Archive of Our Own

and i interrupt / to receive the scowl and stare /

but still decided to stop her there

TOO MUCH TO ASK

Eyes flutter open. People clamour at the sight. Greedy lungs inhale air, take and give nothing in return. Breathe in, breathe out, a learned pattern. Nausea, a parasite, gnaws and chews away at his consciousness, spits what's left of it out. Remnants—well, if you can even call it that—lie flat on the tarmac: a lifeless body, an empty vessel, a broken soul.

He thinks, decidedly, that he’s not built for this.

✧

Enter scene into the next act of his life, a different trajectory:

Max sits; body adjunct to the backseat, lost in his own train of thought. Throws another glance out of the window, only to set eyes on eternally winding, anfractuous roads. Vast expanses of road. Fingers graze against double glazed glass windows, seemingly craving a chance at escape. He watches as the countless raindrops race against one another to see who can reach the end first. He wishes he were one of them sometimes—insignificant enough that no one would notice if he just disappeared one day, flying under the radar, only to be absorbed into the ocean of people. Everyone is merely just a drop in the sea, he thinks, something negligible. How trivial it really is in the grand scheme of things.

(You have to love long car rides home: The talks with Papa and faint scent of sweat from exertion of muscles, the faint glow of halogen lights illuminating the van, your only source of comfort in the loneliness and quiet of the long ride home; fall asleep on tarmac and wake up in rain. Pitter-patter noises of clouds’ tears drown out everything else, and on occasion voices from the radio stab through, get to you. Of course, you don’t pay much attention, though, spent from karting earlier. You spend the most part of seven hours trying to talk to Papa. It’s all in vain either way.

You think he does not love you sometimes. But regardless, life moves on.)

It is late. It is always late when it comes to karting and Papa. The piercing glow of the cold fluorescent lights are absolutely sickening. Max wants to throw up again.

It goes the same—because it always does; starting with a lecture from Papa—yells and the occasional threat of physical violence included: a raise of a balled-up fist, a tight grip on his shoulders. This is how it goes. Papa pulls, Max pushes; he stonewalls, he runs; Max chases. It’s a pattern that’s lasted since the dawn of time. And as much as he’s gotten used to the silent treatment, he wishes that he could just pin it down and simply solve his dad. Like folding a sheet of origami paper under a microscope with a needle. Like an endless game of cat and mouse. And every time, they end up where they started. He finds that there’s a strange sort of tension in him that stays perpetually. Waiting to be released. Taut muscles waiting for an opportunity to slacken.

“Get out.” Papa says, peremptory. Max flinches, but acquiesces and does as he’s told; just as he always does, just as he’s always done. With agile fingers he grabs his bag like a lifeline, clutches it against his chest, scurries out of the van over Papa’s yells, probably blabbering on about how much he’s fucked up and how much of a failure he is. He remains quiet, because he knows that it’s better to be compliant than to fight— and really prays to whatever divine being out there that there’s not another beating coming. Max, racing suit still zipped all the way up, clambers out of the van—attracting stares from strangers around them, and he stands there awkwardly, under the heavy crushing weight of eyes gazing at him—but he does not care about that right now. Bigger fish to fry, or something along those lines.

He’s standing away from Papa cautiously, much like the way one would act if a wild animal wandered too close for comfort. Papa follows up with a string of obscenities Max would rather not repeat; a knife to turn within himself, and the blade sinks deeper and deeper into his heart. It bleeds red and blue. Max instinctively flinches a bit at that, can vaguely hear Papa mutter the words ‘stupid pig’ under his breath—and as much as he hates to admit it—his words hurt. Shatters his fragile little heart that’s already overloaded with emotions. He doesn’t really hear the rest of Papa’s words—they blend together with the background noise into static—it’s like he’s turned his ears off and muted the world. He finds it makes experiencing this a bit more bearable.

“Think about what you’ve done.” Papa commands, voice stern, and by the time Max is pulling on the door handle, Papa is already in the van and—

It’s locked shut. The door gliding shut a jarring thing against his ears, the close a grating click waving goodbye to him, seemingly jeering, mocking him. His ears are saturated in silence—which, strangely enough, also happens to be the loudest noise to his ears right now, thrumming against his eardrums. 

His head is heavy.

But there’s nothing left to do but wait. Sit on the pavement and count the droplets of rain until there’s nothing left to be counted. Wait for someone to get him; if anyone even comes for him. Max tears off his gloves. His bare hands are bruised and blistered. He stares at the palms, the raw and red skin. He pulls his knees till they're touching his chest, feel the rain come in, drench him. Pins and needles stab their way into his skull, stick and stay there. It feels like there’s a strange weight in the back of his head, one that’s threatening to pull him down into the depths of the underworld and doom him to eternal hell. Fingers crawling up, grasping his hair⸺

⸺and it pulls him underwater, like an oceanic plate subducting; the body sinks, fights the burning feeling of the rapid loss of oxygen. Hold your breath, he thinks; counting: one, two, three; until he’s released, and breaks free.

It can only leave Max wondering: Why? Why has Papa forsaken him for his sins? 

But as much as Max would like to ponder on the thought for a while longer, he's harshly snapped back to reality. He cranes his head, scans his eyes across the petrol station; it is rather crowded. That’s too bad. And then he notices something; a man standing next to an—at first glance—expensive car, probably a BMW, if Max had to guess. He blinks once, twice; thrice, even. Rubs his eyes; squints, because he swears he recognises him— 

Is that Sebastian Vettel? As in, the World Drivers’ Champion Sebastian Vettel?

He blinks, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes; because he can’t believe it. What the fuck. That’s definitely him. He does a double take, he genuinely can't believe the fact. And then suddenly he’s coming over, and fuck, Max freezes up— 

“Are you okay?” The man asks, mellisonant; and there’s a kind of soft edge in his voice that feels somewhat comforting, yet Max immediately tenses up. (After all, it’s not every day where a Formula One World Champion just casually goes up to you and tries to start a conversation.) What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Max genuinely has no words. He goes to open his mouth and no sound comes out. Blinks his eyes in stunned silence. His mouth has gone all dry.  His vision is all blurry and the world’s spinning in its grasp. Spotty patches are dotted on the lenses; and it’s painfully bright to his eyes. If he moves an inch further he thinks his vision will go static and noisy.

Mouth open, frozen in place: the freedom to say it all and yet say nothing, the fall from any height he’s ever stood at, the reckless abandon born of knowing he can say versus what he wants. He can’t speak. He can’t form any words—and even if he did say anything, it’d just be intelligible syllables spilled all over the place. Ouh. Not here. Anywhere but here.

Sebastian notes the lack of reply from Max. Maybe he might’ve scared the boy off—maybe the direct question might have been a tad too confrontational? He’s trying to figure out a way to make sure this kid’s safe, if anything. (But given what he just saw, he can probably make an educated guess already.)

“Well, if you need me, I’ll be over there.” He says, points at the—presumably his—fancy car, and walks towards it, leaving Max there. And freezing, not that anyone knows. Max’s a little grateful for the gesture, really, because it actually gives him a choice. As he’s heading towards the car, he’s stopped in his footsteps by the sound of Max calling for him.

“Wait—” Max half-calls, half-yells; which successfully grabs his attention, and the man turns around. “Are you—” The words seem to get stuck in his throat, a struggle to articulate his thoughts. “Are you Sebastian? Sebastian Vettel?” He finally spits out the words. Sebastian nods, and for a moment he can see Max’s eyes light up— full of childish joy— just like a normal kid should be, he thinks. Nevertheless, the sparkle still has the unfortunate impermanent quality of being stamped onto an uncooperative surface; and the twinkle fades just as quickly as it’s been formed.

Sebastian supposes, now, that he might as well get to know Max a little more; help him if he can. He’s got plenty of time to kill, so.

“What’s your name, kid?” Seb crouches down so that they’re at equal height, meets Max’s eyes. He doesn’t respond immediately. Stranger danger, and whatnot, he supposes. Sebastian gets it. He’ll just wait.

“Max. Max Verstappen,” he says, full name, because he’s always done that. He’s still visibly tense. 

He’s vaguely heard that name—Verstappen—before, Sebastian knows, but he can’t seem to place a finger on it. He’s lost in thought, furiously trying to wrangle the last missing puzzle piece to remember where he’s heard that name before, but then the train of thought is derailed, and he remembers that he should probably refocus on the more important matter at hand: Max.

“Hey, Max.”

Sebastian notices the sparkle in Max’s eyes glimmer. For a moment, Max forgets he’s literally just been abandoned by his father, but then he’s rudely snapped back to the cruel reality as it comes rushing back like a tidal wave crashing down on him, and the light in his eyes disappears. Max doesn’t reply, only standing with his arms drooping by his sides. Sebastian takes this as his cue to initiate a conversation.

“So,” He begins, “What happened?” He’s trying to be careful with the elephant in the room, tiptoeing around the subject, cautious to not scare him off. He notices the way Max’s jaw clenches.

Silence follows, and Sebastian finds himself subconsciously frantically analysing whether or not he was a bit too direct with that question, if he might’ve scared Max off. And apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Max immediately tenses up and freezes. He rubs the back of his neck, seemingly nervous. Sebastian notices the diffident shift in Max’s fingers which are only gripping a helmet, sweaty and slightly trembling; knuckles white from tension. His hands have gone all clammy. Safe to say he’s nervous. How does one explain to a stranger that this is just a regular routine that they’ve grown accustomed to? His face burns up, and god knows how much adrenaline just got dumped into his system. His nerve endings are buzzing with the anxiety. The vertigo of being put on the spot grips Max, leaves him experiencing all of it at once, far too much for him. Oh, the nausea is definitely getting to him again. Everything goes blurry, spinning, and he feels woozy. Sebastian notices Max very nearly, too nearly lose balance and collapse to the floor, and when he reaches a hand out to steady his shoulders⸺ 

⸺and he’s suddenly snapped back into the orbit of reality, and instinctively recoils at the touch. He blinks, and Sebastian is standing next to him; scanning him with eyes of concern. He blinks again. Doesn't know what to say.

“Are you okay?” Max faintly hears him ask. He rubs his eyes, mumbles a quick ‘yeah’, standing an awkward distance away, a bit further away from Sebastian this time around. Sebastian can sense his discomfort. Maybe the touch was too overwhelming for him? He makes a mental note to keep that in mind in the future. They end up sitting on the pavement; Max with his knees curled up against his chest, with Sebastian taking a place beside him. It’s kind of late, but it’s a Sunday off for him, because Race week is next week, and he has literally nothing better to do anyways, so Sebastian figures he might as well accompany Max and make sure he’s at least okay. 

Oddly enough, Max is the one to break the silence first.

“Sorry for causing you so much trouble,” is what he first says, and Sebastian remains silent. “This, of course,” he says while vaguely gesturing at everything, “is just my punishment for crashing out in a major karting competition. It was my fault.” A slight cause for concern, Sebastian thinks, because abandoning a kid at a gas station seems like a gross overreaction to that, but he chooses not to comment; sagely notes how Max is scarily nonchalant when he’s talking about the matter, adding that he doesn’t know if Papa will come back; and then—ever so slightly—his shoulders droop a little. Sebastian notices the tinge of sadness in his eyes. He doesn’t question it.

They talk for a while more, about the race.

“Is there anyone that can pick you up?” Sebastian asks, And to that, Max immediately goes quiet, and Sebastian thinks he might have said something wrong.

“I do not know.” He says.

“Why?” 

