from falling onto the concrete flooring. His body finally stilled, choosing to freeze rather than fight or flight he supposed.
When Max woke up he was in the same room but now lying on the floor in the recovery position, a pillow supporting his head. As soon as he woke up Max could feel the vomit in the back of his throat, forcing his body to sit up as he regurgitated what was left of his breakfast.
Everything hurts was Max’s second train of thought. His back aches and his head is pounding rhythmically.
“That’s okay Max, let it out.” GP’s arm is placed securely on Max’s shoulder. Grounding. Looking around, the lights are still bright but less painful and he can finally breathe. Max savours the feeling of his lungs swallowing air greedily.
“Daniel, go and get some cold water for Max please.” GP says softly. Daniel? Max sat up more, coming face to face with the Australian driver who looked to be quite out of depth.
The Aussie nods, a hesitant look on his face, “Max, I hope you’re okay. I’ll be here if you need someone else to talk to.” a pause, “I’ve always got your back.” Daniel gives a small, closed mouth smile and Max feels horrible. He’s made the man who can’t stop grinning, even in Red bull sponsorship meetings, all stiff.
He knows he has to say something. Coughing first in a futile effort to clear his throat Max weakly gets out a, “Thank you.”
He hates how small it sounds.
Daniel smiles again, slightly more but Max just wants to pull out the older man’s cheeks and see his full toothy grin. The door closes and Max can’t stop his mind spewing thoughts that are less than helpful. He can see his dad’s face, all scrunched up and about to shout a storm of curses when he hears how his son started to hyperventilate over a blood test infront of some of the best racers of all time.
“Did you tell my Dad?” Max whispers to GP.
Everytime something like this happens GP’s heart reels just a little.
“No Max. I would never do that unless you asked me to.”
Max loves Jos, at least he thinks he does. Sometimes, he wishes he’d had a GP growing up though, not a drunkard for a father. God, his life would’ve been so much better if he could’ve been hugged once in a while or told someone was proud of him.
Then he remembers.
“You didn’t let them give me the… the test, did you?” Max will not cry. Not again. His cheeks are still puffy and pink from before and he won’t make it worse.
His eyes are obscured by tears but he will not cry.
“No, no they didn’t. They’re not going to. I gave them a piece of my mind.” Max let out a feeble wet laugh at this. “Come hear, mate” GP after getting one glimpse at Max’s eyes filling with tears again pulls his small frame into a bear hug. It crushed Max’s bones that were still sore but he couldn’t care less about that.
Max, leaning into the rare physical touch, managed to whisper a tiny, “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to say thank you, Max.”
The two sat hugging, GP’s hand gently scratching the back of Max’s head. Max was glad to be safe, to feel arms wrapped around him in a way that wasn’t constricting. All his worries were pushed to the back of his mind momentarily.
After a few minutes passed, Daniel ran back into the room out of breath holding two bottles of water that looked to have ice in too.
The taller man stopped when he saw Max’s face hidden in GP’s shoulder, putting the water down on the floor, a safe distance away from the pair.
“Hi, sorry I didn’t… ah… mean to interrupt or anything. Got the water but I can go, if that’s what you want? Or stay, I don't mind. I, just, yeah I'll put the water here for you.” Daniel rambled on, scratching the back of his neck in a way that made Max’s heart squirm.
Max looked up, making eye contact with his engineer. The two sent a message almost telepathically, asking the question of, ‘Can I tell him what really happened back there?’
Daniel was still standing awkwardly by the door, a purgatory of whether to stay or leave.
Max stepped out of GP’s embrace, “Daniel ,don’t leave.” He said more confident than he felt.
That other man’s puppy dog eyes really left Max with no choice but to tell him.
“What happened before...” he paused, waiting for Daniel to nod that he should carry on, “It happened because of the blood test, I have a phobia of blood, hemophobia. Does that make sense?” Max rattled off as if he’d done it a thousand times. Swift, ripping off a bandaid.
But inside? Max was freaked, it wasn’t exactly normal to be scared of blood. Not to that extent. He didn’t want Daniel to ask why he was so afraid of the fluid. What would he say to that? Yeah, well after my Dad smashed a glass on my Mum’s head and I threw up from the sight of her cuts, it was kind of obvious there was something wired wrong in my brain.
Max nervously bit his lip, turning his head slightly to meet GP’s gaze, met with a reassuring smile.
Max was stuck in mud,waiting helplessly as the silence stretched between him and Daniel.
He could practically see his mind wiring, feel the explosions of contained curiosity.
Stuck in mud, wading through it. He waited.
Then, thank god, Daniel grinned his larger than life smile and the world began to turn again. Max was floating out of his mental swamp. “Thank you for telling me, Maxie.” Max smiled at the nickname, “I’ll do everything I can to help now that I know what it looks like when you…” Daniel trailed off, unsure what to call Max’s, what, outburst?
“A panic attack.” GP supplied, the boys having forgotten they weren’t alone. Max supposed they were panic attacks, it did feel as if his whole body was being punched repeatedly and if you wouldn't say Max experienced panic back there then you clearly had been in the wrong room.
Max felt his cheeks heat up anyway, slightly embarrassed that Daniel was being let in on this part of him. But Daniel didn’t stop smiling, “Yes, when you have a panic attack. As my first way of helping I’m telling you to drink some of this water.” he said gesturing to the abandoned bottles, “I was kicking ass running to the Red bull garage to get it.”
Max lets out an involuntary laugh, “Why would you go to Red bull to get water? You can get it anywhere." Rolling his eyes, he adds on lightly, "Especially when you charm them with your award-winning smile.”
“Well, it’s not like I was gonna go to the Ferrari garage and ask Kimi for a trip to his mini fridge.” Daniel reaches down to pick up the water and hands it to Max, still looking at him playfully, clearly containing his laugh.
Max takes a sip of the water to appease Daniel before plucking up the courage to carry on. “Thank you, both of you.” Max turned to look at GP as well as Daniel, the older man putting a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.
“I’m proud of you, Max. You went through a lot today.”
That was the closest Max ever came to hearing his father say he was proud of him. Honestly, he'd take GP's appreciation over Jos's any day.