Chapter Text
He felt drained. He wasn't sure if it was qualifying, the car, or just the fact that he was barely keeping his head above water in the championship.
“You drug everything out of the car that you could today." GP sighs, “We’ll tweak what we can tonight.” He runs a hand over his face, seeming just as drenched in exhaustion.
“Yeah, I-” Max makes a noise and startles at an arm wrapping around his shoulder.
Glancing up at Christian, Max’s stomach drops. He’s smiling, but it's tight lipped, not reaching his eyes. He’s disappointed. He wants Max to know that he’s disappointed. “Good time out there.” It’s almost believable. Almost.
“Yes, I did what I could.” He repeats GP’s words from earlier.
“I’m sure.” The arm tightens, a silent let’s hope not. “I have some things I need to run over with you, you okay if I steal him?” The last part is pointed at GP.
The engineer glances up from the tablet in his hands, seeming to barely notice the principal’s arrival. “Yes, I already have all the notes. We’ll do what we can with it.”
“Good!” Christian nods, leaving his arm draped over Max's shoulder as he begins to walk towards his office tucked inside hospitality.
Max wonders if Christian can feel Max’s heartbeat pounding under his hand. If he is keeping his face neutral enough or if the panic wrapping its way around his chest is obvious.
He’s twenty-seven years old for heaven’s sake. He’s not a child. A meeting with his boss is completely normal and appropriate and not a valid reason to feel like he’s going to be sick.
Especially when he hasn’t met with Christian like… like that in years.
But there’s something about the way Christian is holding him now, something about the look on his face, the tone of voice, the energy surrounding him, that puts Max on edge.
Christian doesn’t remove his hand until they are at the door, opening it and motioning for Max to enter ahead of him. He does so. Christian stops to lock the door and even though it only a takes a second, the moment stretches into an eternity. When he turns, their eyes meet. Max presses his hands into the side of his legs to keep them from shaking.
“Have a seat, Max.” Christian sighs, motioning to the chair opposite of the desk. He waits for Christian to be seated in his own before he complies.
Max says nothing, watching, waiting to hear what exactly it is Christian wants from him.
Yet another sigh, as if he was hoping Max would already know and he wouldn’t have to deal with unpleasantness of actually speaking with him. He leans back in his chair. “What’s going on Max?”
He blinks in response. “I’m sorry?”
“Only two wins, out of eight.”
“I-” He stutters, “I’ve gotten other podiums.”
“Only two more making four total. That’s not even a majority. The last time you had that bad of a start was 2019.”
That was also the last time Max had had a car this bad. “I'm having trouble with the car.” He tries for the more diplomatic wording.
“Oh come on Max don't give me that.”
What did he want then? “Yuki’s highest position this season has been 9th. He's barely in the points.”
“You know better Max. That's not how this works. He's not you.”
He fights the urge to slink down into his chair and try to disappear entirely. What exactly was he insinuating? Max had an idea but didn't want to think too much on it. He plans to be intentionally ignorant until someone spells it out.
“What do we need to do about this?” Christian is talking with disappointment, like a child who is failing a class due to lack of studying. “What is going to push you to be better?”
“A good car.” Max answers before he can stop himself. “Give me a good car and I will give you good points. That's how this works.”
The look Christian sends him is scathing. “When I brought you into Red Bull we had an agreement.”
Max feels cold wash over him and hopes it doesn't show as much as he suspects it does.
“You would win me championships. I would take a risk on the reckless kid and you would prove your worth.”
Something twists in his gut. A spark of anger. At everything. At the car. At the team. At Christian for treating him like a child.
“Without me you have no wins. With me you have two. The car you gave me is no good. I think I could get more out of my 2015 Toro Rosso. You do not get to act like I am simply out of form!”
“But aren't you?” The words aren't spoken with anger and somehow that makes it worse.
Max deflates, the cold from before starting this time inside of him. Like a layer of ice forming in his stomach, chest, lungs. “You've been distracted. I'm afraid this little dispute between myself and Helmut has distracted you. We can't have that.”
Max wasn't exactly sure what he could do about it. He had no real say. His father had already made his opinion quite clear and he was sure Christian would have already banned him from the paddock if he didn't know that Max would threaten to quit on the spot. “So I ask again, what do you need? What do I have to do for you to get that hunger back?”
It's a threat. Christian can use all the nice words and soft tones that he wants, but Max isn't dumb. He's not seventeen anymore either. He's a fully grown adult. So why does he feel so much like a scared teenager?
“Nothing. I don't need anything.” He hated the way his mouth forms the words. The accent, the lisp, that comes in thicker when he's stressed. “Just let me race. It will be fine. I can still win.” It sounds desperate. Which maybe that's what it is. Because again, Max isn't stupid. And this isn't a championship winning car. But neither was last year's so maybe-
Christian stands moving around to the front of the desk. He half sits on it directly in front of Max. Their knees almost touch. Max wants to move away. He doesn't.