Max sighs and makes some weak attempt at a gesture with his hands. “My parents are, of course, not together,” he explains, carding a hand through his hair. “I, of course, am staying with Papa right now. So I do not know if anyone will pick me up.” Sebastian thinks, though, that the most disturbing part of the matter is how casually he speaks of this entire situation; how he thinks this is normal. He’s rather disconcerted by the fact, actually. This is not normal in the slightest. This is absolutely weird, and he’s barely known the kid for like, fifteen minutes at most. When Max speaks of his father, it is with such a deep reverence; of course, however unrequited it is. A one-sided symbiotic relationship, of sorts. But he is after all just an outsider; so what would he know? Max talks about Papa; how he just really wants to make him proud— how he’s excusing all these harsh punishments as necessary, simply claiming that it’s ‘proof of his love’. 

To the untrained eye: Max’s appetence for winning is obvious by now, clear as day, only exacerbated by the innate need for Papa’s praises. The thing is that the explanation is a bit too clinical, really—it’s not like it’s an inherently bad thing, but, under the current circumstances, it’s a little scary. Does he want to pry deeper? He ponders over the thought intensely, then settles on a decision; Not yet. The number one rule of working with kids and teenagers that are, well, troubled, is that you should not push them too far, too early. Approach them like you would a stray cat. Interact with caution. When the time is right, they will trust you and open up. 

The petrol station is practically empty now, save for the cashier in the convenience store and a couple workers. Sebastian glances around. There’s no one here. He fishes his wallet out from his pocket, standing up.

“Do you want some food?" he asks Max, hoping he will accept the offer—if for nothing else, then just for his own sake. Max looks genuinely surprised, eyes blowing wide open and lips slightly parted, forming an ‘O’ shape. The shock is written on his face, and he pauses before replying. Really?, he seems to mouth, but he settles on another answer.

“No thanks,” Max refuses. “I, of course, do not want to be a bother.” He feels hungry, and he hasn’t eaten anything for the last, like, ten hours, but it’s fine, he supposes. It’s a laconic and seemingly innocuous sentence, and yet, Sebastian gets this weird unsettling feeling that something is off— the dismissive tone, the simple wave of a hand. It’s more than meets the eye. But, well, seeing as Max’s father has just left him stranded at six in the evening, he’s pretty sure he’s got some sense of what he’s working with. He grabs a meal, buys two sandwiches: one for himself and one for Max. He has to eat, at the very least. 

But, the thing is, Max isn’t expecting anything, really; which is why it surprises him when Sebastian comes out with a sandwich, passing one to him. He hesitates, cautiously scanning the food like it’s a piece of space junk—alien and all—before taking a small bite.

“Thank you. You did not have to do this.” he mumbles, and Sebastian simply gives Max a smile in reply. He doesn’t mind taking care of Max, honestly. The kid’s bright. 

“So,” Sebastian starts, “Is your father coming back anytime soon?” Clearly that was the wrong thing to say, because Max freezes for a split second on hearing that question. He draws a blank. Which says enough, to Sebastian, at least. There’s a long pause before he starts to reply again.

“I, of course, do not know. I do not know how long it will take until he picks me up again. It might be a few more hours,” he says, “or longer.”

There’s a moment of silence that hangs in the air after he says that. Sebastian doesn’t—chooses not to—address the glaringly concerning fact that it is, in fact, not normal to leave your kid at a gas station— or anywhere, for that matter, for several hours. 

“Is there anyone else in your family that can pick you up? Maybe your mother?” Sebastian asks, hoping that maybe another relative can drive him back home. But if there really is no one that can do it, he’s up to offer to do it himself.

At the mention of his mother, Max seems to loosen up a little. He looks pensive as he thinks about the question. “I think so,” he pauses for a moment, then asks, “May I borrow your phone?”

Sebastian fishes his phone from out of his pocket, passes it to him. Max uses his thumbs and stamps in a phone number—presumably his mother’s—and presses the call button, letting the four repetitive notes of the ring sound through the air. He holds the phone up to his ear. It takes a while for his mother to pick up.

“Hallo, Mama?” He says in thickly accented Dutch. Sebastian moves a little further away, sits on the far end of the bench, so as to give Max some privacy. He can’t hear the rest of the conversation from his point of view, but he can vaguely make out some bits of dialogue—which is enough to give him a vague idea of what he’s talking to his mother about.

There’s mumbles from the other end before Max says, “Oké. Dank je, Mama.” He hangs up and approaches Sebastian again, passing the phone back to him. 

“Mama says she can only pick me up tomorrow.” Sebastian’s heart sinks a bit at the sentence, but at least he’s getting picked up. “I do not know what to do now. Sorry for the trouble.”

“It is okay.” Sebastian says. He’s pondering over the thought. Could he theoretically, maybe, get Max to a hotel overnight? Is the notion too out of this world? In theory, he could probably do it, pull a few strings right now.

So, in a snap judgement, he texts Christian. Of course, the proposition is fucking insane, and he’s not expecting yes for an answer. Surprisingly, after some negotiating and explaining the situation he’s in, Christian actually accepts. Perks of being a Red Bull golden boy, he supposes.

He turns around to tell Max. “I got us a hotel room for us to stay overnight.” The statement’s rather direct, but it works for Max. 

He blinks. “Thank you, but I cannot possibly accept this. It is far too expensive,” adds, “And I do not have enough money to repay you.”

Sebastian stares at him. “Money’s not a problem for me, kid.” He realises then that he probably should have been more tactful with his words, because he just sounds like he’s—unintentionally or not—bragging. “Seriously. I just want you to be safe.” But Max still looks uncomfortable despite Sebastian’s attempt to tell him that It’s okay. He doesn’t exactly know what to do in this situation. How do you reassure a kid that’s probably— (well, if he had to hazard a guess), been made to feel like a burden all his life that he is, in fact, not a burden?

“Oh.” Max replies. “Okay. Thank you.” He says, shifting a little. Is he still distressed? 

“No problem.” Sebastian decides on saying—because it’s true, the fact is that he’s more than happy to help Max. He thinks that some distraction might help him in the meantime, though. “Do you want to go somewhere before that?” He tries, for a change.

Max seems to consider it, but shakes his head, “No. I have to think about what I did wrong, otherwise Papa will punish me.” 

That— as offhanded as the comment was, is glaringly concerning, Sebastian thinks. Is this normal to him? But then again, his father has just left him at a petrol station. So Sebastian can only make an educated guess that it is, in fact, normal to him. God, this entire situation is so concerning. But he pushes any nagging thoughts down, refocuses on Max.

“Maybe I can help with that?” Sebastian tries instead. He thinks that it’s a bit harsh, but he doesn’t want to push it. Prying too fast too quickly might scare the little guy off. He’ll start with simpler questions first, he decides, because that might work. Max is, surprisingly, not too put off by the prospect. He eventually agrees, after a while. They talk stuff out, and he finds that Sebastian’s actually helpful. Well, as helpful as a Formula One driver can and should be, but he’s helpful nonetheless. It’s also been a while since he’s met an adult that didn’t scare the shit out of him immediately. So.

He likes Sebastian.

✧

leave me in this silken nest / to dream in

peace of nothingness / why thrust me out

so soon / from the sanctuary of a mother’s

womb / the ash has not yet shed its leaves

/ the last rose is not plucked

BIRTH SONG

But first, a little glimpse into Max’s childhood; or lack thereof:

Max has always been a bit of a complicated child, as his parents would say. He’s always burned with the desire to race and flee, lighting a flame so glaringly orange and strong that it swallows everything in its path, self-destructive. Maximum speed; a natural instinct, and not a deliberate choice he makes. Precocious child, they label him as such. Child prodigy. It is a pleasure to burn, he thinks. It is an especial pleasure to burn; burn others, witness them consumed by the flame, eaten alive, to see them charred and changed. The cochineal blood, spilt on the floor. He does this consummately. He is exceptionally good at consuming. He attributes this to his innate hunger: one that was passed down to him by Papa and Mama. Racing genes, and whatnot.

This is not to say that that is a bad thing. It is not to say that he was a bad child, but Papa seems to think otherwise. Papa is a capricious man, and Max is aware of this fact. He just wishes he would be less like this at times, even if he’s grown accustomed to predicting Papa’s outbursts. He doesn’t know if he can continue like this anymore. Bruised and battered skin cages Max’s soul within the confines of his body, and so desperately wants an out— anger seeps into his blood, a poison, so much anger wants to be released; he bangs on the walls, begging to be released, and yet—

He cannot. Not yet. Not under the scrutiny of so many eyes. Not when everyone’s watching him. He looks out the window. Directed his way are stares, a thousand judgemental heavy eyes weighing down on him. 

He really wants to throw up. Food, he thinks, is something he’s supposed to earn—not simply a given—and he doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve it today. He swallows the pit of dread that’s growing in him. It’s hard to do that these days, when it feels like there's always a lump in his throat; resist the visceral urge to spill his guts out right then and there. Eyes blink inconsistent and too rapidly to be natural. He’s starting to think there’s something deeply wrong with him. Bile rises, gushes through his esophagus. He’s hunched over the toilet seat, vomits the food he ate just twenty minutes ago out. His throat burns, but he supposes that’s the price to pay. His fault for misbehaving. The mixture of throw-up and food sits below, taunting him. 

Enter scene one, the first of a star’s birth:

The first time Max gets into a kart, he knows. He knows because there is something out there that tells him—or perhaps it is the voice in his head—that he is meant for this. Max is a child prodigy, it appears. Full of potential, people claim. But what is potential, if not realised? And so his dad moulds him into a beast— from child to something unrecognisable. Despite all the alien-like qualities there is about Max, he still, at the end of day, is human. Like all others. So, it is only natural that he has his fair share of fuckups. The funny thing is that karting is as much a relief as it is a pain. High speed brings freedom, escapism from the confines of the reality that is his home. Karting is freeing. But not when Papa is there.

Max hungers. A hunger so wishful and so full of desire that it’s sickening. At the first taste of anger, Max is hooked onto it like a drug, a lifeline, something to live by. It is madness through and through, but that is always what he has done. He wants to hit. He wants revenge. He wants. But Max does not do vices, so he does violence—on track, that is; because that is the only place he can vent his anger out. The rage makes Max’s blood boil, burn the skin, rupture the blood vessels. This can probably also be attributed to Papa. But at what point did the flame stop burning? At what point did all the pent up rage and anger turn inwards?

Max swears to himself, at the tender age of five, that he will never turn out like his dad. He will never become like Papa. 

Say, how does it feel to grow up in isolation?

He gets so hungry for attention and the presence of someone, anyone these days, but he has never known what the sweet taste of love and acceptance feels like. The more he remains isolated, the more sane he stays. There is no need to depend on someone, because there was never anyone to depend on. Not his mother, not his sister, and certainly not his Papa. A short view back to the past?— No more. No more, please; he begs. No. Do not take him back there. No one ever cared for him back there. Papa hit him, Mama and Vic didn’t— couldn’t— do anything about it; but at times, Max just wishes someone had saved him. That someone had told him that none of this was his fault.

