Chapter Text
Stars around my scars
Earth is ruled by a species called humans. They are the only species to have developed enough consciousness to possess thoughts, feelings, and—most importantly—wisdom. Despite this cold biological fact, this species is both the smartest and dumbest of them all. The perfect paradox.
And according to humans, Max Verstappen is one of the luckiest men alive right now. He has it all: money, fame, and family. He stands at the top of his sport—the Dutch lion who terrorizes the entire F1 grid. He is the epitome of talent, having won four World Championship titles within the first ten years of his career.
So yes, he has it all—at least to the public eye. But one thing no one asks him is, "Are you happy?” Max hasn't heard that question in a long time. He has four championships, he is the man of F1, and he is a billionaire. Why wouldn't he be happy?
Well, Max doesn't have an answer to that question. Why isn't he happy? Is it because of the deep childhood trauma of traveling around the world with his dad in pursuit of becoming a world champion? Now that he has achieved it —more than once—has he lost the meaning of his life?
Or is it because of someone who ripped his heart into pieces? Max is not sure, maybe it's both? Whatever it is, he is getting tired, and it's ruining him. Like a slow-acting poison.
“Max…”
Lando’s high-pitched whine pulls Max from his thoughts. With the speed of a sloth, Max looks up at his best friend, who is lying beside him on his bed, looking as though he owns it—and the entire world.
It's winter break for them, which means the end of the 2025 season—the season in which Max lost the title to Lando by just two points. It is one of the best seasons in Max's career, despite losing the title trophy.
He raced against the two rocketships of the Mclarens with his tractor, dragged himself into second place, and hauled his team to third in the Constructor’s Championship while his teammates were nowhere to be seen.
So yes, Max is at his absolute best in this season, and he is proud of himself for that. But that doesn't mean he is not disappointed about losing the title. After all, he is raised to either be first or be nothing. It is a toxic mindset, but it made him a World Champion four times.
Now it's two days past Christmas, and that means Max is stuck with his best friend. Lando is annoying as hell, but he is the only one who understands Max and his personality better than anyone, and vice versa. So their opposing, water-and-fire personalities just thrive together.
“What?" Max barks out, giving Lando a side-eye.
“Took you long enough to answer."
The Brit says dryly as he puts his phone down and gets up from the bed. He starts pacing around the room—something Lando does when he’s anxious. Max, for his part, just stays silent, watching him with lazy eyes.
The dark rain clouds over Monaco make the sunset look scary. Max looks outside through the large balcony doors of his room.
“Okay, fine. Here goes nothing.”
Lando starts again, coming to sit at the foot of the bed, looking at Max seriously. This makes Max look at Lando again, his left eyebrow raising in question.
“I can't see you like this anymore. It's been a year, man. Get over it. He is not coming back. He has been playing with you since your teenage years, for God's sake, mate.”
Lando practically begs, making Max sober up. It's not the first time Lando has said something along those lines, but this time the worry and concern in his eyes is too much for Max to ignore. And he hates this —making people worry about him.
Everything feels like too much and too little at the same time. It's like he is slowly slipping away from everything. This deep sense of sadness is steadily wrapping around his neck. The process is so slow that Max finds comfort in his own misery.
“Everything is ok, Lan. I have moved on."
Max mumbles softly, not looking into Lando's eyes. They both know he is lying, but Max can't agree with Lando because that would mean admitting he is not ok and he is still in love with his ex. That would mean seeking help, and it would ultimately lead to going back to his therapist. Max is not going to do that again.
Lando, in response, just snorts —not the funny one, but the one that made Max wince.
"And I’m America's president.”
Lando says sarcastically, slapping the Dutchman's thigh.
"Don't bullshit me, Verstappen. I know what the fuck you are feeling, and it's ugly, mate. I don't like seeing you like this. Your eye bags are growing, and you are losing weight. We are on our break, for fuck’s sake. At least eat something. It's starting to scare me.”
Lando's desperate words make Max finally get up from his lying position and sit up to look at the person opposite him. He doesn't have the energy to do this, yet he will try, for his friend at least. Because Lando is here for him, lying beside him in his depression —when he was supposed to be enjoying his break, his championship.
"Ok, fineeeee”
Max drags out dramatically, a small smile blooming on his lips. It's not fully sincere, but he hopes Lando buys it.
"I am sorry for worrying you. It's just, this is my first break in years without him and I don't know what to do, Lan. But you are right, I should enjoy my life. And I will try to move on from him. So how about we go to a pub today? You can call our friends too. We never celebrated your championship—by ‘we’ I mean me. Let's do it tonight. I will show you how to party like a champion.”
Max says cheerfully. Lando, of course, at first didn't buy it, but he ended up somehow making the Brit believe that he is magically cured. Even then, Lando made Max eat a full meal before going to the pub.
In two hours, they are in one of the famous pubs in Monaco. It is storming outside, yet all the people Lando invited on short notice are here. That's the good and bad thing about Monaco. The country is so small you can’t avoid people and live a normal life at the same time.
Max, for his part, acts like he’s having a good time. He drinks his gin and tonic as if it were water, mingled with everyone, laughed, and told jokes—as though the feeling of happiness isn't physically making him sick. He acts like the Max Verstappen that people wanted him to be.
But once everyone was drunk off their asses, Max slowly slips away from everyone. Lando and their friends are on the dance floor, having the time of their life. While Max sits in the booth and watches them with a fake smile, his cheeks aching from the strain he puts on those muscles to keep the smile on his face.
He feels like he is watching it from the outside, that no one could see him. The music is blasting, yet all Max can hear is a faint hum of the song. He gulps down another shot, the burn of the alcohol is the only thing that convinces him that he is not dead yet.
Max doesn't know how many minutes he has been sitting there watching others dance. But time starts to slow for him when the urge returns. It's a mere whisper in his mind, but he can't ignore it this time. He has started to have the urge again, after his breakup last year —if one can call it a breakup.
Nonetheless, Max has managed to push it down. But today, sitting here watching his friends have fun, it forces him to face the reality.
He is not one of them.
The bitter realization makes Max chuckle. That's right, he is not with them. Because he is a loser. Dwelling on a love that never reciprocated properly. Dying for a man that plays him like a guitar. Just like his dad did.
Max has always been controlled by people throughout his entire life. From childhood through his teenage years, it was his dad. From his teenage years to the grand old age of twenty-six, it is Him.
And he would still wait for him, would still die for him. Because losers like Max don't deserve anything better. His dad was right once again. Jos Verstappen has always been right.
Max Verstappen is a doll. Pretty on the outside, broken and unraveling on the inside. Used and discarded by people because, deep down, he believes that's all he deserves.