“If you don't win,” Christian starts and there's a bit more edge to his voice this time, “it will look bad on me. On both of us. I don't think both of us could stay at Red Bull.”
Max feels his heart speed up even though he's not exactly sure what Christian means. “Why do you say this?” He didn't think he translated the words in the most concise way but they were in English so he will count it as a win.
“I'm saying I don't think this current arrangement will work for much longer. Especially if you are no longer world champion. Something would have to change. One of us would have to leave. And I've been here a lot longer than you.”
“But-” the air is not flowing though his lungs like it should, “but I have a contact-”
“I know. I know.” It's calming. Belittling. Infuriating. “But I just don't think it could continue to work. You're used to running things. Have gotten too comfortable thinking you're the one in charge here. I let it go for a while. But clearly it's no longer working.”
Because you gave me a bad car! He wants to say. Scream. But he doesn't. He can't now. And he doesn't feel seventeen, filled with naivety, yes, but also with a fire. No, right now he feels twenty-one. He feels trapped. Frozen.
“You've got to prove to me you're worth keeping around.”
Max feels his face go blank, a white static filling his ears. It's something he's heard many times before, but not for several years. He thinks probably, hopefully, that Christian means he needs to start winning again. That a championship is the only thing that will do that. But there's always the chance that- well that he means something else.
But Max is twenty-seven now. It's not as simple as it was back then. It's not. A part of them knows that. But someone needs to inform his body of that because the cold fear sinking in is making him feel like frozen prey instead of the hunting lion. Like he doesn't know what's supposed to come next.
Christian leans forward, placing his hand on Max's thigh. “I hope we have an understanding.”
Max looks from the hand to Christian's face. He nods once. Yes. He understands. “I will win the championship.” He says it, hoping if not believing. If nothing else hoping it is enough.
It's not like he wouldn't have places to go. Mercedes would sign him tomorrow. Many places would. But would they take his team? And despite it all, in his heart, he didn't want to leave Red Bull. Red Bull was all he ever had. At this point more family than his own. The idea of it being taken away…
But maybe it wasn't a bad idea to start looking. To at least look through the door instead of just slamming it shut.
“I'm glad.” Christian squeezed his leg keeping his hand there a moment too long before pulling it away. “Get some rest. Let's hope tomorrow goes better for us, hm?”
Max nods, again finding his voice completely gone. He takes it as the permission it is, standing, ignoring the way He can feel Christian's eyes on him as he turns to exit the room.
The door is still locked.
Unlocking it takes longer than it should on account of his shaking hands.
As he finally steps out there a bit of a switch flip. A burning anger starts to melt the ice. He's angry. He’s really freaking angry. Because how was any of this his fault? It's not his fault Christian spends more time arguing than managing. It's not his fault the car is the worst it's ever been. It's not his fault their strategy had been okay at best and even their pitstops had been bordering on bad.
And yet he knows. Knows that at the end of the day it doesn't matter. At the end of the day what Christian says goes.
Things have to get better. For all of them. It has to. And He has to win tomorrow. He has to.
But the car is giving him nothing and the strategy makes no sense and it makes him angry. Sets off a hot seething rage inside of him that was already simmering. He wants to lash out. Wants to hurt something, someone. But who he wants to lash out at is not an option for him. Not really. Never was, never will be.
But George is right there. And so so freaking annoying. He’s been goading him into a fight for a year now. And he's sick of it. Sick of him always being there just around the corner. Sick of him acting morally superior. Sick of him yelling out technical regulations and whining until he gets his way. Sick of it all.
He lets the white hot rage fuel him and for a moment it feels good. He's sure the team is pissed at him. He's sure they hate him and are angry and think he's stupid. Well Max is pretty pissed too. And angry. And maybe he even hates them right back. But in the moment the only other option Max sees is running full speed into the wall and he hopes they're happy because this causes significantly less damage to their precious, useless, car.
And really it stays that way- the anger and hatred and spite- for about ten laps until he realizes what just happened. What he did. How he just screwed himself over.
And then he's just… tired.
When GP tells himself there's been a ten second time penalty he's not even surprised. If anything he's surprised he managed to keep it in the points. Maybe he should have just crashed into the wall, it wouldn't have made much difference.
When he gets out of the car, no one will look at him. And that's fine. He doesn't particularly want to be seen at the moment.
But one set of eyes find him. The ones he wants to see least.
Christian doesn't approach him. Doesn't say anything. Just stares with hard, cold, accusatory eyes. Like Max did it on purpose. And well, maybe he did. But he couldn't explain why. He didn't know himself. He just knew that he screwed himself over the same moment he screwed Christian over. And in a very strange way that at least felt good. Because they were linked. Always had been.
Christian had told him to do better. To be better. And Max has turned around and done worse.
Max breaks eye contact first. He lets out a breath.
One day at a time.
Just-
Just one day at a time.