They told him all his cages were mental, but they were also physical; he feels like a bird with clipped wings, torn and frayed at the edges. He’s thinking he’ll never know peace for as long as he runs from it; until the novelty of unpredictability cradles him with both arms, gentle and soft. It is ironic, feeling comfort in the unfamiliar chaos. But he supposes that's to be expected when there was never a familiar to begin with. This disorder he’s caused revolves all around; a revolving door with people streaming in and out, in and out, in and—

He’s been dragged, pinioned, tied up, and still he is here; nonetheless suffering, restrained by the chains. His wings still grow and the people will continue to clip them off as a means of control. He’s rolled over supine on the cold hard floor decorated parquet with oblique patterns, he is mottled with scars and blood stains from beatings and bruises Papa has given him; not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. He is afraid these scars are here to stay, no matter how much he scrubs them with soap and sanitises these sins, they will not fade. Perhaps he is no more than the scars on the surface. The walls of these confines are rickety; exposed plumbing, soundproof walls but still failing to block out the mutters of people, outsiders, who do not know, or understand, or care. They look at him like a test subject, like he is non human; a thousand heavy eyes on him, dehumanising and critical. The thorn in his jugular. The floor's mosaic pattern looks almost familiar at this close of a range. He thinks he is starting to hallucinate. Closes his eyes and stares up—the lights blind and cloud his vision, take away everything, and even in this alcove of darkness it pierces through and gets to him. His fingers still tremble and he reaches docilely for the door handle, nimbly turning the doorknob and breaking free, but Papa is always watching and so he is locked up again.

Max thinks he has been spinning out of what to say or what to do. He thinks, he has been plagued by the thought of giving up lately, thinks he’s going to fall, free fall to his demise, and then just as abruptly as he’d been gripped, possessed by this gnawing fear, it leaves him—

—and he finds himself back here again. Again, and again, and again, and again.

He still learns his lessons, though.

The first rule of life: rules are meant to be broken. Rules are meant to be bent and manipulated, if you do not even attempt to exploit them, you are not a true racing driver. Or something along those lines. Like Icarus; you can only fly if you are brave enough to fall—and you can only fall if you have once flown. To fall in the first place, you must have once flown. To fly, you must first be ready to fall and never rise again.

Max thinks he is good at that, breaking things. He breaks a lot of things: his bones, his mom’s heart, his sanity, even his family. That one he can’t fix. His dad, in return, breaks him. Breaks his resolve, too. Breaks Max’s helmet and hits his head so hard he thinks his skull probably has a fracture somewhere in it. He wouldn’t mind that, though. At least he’d be dead, as opposed to whatever the fuck his dad put him through. He thinks, being caged in his own body and his own thoughts— as much as he does ruminate on the thought, he does not like it. It is weird to be stuck in one’s own head.

He feels like he’s descending into freefall whenever he’s in a kart. It is anxiety inducing, acceptance, and denial all in one go. It is weird, it is weird, because his kart is practically his second bed, his second home. Isn’t home supposed to feel better than this? Then again, he never really had a together-home. Or a family, for that matter. Maybe this is normal. He’s somewhat grown up, but he still feels like that 4 year old child crying his eyes out sometimes. Maybe he’ll never grow out of that phase. If eyes are windows to the soul, then Max’s windows are shattered, in pieces, left in shards. There is nothing he can do about this. 

(Son, you're barely a human being, but you’ve got to face it: This is your fate. I know this is hard news for somebody like you, even if you’re standing tall at almost one hundred and sixty centimetres; what a freak you are; a body filled with a mix of pituitary glands and muscles and hormones and everything racing. Son, you’re ten, and of course this is heavy news for one like you, even if you’re so far off the standard deviation. Son, you're a mere body, son. You’re a vessel for the perfect racer: you were manufactured for this exact purpose. You’re an absolute freak of nature. That karting-prodigy label that Papa and Mama are so goddamn proud of and won't quit yapping about to family and friends and the rest of the world: God, it's just neural links, it’s just reaction time. You are simply faster than the rest. The only thoughts swimming in that mind of yours is the sound of an engine revving, the sound of a kart speeding; pressing wheels against tarmac; the friction and the sparks. And in the end, you are meant to be. Hold up that trophy, for you have earned it.

You are fate. Commit this to memory, remember it all the way down to the bone marrow; until it’s imprinted in your brain: a permanent stamp that’s here to stay until the end of time, until the world comes crashing down, imploding inwards. You are fate. Brace yourself, prepare to accept the very-possibly-devastating news, that at the tender age of seven: you're a machine, a vessel, an object, you’re something inhuman. Manufactured in a lab. Stars will align for you.

Eyes open, you.)

Being a racer has robbed him of his childhood. He’s gained every instinct to drive, to shove aggressively and get his way, to be ruthless, but he’s lost the natural ability to sit and relax and just breathe. No one ever taught him how to breathe, it’s just something expected of him. He’s never gotten it. His knowledge doesn’t come naturally. Instead, they are learnt, taught by the teacher that is Papa, taught him all the ways he could punish himself for being a sinner; and in this he dips his fingers into open wounds and rips the flesh out, sinks his teeth into it, and he will enjoy it.

(It's sink or swim, kid. Sink or swim.)

When Max is told to do something by Papa, he goes. This one is no different. There’s nothing beautiful about his bloodlust; hands stained maw red with greed; doomed to eternal hell. Maybe this is his punishment. It's a strange thing, possessing the capacity to feel, but not the ability to express. All this pent up raw emotion in him with nowhere to go. Max thinks he is more creature than boy these days. This precedes the denial; denial of the fact that he cannot just be a creãtus, built, manufactured, conditioned, bred to be a mere vessel of others’ desires. 

Max feels stifled sometimes. He can try to object, resist, but he remembers how powerless he is—how powerless his words are: forced to follow whatever the pen, his mouth carves them to say. He knows Papa will never listen. Max is, after all, the one that has to be subservient to Papa at all times. With deep reverence Max bows his head, obeys Papa’s every order like the little kid he is—in a desperate attempt to earn Papa’s love: perhaps if he is just good enough, wins enough races, earn enough trophies and medals, set fast enough laps, then Papa will finally envelop Max with his love.

It’s never happened. Even when Max has a perfect weekend, the most he’s ever gotten was a ‘Keep it up’, and Max had hugged him so hard in response and had refused to let go, plastered himself against Papa. If this is the one chance he gets to finally get Papa’s love, he’ll grab it with both hands and never let go.

Enter scene into the next sliver of his life: Hands tremble a little as his fingers grip the steering wheel, climbs into the kart and makes his home there. Sweaty gloved hands wrap around rubber, heart pounding and mind racing. You made your bed, now lie in it. Max wouldn't be lying if he said he minded. Remember to steer, meet the apex of a turn, the point you meet the inside of the track, and—

Hit the brakes. Close the blinds. Return back to reality.

✧

unripe fruit hangs in the hedge /

sweet chestnuts are still green /

summer dawns too bright for me

/ i do not want to stir / before the

farmer reaps his crop / and brings

his harvest home

They find themselves at a bench some few hours later. The peace is always calming on his nerves, Max thinks. Being alone. Solitude gives him a sense of comfort that's never been quite achievable in his home. (On that: the house that Max resides in is really just four walls that he calls ‘home’, caged in like a prisoner. Feet drag across the cold, hard, eggshelled floor, and he’s left wondering if he will ever know peace in this life. His heartrate’s always a little above average, if not a lot higher. Nerve endings always get more sensitive when he sets foot through the door.)

“You can just call me Seb, by the way,” Sebastian  says, breaking the silence. Max looks up from his half eaten sandwich that’s barely been touched because he has mixed feelings about eating, given the circumstances, and blinks, surprised. 

“Really?” He manages to mouth while chewing on a bite of sandwich. Sebastian nods. Max genuinely seems appreciative of that fact, and he beams. It’s a nice smile, Sebastian thinks. Suits him. He thinks Max makes him feel maternal—he's very much grown a little, just a little protective over Max in the past few hours. He’s gotten to know the little guy for about a couple of hours now, but if anyone took Max away from him, he might actually kill them and then himself. He smiles at Sebastian, all happy and giddy with excitement when talking about racing. The passion is clear, there’s a sort of fire in his eyes that says so. Even so, he can’t help but worry for Max.

Sebastian glances over at him, it’s a fond gaze, and wonders how long this can last—because there is a time limit to this, isn’t there? How long does he have left until Max has to be pried from the warm embrace of Sebastian’s care, only to be thrown back to the wolves of his own family? How long until Sebastian gets another chance to meet Max again? How long until Sebastian knows that Max is safe? Sebastian thinks, if kidnapping was legal around these parts, that Max would already be in safer hands; his own. Unfortunately, that is far too quixotic, but a man can dream. The thing is that Sebastian instinctively feels this maternal instinct to protect Max, even though that is far out of the realm of possibilities right now—

He just wants to make sure Max is safe, really.

✧

“One day,” Max says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “when I get to Formula One, I will be just like you.” 

Sebastian chuckles. “Of course you will.”

The ribs exist as a defence line for the heart. Max settles into Sebastian’s ribcage and makes his home between the fragile bones. It is safe there. It is safe, although it is never meant to be. Sebastian doesn’t mind it, though. He’s glad that he can take Max under his wing. 

There’s a small part of him that so desperately wants to keep Max for himself, that wants to hug him and tell him that it’s alright and that none of this is his fault. But alas. It is not meant to be, yet.

The brief aftertaste of sandwich lingers in Sebastian’s mouth. 

✧

But first, take a look at this from another perspective, a different point of view:

Max does not know what he’s doing, in all honesty. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with a Formula One driver in the middle of nowhere. How has every decision he’s made led to this of all things? This is the weirdest day of Max’s life. And that’s saying a lot, ‘cause he’s had many weird days before. It’s not like it’s a bad thing, though, because he finds that he’s actually enjoying himself. He feels happy.

A smile tugs at his lips. Which is rare these days. It is a weird feeling, enjoying but not feeling deserving of said enjoyment. There’s a chronic pit of emptiness within him, a void, and he finds that no matter how deep he reaches into the pits of his soul, there’s nothing to be found. Some days he feels more machine than man. Feels like he’s too strange for this world; like he doesn’t know what it’s like to be a human being. 

(I have never been comfortable describing myself as human: such an animalistic label, and I, for one, am not an animal. I am made out of wires and the flesh that binds. Claws instead of fingernails, an empty hole taking its place where the heart should be.) 

He finds himself very happy with Sebastian, though. He’s nice to him, which is a pleasant change of pace from his home life. At least there’s someone that will be kind to him for once. (However, it’s always important to remember to err on the side of caution. Do not be quick to trust. That is how he gets hurt.) He’s been cautiously eyeing everywhere he and Sebastian go, trying to gauge whether he’s being genuine about where they're going and what they're doing. To his utmost relief, Sebastian actually keeps his word. Max can let out the tension in his muscles that he’s been holding in for a while.

They end up driving to a hotel— some random average hotel, but it looks hospitable enough for two people. He’ll take whatever he’s got either way. Max settles in well enough, but he still feels tense; he knows this is only temporary. They wind up eating a very late dinner in the hotel room. Sebastian orders some takeout—of course, it’s pasta, because they’re in Italy—and Max sits cross-legged on the chair. Across from him sits Sebastian. He shoves a mouthful of pasta in his mouth, swallows it. They’ve been eating in silence for the most part, but it’s fine, because he kind of likes the calm. 

They talk about how Formula One’s been treating Sebastian lately—because, well, to put it lightly: it hasn’t exactly been going the way he would’ve wanted—and at some point Sebastian just starts ranting about the car and how it’s just not going well for him this season. He’s getting into the nitty gritty details of the whole ordeal when Max perks up and asks, “Is your car actually legal?” Sebastian blinks. Says “Yes,” (because he’s fairly certain the RB8 is legal), followed by a really really long rant about what trouble he’s having this year. Max kind of just has those stars in his eyes like he’s mesmerised by whatever Sebastian had just told him. He nods his head, listening intently. They’re having fun. It’s really nice talking to Sebatsian, actually. 

“So,” Seb decides to ask—poke the bear a little, “Why were you—” He’s trying to find a way to put this tactfully.

“Why were you all alone out there? Seems a bit dangerous, no?”

Max thinks for a bit. “My father, of course, was a bit angry with me.”  Yeah, man, just a bit. Glad he didn’t overreact.

“I think it is reasonable. I understand why,” Max continues, “Because I had started on pole, and then in turn one, I made a mistake and lost four positions. Had I not done so badly going into turn one, then probably I would have won, and Papa would not be so mad.” Max’s tone is scarily measured as he’s explaining this. It’s actually starting to become more concerning than Sebastian first thought. “I, of course, needed to win the race, which is why I got desperate. Papa always tells me not to let emotions cloud my judgement, but I did not listen, so I crashed out. I think, if I had won, then probably everything would have been fine. But I did mess up; so I, of course, need to learn my lesson.”

(He’s going to choose to ignore the choice of the amount of times the word need was said in that statement. He’s also going to ignore the very concerning implications of what Max has just said—if this abandonment is just a light punishment, then what is a harsh punishment?)

Is this something he normally does? Sebastian is thinking, but chooses not to ask. 

“So does this usually happen on days you do not do well?” He knows it’s a stupid question to ask, and the answer’s probably really obvious, but he needs to ascertain this, get that final verification.

“It depends.” 

Does he even want to ask? Fuck it.

“What do you mean by that?” Sebastian just can’t let sleeping dogs lie, can he? 

Max shrugs. “I think it is not that harsh of a punishment."

“I have had worse punishments.” Yeah, he could figure that one out pretty easily. One, because Max was about to wait in that gas station for god-knows-how-many hours. Two, the way he’s treating the entire situation so casually, as if it is not very clearly abuse (well, not that he’d expect a teenager to know the ins and outs of parental abuse and whatever comes along with that). And three, because, yep, that fact seems absolutely plausible; entirely possible, completely believable when it comes to someone like Max. What he’s trying to say is that if Max told him his Dad hit him on the daily, he would not even be surprised in the slightest. Of course, that does not mean that he is not concerned. He is, in fact, extremely worried for Max’s safety; what will happen when he eventually returns to his home—because he has to go back, because (unfortunately) Max is not his, after all—will he be okay? Will he come out unscathed? Or will he come out of that place he calls home as if he’s just exited a burning building, clothes burnt, charred and frayed at the ends and holes; and the synthetic fibres stuck to his fingers, clinging on as he attempts to scrub them off—sticky, filthy, disgusting, so ugly, he’s sure—like some sort of scar that embeds itself into his skin and leaves its mark on him forever?

But that is not the point he’s trying to make right now. The main concern right now is to help Max. So he gives a few tips about Max’s kart setup and where he can improve, offers to fix it if needed. Max surprisingly agrees, which; admittedly, Sebastian did not expect. They chat some more in the hotel room. Max finds himself having fun, feeling genuine joy; and oh, it’s been so long since he’s experienced that emotion—that bubble of happiness, that tranquility and contentment, that feeling that you know wouldn’t ever trade this for the world; that you wouldn’t ever trade tomorrow for what has just happened today—that he doesn’t remember what it feels like.

He hopes this isn’t just some dream, some faux utopian fantasy, and that it’s actually real.

✧

my sloppy red heart, heart, heart,

/ this raging bull is wounded.

Heart. The heart is an organ—the most important organ, most people would say. Max thinks his heart is a thing with a perforated surface. It's a heart, all right, by its barest definition—it looks like one and functions like one—but it doesn't feel like one. It never has. He’s often felt more animal than man. Or anything non-human, really. He supposes that everyone’s all mammals just the same, but if they round everyone up, culling everyone one-by-one, he supposes he wouldn't dread it all too much. There's no light at the end of the tunnel. No grave can anchor this body to the ground, he thinks. Nothing can keep his soul trapped in this cage that's the only thing keeping him from escaping, reaching heaven (or hell). He will bite on these metal bars like a feral animal, like some sort of wild beast needed to be tamed.

Max remembers the first time he had fucked up and Papa had taught him the taste of blood. It tasted like iron mixed with salt. He had cried out, for it hurt deeply. The second time around, he had been smarter. He had fled from the house, ran away until someone inevitably brought him home. Running away, at that moment felt safe, because anywhere but that house would be good enough for him. It took Papa a while to find him but when he did, he had cornered him like some monster, some beast in some dark alcove of a stairwell. The pain he’d caused that day left scars that continue to taunt him to this day. But time had interceded. Dulled his wrath. He’d gotten used to this routine by now. The thing is that he didn't stumble upon this wreckage one day. He was born in the wreckage, grew up in it; molded him into a brand new entity; one he barely recognises. He looks in the mirror and the reflection stares back, but that reflection is not him.

(Have you ever thought about death? 

Max would say he has—he’s long pondered over the thought. A devastating finality, an end to this thing people call life, the last thread tethering you to this plane of existence snapping, cut off.)

Here’s the thing: Max has never gotten the fear of death.

When Mama speaks of death, she speaks of it as if it's some grandiose, devastating thing: something to fear, something bad. And he supposes to an extent, it is terrifying—the thought of one day simply not being, not existing. A crushing impact to the ground, teeth shattered and bones broken, gore and guts  alive. It's certainly a spectacle. Lay your eyes on this scene and feast on it, baby. But his fingertips keep dripping with urgency and he can't control them until something stops him— a force far beyond control, something divine, something god-like: perhaps, if there is a god out there, they are watching over him. 

A crash, something that stops him. 

When Papa speaks of failure, it is with the same condemnation and fear as when Mama speaks of death. This, Max gets.

Failure is something Max simply cannot take. It is funny, actually, fearing failure more than death. Usually people do it the other way around, but not him— he has always been different, hasn’t he? But he gets it anyway: the fear of failing, of disappointing his parents, of letting himself down, too. Let everyone that's walked into his life down. 

Suicide is like staring right into the jaws of a hungry, starving animal. It's like staring a gift horse in the mouth. It's like taking one final look at yourself in the mirror and still choosing to tie the noose and kick the chair. It's like driving that stake right through your heart. But is it really that big of a deal? If he could just get rid of that mental block; some sort of occlusion in his brain—a survival mechanism of sorts—something stopping his suicidal instincts from taking over; he’s thinking he could maybe even succeed in an attempt.

He’s thinking about trying, just trying to die once. 

✧

He’s sure you’ll be happy to know that it, in fact, didn’t work.

When Max opens his eyes yet again, he’s greeted by the realisation that he is, sadly, still alive. It’s a dreadful one. 

They didn't teach him this in his childhood; he’s thinking he’ll never really learn how to deal with this; that the notion of such a thing called ‘love’ is inconceivable; a dying ray of sun on his lips, and he is desperately hoping that there’s someone out there to save him. Instead, Mama’s hands are shaking when she prepares to lay him in the grave. But he awakens, and people act like it’s a blessing that he’s alive—

The thing, really, is that waking up was the single worst thing that could have happened to Max. Still, life continues. Time waits for no grief, no pain to stop hurting. He doesn't even know what to feel when Papa scolds him. He wants to feel something— but no matter how deep he reaches into the bottomless cavern of his heart; he finds nothing but emptiness: a hollow being. Even as Papa hits him and throws insults like ‘useless’ and ‘coward’, Max cannot find it in himself to react. Acquiescing is better than fighting back, because he knows he can never win when it comes to Papa. Max learns, at the tender age of 7, that anything is better than having to face Papa’s wrath.

He’s learnt his lessons.

✧

Sebastian is utterly bereft when he has to bid Max goodbye.

He reaches his hand out, goes to pat Max’s shoulder; and he can see Max still, almost flinching, but he doesn’t protest. Progress. 

He doesn’t get to see much before Max is dragged into his house, but he notices one thing: the iron grip Papa had on his arm. That looked like it hurt. The front door closes with a devastating finality, with Max’s shadow retreating into the cages of the jail he calls home. The quiet sound of the door shutting and locking is deafening to his ears, and he thinks the silence that follows after might actually haunt him for the rest of his life. Sebastian swears he can hear faint sounds of scolding coming from indoors. He prays that it’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

He tries to ignore it. And fails spectacularly. 

He sees, as if through the keyhole of the door he can’t open— some sort of image (a hallucination, perhaps?), a vivid apparition, of Max, and accompanying that: his father accosting him yet again—he’d rather not get into the nitty gritty of that—and winces. That keyhole’s going to haunt him for a while. He shakes his head and pushes the thought down.

It’s only then when it dawns on him from where he remembers where he’s heard of the name Verstappen from before—having heard of him from various Kimi stories—he didn't make a good first impression then, and it surely didn't help that he left his child at a gas station. The realisation hits like a truck, and he’s left standing there, left to grapple with the growingly disturbing reality of what he’s gotten himself into. What the fuck, he’s thinking. This is so fucked up on so many levels. But he can really only hope that Max is okay, regardless of what’s happened, regardless of what may or may not happen in the future. 

He can only hope.

i broke my seal to find you / and light came out

tonight. / i held it in my mouth like a phoneme

/ and sang with my eyes tonight. / i felt the hot

white cinder of your crest, / your blazon on my

skin tonight. / enlist me, burn and brand me –

i am all locked noun tonight.

A STRAIN OF THE EARTH’S SWEET BEING

The second time it happens, Sebastian is passing through Sarno when he attends a karting competition. He does not think much of it at first, because it is, after all, just to kill time while he waits for race day to arrive. But then, there’s a crash, and he naturally glances in that general direction to get a sense of what is happening— 

Is that Max? 

He does a double take, confirms that it is, in fact, him. It’s Max Verstappen in the flesh, getting out of his pretty-badly-damaged kart. His heart immediately drops, plummets down to his guts. He stomachs the pit of dread that just bloomed in him upon seeing that. Unease and nausea comes for him next. 

The latter does not notice him, however, so Seb decides it’s better to keep his distance, observe from afar, just for now. It’s a strange feeling, standing at the sidelines and not being able to do anything because this one is so desperately out of his control; and Max is currently getting lectured by Jos, quiet and acquiescing to the scolding without so much as a complaint— mostly because if he did complain, the consequences would probably be far more severe. And there’s nothing Seb can do except watch. He can vaguely make out bits of the conversation they’re having, though. He can tell by the look on Max’s face that it’s not a pretty one.

And then Jos hits Max’s helmet, and what the actual fuck. Why is no one doing anything? More importantly, why isn’t he doing anything? He finds himself frozen in place, too stunned to speak; because how can someone just hit their child in public? Over a crash? Seems like a gross overreaction. The anger translates into rage, transforms into a brand new thing. It courses through his veins, apoplectic, ripping his ribs out one by one with its brutal jaws, maw red with greed. What the hell, he’s thinking. If this happened in a slightly-less-public location, Jos would be dead by now. He swears by that. Jos will pay, even if it's the last thing Sebastian does.

But, well, he has a reputation to maintain; so maybe hold back for now.

(Do not do it. Do not give into temptation. You’re going to regret it otherwise.)

Sebastian bites his tongue. 

✧

A change in perspective might be nice. Enter scene:

I am standing in the middle of a track when I should be in a ditch instead. Chaos surrounds me. This disorder I’ve caused revolves all around. I’ve crashed and my kart is all fucked up. There’s no fire, but I feel, in this moment, that my insides have been charred by the flame that just ignited in my heart. Charred black, burnt to a crisp. I’m burning, of course I am one flammable being—as all humans are, of course—burning by the hair, frayed ends and such. My organs have been grasped by fiery hands and taken somewhere to be incinerated by the flames. My limbs are controlled by invisible strings and they seem to tug me along. Inertia tries to resist, but to no avail. I have no idea what I am doing in this moment. I am standing in a track when I am dragged off by you– Papa— who grabbed me by the arm and pulled me off to the side. By now I am used to this. I try to get it over and done with, but it appears you are not done with me this time around.

I am standing in the middle of a track when I beg to be in a ditch instead. I wish to be anywhere but here. It’s no pleasure to burn, or be burnt. I beg, hands cusped together in desperate and silent prayer, to whatever god out there that exists: be kind to me. Be kind to me. Please be kind to me. Please. Please. Please. I was burning, when you came to me, blaming me for the smell of ashes. But these were of no fault of my own; but no amount of explanation from my end can let you know that fact. Why can’t you—Papa—see that? I plead, I beg of you. Have some mercy. 

I am fifteen when my heart finally turns black from all the hurt and damage that has occured. I am fifteen when I first find out the all the scars on my surface—at first glance, pristine skin—will not go away. I am fifteen when I first wish on every dying star out there, that I could turn back time and maybe, just maybe, lead a more conventionally normal life.

I am fifteen when I lose sight of the light at the end of the tunnel.

(I am left alone on that track, the sole winner in an empty battlefield. The champion. A battlefield only accompanied by the ghosts of which I killed.)

✧

Max is drowning five minutes into oblivion when he’s snapped out of whatever thoughts he's having by the sound of Sebastian’s footsteps. He doesn’t know how Seb found him, considering that they’re somewhere in the dark alcove of an alleyway. He’s hidden here, because, well, Papa. It’s a strange feeling, being so scared and yet so at peace. He blinks. Rubs his eyes, glances up to meet Sebastian’s.

“Hey.” Sebastian greets, and there’s a cautionary edge to it. Tense silence hangs in the air. Max averts his gaze, looks at the ground instead.

“What happened?” He asks.

There’s no response. Max doesn’t even realise he’s been crying until Sebastian wipes his tear stained cheeks with a piece of tissue paper. He also doesn't know if his dad is coming back to get him, if he's even here anymore. He doesn’t know what to feel, actually. Sebastian settles down beside him, sits in the silence with him. Max is still visibly in no mood to talk, so Sebastian scribbles something down in that notebook of his that he always carries around, places it in front of Max. You can write something in this notebook if you can’t talk right now, it reads. And, oh my god, Max is grateful, so incredibly grateful that Sebastian is here.

He writes something with the pen given to him; passes the book back to Sebastian. The latter notices that Max’s writing is a little incoherent—which makes sense, well, under the current circumstances—but it’s still barely legible, so. Sebastian glances over. It reads I crashed, with some semblance of an elaboration below. His eyes move from the paper to Max, scans his still tear stained face.

Do you want to talk about it? Sebastian writes; and Max says (writes) an Okay, and so he follows up with a series of yes-or-no questions. They’re sitting on the cold hard concrete floor of an alleyway, surrounded by some variation of equipment and chairs and whatnot. Yes, he deserves it. Yes, it was his fault.  There’s some more explanation written below. I lost control of the kart. Well, yeah, he figured about as much. 

Then Sebastian decides to ask; Where is your father? And Max genuinely cannot find it in him, cannot find the words to tell Sebastian that he doesn’t know, that Papa is probably driving home without him again, that he doesn’t know how he’s going to get home now. So he goes quiet—like, scarily so. Doesn’t scribble anything on the notebook, just curls up with his knees pressed against his chest and stares at the wall morosely; and in that same vein, Max is hesitant to share details about the matter. His gaze diverts, his eyes avoid meeting Sebastian’s ones. Rather, he’s chosen to stare down at the floor, in a way that even from where Sebastian is perched, he can tell how reticent Max is being.

He doesn’t really know how to go about this issue, actually. He doesn’t want to be too pushy, but he needs to know at least some details so he can figure out how to help Max. So he waits. As long as it takes for Max to open up and divulge the slightest sliver of information. It, surprisingly, does not take that long (well, according to Max-standards), which is like, twenty-ish minutes. 

“I, er, do not know.” Max starts. Baby steps. At least he’s gotten a reply. It’s progress. “Sorry.”

“I, of course, have to walk home now.” he says, nonplussed, and Sebastian gives him a deadpan look. There’s no possible way he’s going to let Max walk home alone, at night, with nothing but his helmet and suit. This is so wrong. 

“I will drive you back,” Sebastian offers, and Max stares at him in slight disbelief.

“No.” Max immediately refuses. “It is okay. You do not have to waste your time. After all, I am sure you have a race to prepare for soon. I do not want to be a bother.” 

No, Sebastian thinks. No, you are not a bother. He is, in fact, more than happy to help Max. 

“I insist.” He says, and there’s not really much else for Max to do, so he might as well accept. 

“Fine.” Max eventually acquiesces. Sebastian helps Max load his kart into the trunk of his car, tells him to get in the passenger seat. He figures Sebastian will probably attempt to make conversation on the way home.

(He feels guilty. Guilty for making Sebastian do this for him. Wasting his time when he could be doing much more useful things with his time right now. Instead, he’s got to drive Max home.)

Sebastian notices the glum look in Max’s eyes; the way his arms droop. Don’t send me back home, his eyes seem to plead. Please. He’s standing an awkward distance away from Sebastian, like he’s ready to run away at any moment. I don’t want to go home, he’s thinking, but cannot find the words to just spit it out. His vision unfocuses for a good three minutes before he’s snapped out of whatever thoughts he’s having by the sound of Sebastian calling for him.

“Max.”

He glances up.

“C’mon, get in the car.” Sebastian gestures at the door, slides it open for him.

It’s then when it hits Max that; Oh, he’s actually being genuine about it; and a warm feeling suffuses his heart. See, that’s the thing, Sebastian is there, and so Max might actually be okay this time. He still doesn’t want to go home, though—the mere thought of returning there fills him with dread. Reluctantly, he drags his feet across the concrete floor, pulls his body into the passenger seat. Max softly chokes on a sob, tries to subdue it so no one else can hear—not that there’s anyone else other than Sebastian, anyway.

Oh my god, he’s thinking. Is this real? What if it is all just a dream?

(It’s real. It’s real. It’s real.)

It’s real.

✧

But let’s rewind the tape a little:

Sebastian’s walking through every possible place he can think of, hoping to find Max and make sure he’s at least okay and still alive. His eyes dart across every nook and cranny in hopes that he is somewhere, anywhere. And then his eyes fall on Max; notices Max, feet curled up to his chest, body racking with quiet sobs. Seb’s heart breaks a little at the sight of that—Max, crying his eyes out. Max, who wholeheartedly does not deserve this. Max, who should be on his way home right now—anywhere but here, really—but he’s here instead.

Now, theoretically, if he took Max, would that be too crazy? There is no one else here right now. It is literally completely desolate. He’s glancing around, thinking; do the ends justify the means? Well, that’s a stupid question— they usually do, but in this case he doesn't think he can just kidnap Max so casually. So unfortunately, this will have to do for now.

Sebastian’s decided to take Max on another trip home again. Well this time, it’s just driving him home; because he probably can’t book another hotel again. He glances at Max, notices the way his entire body language screams dejected—he guesses it’s just from the crash today, and more importantly his Papa (which he absolutely hates, and is on his Kill-On-Sight list, by the way), but he figures he might as well ask about it.

“So, what happened with your father?”

“What do you think?” Max snaps—quite the understatement, actually, and there’s the angsty-teenager-side everyone had at one point. And then, in a moment, he’s suddenly back to that glum looking self and says, “I’m sorry.” with such desperation, it’s kind of terrifying. “I’m sorry,” He’s repeating, “I do not know why I am like this. I, of course, am just angry at myself for crashing out again. It was completely avoidable.” 

Sebastian remains quiet, gives Max some space. He decides he’s not going to tell him he saw what happened with his father, because, well, that doesn’t seem like a very wise decision to make right now.

Alright. This is going to be a sensitive question, but he’s going to say it anyway. 

“Do you want to go home?” Sebastian asks. The car is immediately plunged into a saturated awkward silence and Max freezes up so fast it terrifies him. 

There’s no reply. Shit.

✧

Mind racing. Heart racing. In sync. Out of sync.

His thoughts are becoming increasingly more incoherent and jumbled. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His skin puckers and the goosebumps crawl up his every surface. The world’s becoming increasingly distorted and starting to not make sense. Not that it ever did. The lights from the sun above and the fluorescent lighting in the car are attacking his every sense and he finds himself blinded by them. It’s painfully lurid. He’s feeling more and more lightheaded by the second. There’s a tingling sensation in his fingers. It’s like someone dunked him into a pit of water and grabbed him by the hair and thrusted him out of it just as quickly as he’d been put in. The cold air on skin breaks the immersion.

Max can only hear the heavy sound of his heart pounding in his chest, the ringing sounds in his ears become more and more nagging over the next few seconds. He tries catching a breath. Fails to. He can’t fucking breathe. It’s like there’s some occlusion in his windpipe, depriving him of oxygen. Max is thinking he’s going to die. He’s going to fucking die right now. His lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen. His heartbeat races, accelerated like it’s hit full throttle and he feels like he’s going to faint at any minute now. Eyelids droop and flutter open and close and open and close and open and close again. His breaths come out short, shallow—he’s fucking hyperventilating, for fucks sake. He can vaguely, very faintly, make out the sound of Sebastian calling (yelling?) his name in some frantic strangled noise, and it’s making him sweat a little. 

“Max— are you okay?” He can’t hear the sounds drowned out by whatever static is playing in his head right now. He doesn’t respond, chest only growing tighter. The visceral urge to throw up is increasingly real to him. He shakes his head. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Max. It’ll be okay,” Sebastian is saying. He’s taking Max’s hand into his. “Breathe with me, okay?”

For some reason, Sebastian’s voice is really grounding, helps Max return back to reality. (Thank god. Or should he say, Thank Seb.) It’s like descending slowly, back into the real world. Slowly but surely his heart rate decreases back to normal. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

His heartbeat slows down. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s back to reality again.

✧

A thought.

Do soldiers cry because of trauma? That is a stupid question. Of course they cry. I so often feel like I am a soldier too; words the shape of bullets fly across my head everyday and I am caught in the cross fire; such is life, such is war.

I am stranded on a battlefield—well, they call it a race track, but battlefield nonetheless—and I should be in a grave instead. Competitors are enemies that lurk the earth and I must kill them all before they kill me. Like a soldier I have to kill everyone in my sight or else I'll be the one getting killed. One shot, another, another. My mind fractures under the weight of all the bullets that has pierced through it.

I am stranded on a battlefield when I wish to be in a grave instead.

When I hear about soldiers, and their guns, and their terror, I feel like one amongst them; except I lack a gun or a uniform or a place to return to that isn't war. The place to return to—a ‘home’, as they call it— has been claimed as the battlefield.

There are two monsters. Give me a gun, someone, and I will shoot them dead so they cannot hurt anyone else. I will shoot then once through the head and watch as their bodies crumple under their own weight, blood flooding the corridors. I will shoot them once and watch them fall and then stand over their bodies and keep shooting them till they are riddled with holes and I will still keep shooting them. The monsters are what the others say are my 'parents'. I keep forgetting that. Is that a word for someone who will kill you? Is that a synonym for 'enemy'?

I am stranded on a battlefield when I beg to be in a grave instead.

One of the monsters (Oh, right, 'Papa’) keeps terrorising me. They grab my hand and use it as a weapon against themselves. I feel my knuckles connect with a skull, over and over and over, the rhythm almost calming. For 5 days after, my wrist will be sore and I won't be able to write, but at least I've killed the monster? (That monster is my 'papa'. A part of me believes I killed him from all the pain I caused him when I was 8. It must be a ghost haunting me, then.) Outside, there are endless swarms of monsters. They must all be monsters, because they have eyes that look the same as the two monsters on the battlefield at home. If only I was a soldier; maybe I'll be big and strong and have a gun to shoot their heads right off their necks, make a river of blood and I will bathe in it. I laugh as I cry. Have I killed them yet? Have I killed them yet? Tell me I've killed them.

I am stranded on a battlefield when I beg to be in a grave instead. They always say that the war will be over after this battle. They always say. Then tomorrow comes and the war starts again. There is no point in signing an armistice; it will be burned and no one can do anything about it. Surely they must be the enemy. Everyone must be the enemy. It is selfish that I have to fight for my life everyday and they get to sleep in peace. They must be the enemy. They must. The whole world is a battlefield and if not on my side, they can only be the enemy, and the enemy must die.

Is it odd that I feel like a soldier more than a child who is— I forgot— how old again? What even is a child? A vessel of pure innocence that has yet to be spoilt by the horrors of the world? The spawn of more monsters; another enemy I must kill?

I am stranded on a battlefield— where is the graveyard; I will bury myself.

Only in hell can a war go on so endlessly; I open my eyes; this is not hell; right. I am a gladiator in the pits; your entertainment; your plaything; a circus animal. I feel like a soldier stranded on the battlefield, and the only escape is death, not life. I feel like I am already dead. I am already dead. Please, just put a bullet through my head to make it true.

I am stranded on a battlefield when I have one foot in the grave.

But alas, that is just a thought.

✧

A return back from space is never fun.

Of course, one’s body must take some time to get used to Earth’s gravity again—especially for such an astriferous body like Max’s. Well, at least he’s back to reality now. Sebastian’s pulled over to the side of the road, takes the time to check up on him. He’s assuming, based on Max’s reaction to his question about going home, that he’s not in the mood for that. 

So, hotel again, it is. How does this keep happening?

He turns to Max. “We’re going to stay in a hotel again, if that’s okay with you?”

Max nods. Can’t give a clear answer; well, because of the state he’s in. He knows that Papa won’t care when he gets home, how he gets home; or if he gets home. Sebastian’s driving off to god-knows-what hotel again. Max is thinking that he’s so fucking lucky that it’s Sebastian accompanying him, and that its not anyone else on planet earth with him right now. And so this is how Max and Sebastian end up staying in a hotel overnight again. 

On the drive over, the sun is setting—some stretch of time between 4 P.M and 5 P.M—and Max is staring out the window, at the orange-yellow and blue hues outside. He’s bathed in the warm glow of the sun’s rays, soaking it all in. He’s noticeably relaxed more since the pause earlier, which is good. They make more conversation along the ride there.

“So,” Sebastian tries, “Do you want to try calling your mother? See if she can pick you up later?”

Max thinks about it for a moment. Sure, he guesses it wouldn’t hurt to try. “Okay.”

Sebastian passes him the phone. Max dials the number.

“Hallo, Mama,” He’s saying, “Can you pick me up later? Papa left me. Ja, I crashed.” Sebastian can vaguely make out what can only be cursing on the other end of the line, and Max winces. “Het spijt me, Mama.” He hopes Max’s mother isn’t making him feel like an inconvenience right now. One shitty parent is enough, but two is just too much. He can’t make out the rest of their conversation, though.

“Mama says she can only pick me up in three hours.” He says. “So we will have to wait.”

“Okay.” Sebastian replies. So it appears they will still be going to that hotel after all— doesn’t really matter if it’s only being used for a couple hours, or if he’s paying for it from out of his own pocket—it’s worth it for Max. Might as well catch dinner on the way there.

✧

(I’m kneeling on the floor, cupping my palms together in a desperate prayer. If there is any god out there, some deity that exists, can they make my life a little more bearable? I beg of you, if your hand does not wish to spare me, then hit me with an open handed slap; and only the pain will answer the deafening quiet that follows: a distant silence. Just put me to rest. 

I’m thinking death may be the best sleep I get these days. I pine for such respite like how sailors yearn for the sea.)

The constant weight of guilt on his shoulders, as an eternal punishment for defying Papa, he’s been condemned to push this heavy guilt that sits in him like a rock, down, down to the pits of his being, only for it to surface back again and again and again.

(Oh, what an insurmountable task it is! Oh, how endless it is! Or maybe it is only so because I perceive it as such? A false illusion of sorts. Either way, I am forever stuck in position with my hands forcing down this guilt. A futile attempt, trying to tamp down the feeling in vain.)

✧

Max goes for the chair the moment he gets to the room. He’s spent, exhausted from what’s happened earlier. Bordering on passing out. There’s still traces of tense-ity embedded in his skin, though. He can’t seem to relax no matter how much he tries—it’s like some parasite that just won’t go away no matter what. It aches. His heart aches, too. Sebastian’s gone out, told him he’s grabbing dinner for the two of them and to relax until he’s back. Which he thinks is stupid. He could be more productive with that time, right? Like reflecting over what caused his crash and how he can improve.

Right?

And so Max sits there, pensive, head in hands, mulling over ways he could’ve done better. Dragging it out of the dark recesses of his mind. Time flies by and he’s unaware of how long he’s been lost in thought, how many precious seconds have been spent drowning in the sea of seconds, head underwater, until something snaps him out of this trance he’s in, hauls him out, breaking the barrier between time and reality.

(He imagines, there’s a scissor threading through two of his fingers; and he will raise it up to the sky; cutting through the sky in one singular snip. And it will be split into two crude, bleeding halves like the red sea. If there exists a god, tell him, which all divine entity wants him to suffer in this fate?

Max thinks he will die screaming desperately to the sky that will crackle up but pay no heed to his begging, and maybe he will realise with too late dreadfulness that perhaps, this is why people needed a greater, wholly imagined, power to lift them out of their self dug pits.)

The door swings opens. Sebastian is standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” Sebastian greets, and there’s two bags of things in his hands. He puts the dinner on the table, he pulls something out of the other bag, revealing a lion plushie. It is, at first glance, only slightly bigger than the size of his palm. Max stares at it, blinks, addled. He swears he recognises it.

“What is that?” He asks.

“It’s for you,” Sebastian responds. Max’s gaze shifts to him. 

“Oh,” he meekly replies; hesitates, then asks, “Why?”

“You deserve it.” Sebastian explains. “You did a good job.” Max does not believe that at all. Complete and utter bullshit. “I noticed that you were eyeing it the last time around.”

“Oh.” Max blinks. He stands awkwardly. “But you did not have to buy it, and I cannot afford to pay you back as I have no money on me. I am sorry, I think you have to return it now.”

Sebastian chuckles a little at the mere notion. Does Max know about the concept of a gift?

“No, it’s for you. I bought it for you. There is no need to pay me.”

Max blinks. He’s bewildered by that, actually. He’s in disbelief. He’s speechless, but somehow gets out a ‘thank you’ in reply. He’s silent for a moment, before grabbing the plushie. He’s holding it with both hands, feeling the texture. It’s soft and fluffy, he’ll give Sebastian that. It’s oddly comforting. He wonders if Papa will allow him to keep it. But he pushes that thought down, because he can probably hide it and get away with putting it in some corner of his room. If anyone asks, he’ll just say it was a gift from a friend, or something. He’s happy, genuinely. A smile forms on his face—a real smile, one that’s not forced.

Sebastian notices it, and a warm feeling pierces through his heart. It’s funny; he’s won a World Driver’s Championship—and maybe even a second one this year—yet this is what gets to him. He feels like tearing up.

Sebastian has never been happier. 

He sinks his body besides Max who’s sitting on the bed cradling the lion plushie. Watches as he holds the plush toy with stars in his eyes.

“Are you going to name it?” He asks. Admittedly, Max did not consider that. He thinks hard for a moment.

“I think I will name it Seb.”

Sebastian chuckles. “Really?”

“Ja.” 

This is easily the best day of Sebastian’s life. There’s a beat of silence that hangs in the air. And then,—

—just as sudden as the silence was, Max is latching onto Sebastian’s side and hugging him. As stunned as he is, Sebastian blinks, simply hugs him back. He holds him, cradles him with all the love he can give; shielding him from the monsters out there. They stay like that for a while. Max stays plastered to Sebastian’s side, like a sticker that won’t— can’t be simply peeled off. He’s standing in an awkward position. Eh, he’s fine with it anyways. Whatever makes Max happy, he figures.

They eat dinner afterwards, while discussing Max’s race earlier that day—of course, along with some more yapping on both Sebastian and Max’s part. Strangely enough, Max finds that his appetite isn’t as large, all-consuming as he’d thought it’d be. Even though he’s just gotten off a race and he must, ought to feel hungry— there is no hunger in him. Just emptiness. That’s weird.

He picks at the food. Sebastian notices, arches an eyebrow in a questioning manner; as if to ask Do you not want to eat? and Max freezes up. He stabs a fork into the chicken and forces it down his throat, in an attempt to put on an ‘okay’ front. It’s not a nice feeling. It actually makes him want to rip his esophagus out, actually.

(He’s never once considered voicing out what he wants. Every time he got the urge, he’d just push it down and ignore it.)

“Max?”

He glances up.

“Do you want to eat the food? Are you hungry?”

There's silence on the other end. Then, Max mumbles, “I’m not that hungry. Sorry.”

“Okay. You should still eat some food, though. But if you don’t want to eat the rest, that is perfectly fine as well.” And for the most part Sebastian is right. Max knows he is right. But he can’t stomach the feeling of food travelling down his throat right now. He mentally sighs. Pull it together, he thinks. Do it for Seb.  

So Max swallows a couple more mouthfuls of food, before giving up. Sebastian, surprisingly, sticks to his word; tells him he can go rest up first while he finishes cleaning up. He blinks, and clearly he wasn’t expecting that.

Max stands around awkwardly, fidgeting, and frankly feeling a bit displaced; when he realises the very reality that fractures, shatters his being right then and there, tears through his soul: This is the first time he’s felt safe in a while.

(Once you get it once, you’ll never want to let go of it again. Like a drug, once you’re hooked, you’re hauled into its grasp; and you can struggle to escape, fight back, but you’ll be here for a while. Just a side effect of being too greedy. Greed. Though horrible, it is a necessary evil. Without greed there is no want, and without want there is no have. He learns that there's no end to the want. There’s no amount of love that can satiate this greed.)

He’s needed this. 

It also produces a mixed bag of emotions in him: What should he do? What purpose does he serve now? Is he just going to stand around and do nothing while Sebastian takes care of everything? No, he can’t let that happen— he just can’t. This shouldn’t be his problem.

But Max is also so incredibly grateful; grateful for Sebastian’s patience and how he’s willing to help when he needs it. He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks. He doesn’t deserve how good Sebastian’s being to him. He simply doesn’t.

A half hour later, he drives Max to the spot where he’d told his mother to pick him up; and although his body language still screams tense—like he’s scared of something—he’s noticeably relaxed more as compared to the other time around. That’s good. When Max’s mother arrives, the first thing she does is thank Sebastian. She looks like she has tears in her eyes. Or tear stained cheeks, he can’t really tell.

“Hello.” She greets in between breaths. “I am so sorry for not arriving sooner,” She starts. “I was busy with my shift. I just finished and drove over as soon as I could.” Sebastian nods. He can understand that.

“Thank you so much.” She’s saying, frantic. “I cannot possibly repay you for this.” Sebastian wonders if he should tell her this is, in fact, not the first time he’s done something like this; but he holds off on doing that. Some secrets shouldn’t be spilled, he thinks.

“It’s no worry.” He decides on replying instead. “He’s a good kid.” Max’s mother heaves a sigh of relief at that. She looks— a bit dishevelled, but then again, it is 8:30 PM on a random Sunday. Not like a lot of people are well put together. Probably came in a rush, too.

“So what did you two do?” She asks.

“We just waited in a hotel.” Sebastian responds. That seems to make her relax. 

“Max told me his father left him there.” The mere mention of him makes Sebastian’s blood boil, and he attempts to suppress the anger rising in him. 

He swallows. Nods, adds; “He was crying when I found him.” Max’s mother’s heart visibly fucking shatters at that and it’s evident in the gaze in her eyes. She looks rather distraught. And who wouldn’t? Which mother wouldn’t grieve over their child being hurt? It’s only natural. Sebastian feels for her so deeply right now.

She curses in Dutch.  “Of course— I keep telling his father that he cannot just keep doing this, that it is too harsh on him, but he does not listen. His expectations are way too high, even if Max is extremely talented. Failure is bound to happen.” Yep. That figures. Sebastian just nods his head. “And look at Max!” She whisper-yells. It seems like she’s unravelling now. “He was crying. I’ve never seen him cry for a reason that wasn’t related to his father.”

God, this is getting so much more concerning by the minute. Sebastian vaguely recalls how Max mentioned that his parents were divorced— and he thinks; Yeah, that makes sense. He doesn’t really know what to say, though. 

“I managed to calm him down,” Sebastian says, in an attempt to soothe Max’s mother, calm her down too. It seems to work, he thinks.

“Oh, thank you– I cannot thank you enough.” She rakes a hand through her hair, threads the strands through her fingers. “I wish I had been there, then I would have been able to get him home safe and sound earlier.”

“No worries.” He says. He chooses not to respond to the other half. “I wish I had met him under better circumstances, he really is an extremely talented kid.”

“Oh, yes. Max is absolutely talented. That’s why his father always pushes him and is hard on him. I have tried telling him how detrimental it can be, but he won’t listen. I just wish I could be there to protect him more.” (Yeah, Sebastian can relate to that.)

“Again, thank you so much. If there is anything I could possibly do for you—” 

“It’s okay.” Sebastian says. “Really.” A beat of silence hangs in the air.

“I’m Sebastian, by the way. And you are?”

“Sophie.” She shakes his hand. “Thank you so much again. Please feel free to contact me if Max runs into trouble again.”

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Silence follows. Oh wait, Sebastian forgot to tell her something.

“Oh, by the way, I also gave him a lion plush toy. It was a gift for him.” He adds. Sophie nods, waves a hand goodbye. Sebastian watches as Max approaches the car—but from where he’s perched from, it looks more like the entrance of a den than a door—and pats him on the back. He glances at Max. A moment of silence. Then,

“Goodbye, Max.” Sebastian says.

Max replies a second later. “Goodbye.”

And there he goes again. Retreating back into the cage. The car door opens and shuts and the window blinds are drawn shut. The motor whirrs to life and in a flash, they’re off. The crunch of gravel fading into the distance is the only thing that fills the gaps of silence in the air. Sebastian stands there, an empty track— or was it a battlefield? but everyone is gone, maybe dead, and so he should really go home now.

He trudges his way home that night. God, he hopes Max is okay.

i fell from the sky when i shot with my own

arrow / my wings were torn from my back

and stripped to the bone / but flesh is still

flesh when the hungry eyes are desperate

enough / love is quite dead.

 

/ but i will admit / i don’t know a love that

doesn’t destroy.

Surely, the third time’s the charm. It’s got to be.

The third and decidedly not-charmful time it happens, it’s a random Saturday—how does he keep ending up in these situations?—and Max finds himself marooned at a gas station somewhere far away. Again. He thinks he’s gotten used to this routine, by now, but each time it’s just more and more exhausting, it’s wearing him down to the core, to the very bones that make up his skeleton, his being. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to get home, when Papa just kind of drove off without so much as a word.

Well, here's the rundown: He had won that day, actually. Which one would assume was a good result—considering it’s literally the best result possibly achievable—but Papa seemed to think otherwise, because why else would he be here. Curse his luck. He’d said something in passing conversation that had made Papa mad—he doesn’t really remember what—but he’d told him to leave and get out of the van with such conviction it’d scared the shit out of Max (who is still a child (teenager, but child nonetheless), by the way, in this point in time) and he’d hurriedly clambered out of the van in a rush, because, honest-to-god, he did not want to face Papa’s wrath today. It’s betterj to be safe than sorry, or whatever that idiom was.

When Papa had turned into the driveway of the gas station, Max’s heart had immediately sunk because he knew— he knew the implication, he knew what that meant, and what that could have only mean. He’s getting abandoned again. Or is that too dramatic a word, a label to slap onto it? Perhaps it should just be another lesson to be learnt. But what lesson is there to learn here? He’s thinking all the lessons that Papa’s been supposedly teaching him are not as effective as he made them out to be. 

Today had just been one bad event that ended up cascading into a spate of terrible, unfortunate moments that made up the day. His eyes are tired, his muscles weary, and more than anything, he just wants a fucking break for once in his life.

Shame’s been following him around like a ghost for fifteen years now. He’s sick and tired of it, of being critical of himself at every turn, fearing the judgement of Papa. It hangs around and weighs down on him, pushing the energy out of his bones until there’s none left. It’s a crushing weight that he can’t quite put into words.

He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

Nausea’s been stalking him for far too long as of late. It’s relentless in its pursuit, and it’s almost caught up to him. The endless chase isn’t over until the feeling finally, inevitably, gets to him, and he’s keeled over yet again and throwing up. This thing has happened far too many times to count. Max reckons he couldn’t even count the number of times this has happened on two hands. The world held in his vision spins and he wants to reach into his throat all the way down to his stomach and pour whatever the hell is in there out. Preferably without having to burn his throat with acid. Nausea's been chasing him for far too long these days. Inevitable, he supposes. He's not looking forward to the prospect, though. He could do just fine without the sick-to-his-stomach feeling, if he’s being frank.

He attempts to stomach the nausea just for a little while more, pulls out his phone, texts Sebastian a quick message. Might as well bite the bullet. He’s not expecting an answer instantly, considering it’s a Sunday, and Sebastian probably has a race ro get to soon. But it’s worth trying his luck. It’s better than nothing, at least. He didn’t call or text Mama because he hadn’t wanted to burden her. And she’s aware of Sebastian, anyways. So it should be fine, right?

Somewhere deep down in the endless tar pits of his soul, Max still feels like a burden. He hopes he’s not inconveniencing Sebastian. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Please answer, he’s thinking. Sebastian’s kind of his only shot at going home right now. (Because he’s not about to call his mother. She already has enough on her plate without having to worry about him as well.)

He stands and stares at the sun above, a bright blinding ball of flame in the sky. He wonders if he could touch it.

✧

When Sebastian gets the text, he’s, like, halfway through eating his lunch. The notification from Max makes him freeze for a split second, and then his stomach drops. He’s carefully weighing his options this time. The race is in five hours, give or take. Is it worth it to pick Max up?

Actually, that’s a stupid question. Of course it’s worth it. It’s always worth it for Max.

With slightly-trembling fingers Sebastian nimbly types back a reply, hoping that Max is still safe, wherever he is.

Max sends him the location, and Sebastian is already halfway exiting his driver’s room and running to the car by the time he sees the message. 

The car door shuts with a resounding bang and leaves the car saturated in silence. Okay. Hands on the steering wheel. Floor the accelerator. You’ve got this, he’s thinking. Do it for Max. Do it for Max. If you do not do it, no one else will. His nerve endings are tingling like crazy. The whole ride there, it’s tunnel vision all the way. Lost in thought. Speed up. Focus. You’ve got this.

Do it for Max, he thinks. Do it for Max.

✧

The engine chirrs to life. There’s something thrilling about going over the speed limit—well, for the most part. But this time it is not out of excitement, it is out of fear. Out of uncertainty. He needs to make sure Max is safe. Heart racing and hands getting increasingly more tense. And then he notices Max, so small-sized that he pales in comparison to everything else, standing alone in that gas station. Sebastian pulls into the driveway at top speed, hops out of the car. 

“Hey.” He calls out to Max, who’s standing an awkward distance away from him. Max doesn’t respond but waves a hand back, and Sebastian gestures for him to hop in the passenger seat. Max pauses a bit before pulling the door open and getting in. So, what’s the plan now? Drive him home? Offer his driver’s room to him? Call his mother to pick him up?

But first, a touchy question, one that has yet to be asked:

“Do you want to go home?” Sebastian makes sure to clarify that he does not have to verbally confirm or deny, that a simple head gesture is alright as well. Max shakes his head, slight panic rising in him at the mention of home. He shudders a little. Anywhere but home. Sebastian is thinking. Maybe he could leave him in his driver’s room? Or is that too suspicious? 

“Do you mind staying in my driver’s room?” Sebastian asks.

“Papa does not care when I return home, so I am sure it is okay wherever we go. I just do not want to go home right now.” He responds. It’s a bit blunt, honestly. Sebastian doesn’t even want to attempt to extrapolate the implication from that statement.

Okay. That’s concerning, but okay. He doesn't press further, though; because if he continues to tug at that issue, he thinks the entire skein of rope will unravel. And that’s a whole other rabbit hole he’d rather not go down. Either way, that’s something to go off of.

(They’re telling him that his life will be much better when he grows up, but all he sees is a dead end and the light at the end of the tunnel is rapidly flickering out of view. He’s thinking he is tugged along the sands of time by strings of inertia and however much he resists it is inevitable: like a puppet controlled by things out of his comprehension—and perhaps he will never fully be aware of it—these hands are not his, these thoughts are not mine, this body is not his—

He stares at the invisible hourglass as the little grains drip, drip, drip, and the noise is his only source of comfort in the uncomfortable silence. They're telling him it'll be better if he just pushes through and there's always a better future for him, but his world is collapsing in on itself and hope is unattainable in its volatility, its unbreaking hold.

Where was he again?)

Max doesn’t even realise his eyes have been unfocused before he blinks. He finds himself subconsciously biting the inner walls of his cheek (Morsicatio buccarum—was that what they called it? Some sort of stress response, or something adjacent. Surely that’s not relevant to his state of mind right now! Let’s ignore that.) He’s stressed. He’s stressed and he doesn’t even know why. He thinks, if he wades through the dark recesses of his mind, the sea of inner thoughts haunting him like a perpetual weight on his chest; reaching a hand in and attempting to pull the part of him that wants out, he’ll find null. Empty space where there’s supposed to be a black oozing solid-liquid like substance.

“What do you want?” Sebastian asks him. Max wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue as fast as they are formed, before he can get them out.

It’s silence that replies to him. 

“I do not know.” He says, eventually. Truthfully, he does not know—really—how does one know what they want when they’ve never had the opportunity, the time, the space to think about what wanting entails?

The train of thought derails and crashes into a ditch. 

Max knows everything that some people would think children like Max should not understand. That discord between the fact that these people are supposed to be so young in comparison to himself, so surely they cannot be sprouting this nonsense that even he can’t put into words? But the innocence is there, and that innocence is what cleans the lens through which they see—they haven't thought themselves to be blind to what they wish to ignore; instead it just stands out ever brighter, against the mutedness of the roiling world within which they are forced to survive. He wouldn’t say seeing it is maturity—it's put plainly beneath the world's noses, and all the world has the ability to see it. The maturity, to him, lies in the fact that they take it into their hearts while others might find it easier or for their benefit to look over and past it, at the greater and grander image of a life they could have but never will. It is only the children, who have nothing to lose and nothing to gain, who have the most unbiased and scarily insightful thoughts on it, for they do not have anything that can be shattered by turning towards the side of the shadows.

Are children born with rose-tinted glasses? Are children born with rose tinted glasses, or does it form as they grow up because most people find it easier to think that life is great, but in reality, it’s a harrowing experience? When did the rose tinted glasses form? Did they crack? Or maybe everyone is wearing a pair, and it's a matter of when the lenses crack?

Or maybe children are the ones with the rose tinted glasses and as they move through this volatile world, it slowly cracks bit by bit until it shatters and you're left to see the world as it is; fundamentally rotten. Or maybe he’s being too pessimistic. More importantly: are his glasses broken, or was he born without them? Or the rose-tint was replaced by a cooler-blue tint? Just like he was born with white wings with golden highlights, but they remain hidden, because he’s terrified of what would happen if Papa found out.

Or maybe children don’t have them. They're glasses, something physical that has to be physically given—and that usually happens when one has seen so much bad in the world one just refuses to glance upon it anymore. So then, what does he have? Broken glasses? Is the lens half tinted or half broken? If one is wearing broken glasses is it the same as having no glasses given that the lenses are missing anyways?

The impression of wearing the frames because some aren’t that perspective as to realise the broken shards piercing one’s feet and yet one walks on because what else is there to do when one is swept along with the crowd whether one likes it or not in whichever direction they so choose? The whole of humanity becomes one in the man made race and no one truly even knows what they're chasing, except that their forefathers did the same and so it must be right, right?

Okay, he’s getting off track here. The main issue at hand right now is in a box labelled “His Wants”. (His wants? What does he want?) Max doesn’t really know what he wants, or how to even start to form some semblance of a grasp, get a handle on the whole thing. He’s never known—how does one know what they want? Does it just come to people naturally, just like everything else in life, like what their favourite colour is, what subject they like and dislike, what music taste they are into, et cetera? How do people know what they want from others? He’s been thinking and believing that the most important thing was what others want, what Papa expects and needs from him— How does one know?

Perhaps he’ll never figure it out.)

Oh, right, he needs to respond to Seb.

“Sorry.” is what he says next. It’s the guilt that eats him alive, strips his flesh down to the bone, and leaves him like that—raw and exposed for the whole world to see. The guilt that gnaws like a parasite and won’t leave. Sorry—a chant more than an apology, beg for forgiveness on your knees and lower your head in shame. Say you’re sorry. He’s expecting for Sebastian to scold him, or tell him what he wants from him. Or, really, anything but what he actually says next.

“It’s okay.”

Max blinks. “What?” He can’t exactly conceive that. The notion of such a thing—has never once crossed his mind.

“It’s okay to not know. We will figure it out along the way.”

Max remains silent. He’d thank him, but that would feel too awkward, he thinks. So silence it is. Sebastian must sense how uneasy he is feeling, so he throws him a thumbs up and smiles. Max still feels mildly uncomfortable. A bit less now, though.

“Driver’s room it is!” Sebastian grins, pushes down on the pedal, and in an instant, they’re off. Max’s posture is consciously congruent to the shape of the car seat, back tense and straightened. Sebastian notes Max’s silence when attempting to make conversation with him, so he doesn’t push it. 

✧

you don't know where i've

been / you weren't there

on the front lines

“So… why were you there?” Sebastian asks. He knows it could be attributed to the father issue, but might as well figure it out anyways. There’s a moment of hesitation before Max opens his mouth. 

“I said something that made Papa angry,” Max slowly starts to open up. Papa had criticised him—almost beared down a slap—and left him stranded. (Expostulate if you must: Max gets it, but abandonment feels a step too far. A gross overreaction, he thinks, but can’t say that out loud.) And that’s saying a lot. Considering it’s coming from him. He fiddles with his (extremely sweaty) fingers, fidgeting. Sebastian can sense how tense he’s feeling right now. He gets the feeling that he should—and he does want—to say something.

Sebastian takes a deep breath. Restraint, he remembers. Hold back. If murder was legal, Sebastian thinks he would have done it by now. Red Bull has good lawyers anyways, so it should work. He tries not to let Max see the extremely obvious annoyance at the very mention of his Papa. It seems to work well enough. They talk stuff out, and Sebastian offers Max more tips. He doesn’t mention the fact that the situation Max is in isn’t normal at all. He doesn’t mention his thoughts on the matter (not that it mattered anyways). He tries to ignore the amount of times Max apologises in the 30 minute car ride over; but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was in the hundreds. 

And so Max finds that there is this constant guilt, like he’s forever indebted to say a million sorries until someone else decides that he’s said enough, and shuts him up. But what will a simple ‘sorry’ change? It certainly won’t change the fact that he fucked up, nor will it turn back time and allow him to do things differently. Does sorry relieve him of the endless amount of guilt he feels? (It doesn’t. It really doesn’t.)

Do apologies mean anything when words can’t change anything?

Words can’t carve change into the dimension of time. It can’t rewind time and rewrite history. If one’s fate has been decided, then it is etched into the books. This is something the tides of time can’t carry away with the waves. The guilt’s like microplastics: it sticks and doesn’t disappear, ever. But is it worth it to try? To fight? God, this endless tug-of-war between the logical half of his brain, versus the emotional half of the same brain, it’s wearing him out. Various visions flitter through his brain. They fade just as quickly as they form.

(He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so sorry—)

But what he does know is that he can’t stop apologising. He’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry. Maybe if he prays enough, gets on his knees enough, says enough prayers, that it can somehow make this guilt go away. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. Maybe if he apologises enough times, it’ll be enough to repay the endless debt he’s accumulated.

✧

Sebastian sets Max up in his driver's room. It’s nice, sort of. Well the gesture’s kind. Max can only be eternally grateful to him, but he’s already rushing out the door when Max opens his mouth to thank him.

He’ll have to do that after the race, then.

✧

we cannot make it alone / but built up

together we’re trailmarkers, trailblazers

we’ll lead you - we’ll keep you - home.

So that race was absolute and utter shit. He’d DNF’ed halfway through the race because Mark decided it was a great idea to crash into him. Sebastian is pissed, to put it lightly. He absolutely cannot practice forbearance right now. The last thing he needs right now is to see Mark. He’s marching his way over to his room, about to close the door when Mark notices him, barges in. The door slams against the wall with a loud bang—the noise is probably enough to cause concern from the next room over.

“We need to talk.” He demands. Sebastian crosses his arms and stares at him. He is not paid enough to put up with this.

“We have nothing to talk about.” He retorts.

“Don’t even start with that.”

He’s forgotten that Max was in the room by then, because the frustration was really getting to him then. A slip of the mind, a grave mistake. Another nail in the forming coffin.

He’d been sleeping when the sound of yelling stirs him awake. That makes him immediately tense up. The noises muffle there, because Max is covering his ears and he can already feel panic looming in the near distance. Fuck. Fuck, not here. Not now. He needs to be anywhere but here. He can’t make anything out from the muffled sounds of Sebastian and whoever he’s arguing with. He attempts to draw a breath. Fails to. Fuck–

“Right, because that justifies crashing into me!” 

Oh god. He’s stressed. He’s so fucking stressed and there’s nothing he can do about this. Bile rises into the back of his throat and the nausea’s endlessly, relentlessly, nagging at him until its inevitably taken him down. 

There are flashes of distant memories in his head: all the moments of anguish and helplessness, of broken plates and cups thrown across the kitchen, glass shattering all around, and violence; an open-handed slap to his face, being dragged across the floor, head pounding endlessly. And so many arguments, so many it’s impossible to count, where Max’s first instinct was to immediately hide; lock himself in his room, and desperately try to fill his lungs with oxygen, with hands clamped over his ears, cupping them, with so much pressure he could feel the pain in his skull— hoping that if he just focused on the pulsing of blood in his eardrums he would escape from this house where it felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells, no longer hear his parents’ quarrels: the trauma he can never let go of, no matter how hard he tries.

But this is not Papa and Mama. This is different— and yet so similar. In his mind's eye view, there sits a him—a him that he does not recognise; enclosed in a bird cage, far away from the rest of society. His wings have been clipped and ripped apart. His wings are gone. Where have they gone? Did someone burn the feathers? But there is no one around. It is pitch black as far as the eye can see. It’s reminding him of home. The fights and all. The yelling. God, it’s all the same. It’s all the same. He’ll never escape from it no matter how far he runs, how well he hides. It’ll break through like the first rays of sunlight illuminating the darkness of this alcove he’s curled up in, blinding his vision and forcing him to open his eyelids: bear witness to this cruel reality: this is your life.

(He remembers the first time that had happened. He’d been in his room with Vic when he’d heard yelling and screaming from the kitchen. His first thought was, he needs to protect Vic from all this. Shield her from the horrors of reality. And so he had distracted her, by telling jokes and playing with her. It had worked for the most part, but a part of him still wonders if she ever found out.

He hopes she never had to find out the cruel truth.)

The anxiety plagues him, stabs through his chest. It’s caught up to him, and he feels like throwing up so badly right now. Now is not the time for this. He buries his head into the sheets and holds his breath, tightly sticking fingers into his eardrums: let this moment pass, please, please, please. His breaths quicken. Hands shaky. Body shivering. Mind someplace else. Far away.

Maybe they got too loud, because the yells have stopped, and they are staring at him. Between the slit of the pale white quilts he can make out two pairs of eyes. The eyes are terrifying. It burns a hole through him, leaves him exposed to the prying gaze of other people.

(Stop looking. Please. I am not an animal in an enclosure to witness for your entertainment. I am a human and I have my own bodily autonomy—I think, or maybe they took that away too? Or maybe there are invisible strings connected to my limbs which I have no control over; maybe my entire life has been decided for me and I’m just the vessel of choice for this. But, I beg of you, stop staring at me. I kneel, head touching the ground, with my wings tensed up and the feathers trying so desperately to hide away, hide from everyone. But it is of no use. The wings are barely big enough to conceal my body anyways and I am laid open on the operating table for all to see. And you stood there, by the side, letting me suffer.

Perhaps I am that bad a child. Perhaps I deserve this.

I’m sorry.)

“Who is that?” Mark is saying, glancing at Max who’s currently curled up in a ball and covering his ears with his palms. But Sebastian is too fed up to deal with his bullshit. He’s decided that he’s not about to entertain any more questions (because, well, bigger fish to fry. Just look at Max), and pushes Mark out the door. Fuck if he has any questions. That can be dealt with later. Firstly, Max.

(Max listens as the door slams to a close. The loud bang makes him flinch.)

Sebastian swallows. Now to handle the whole Max situation. How does one help a teenager that’s breaking down again? Hell, he’s barely a fully developed adult as it is (well, by the barest measurement, since he’s 25 and the brain apparently fully develops when you’re at that age), but he doesn’t exactly know how to handle a crying, sobbing mess of a teenager. Especially when his own anger is on a high right now. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Max?”

There is, of course, no response.

He takes a place besides the curled up ball of Max Verstappen. 

“It’s okay if you can’t talk.” He says. The I’ll wait for you is left unsaid, a silent understanding between the two of them. 

It takes Max a while. And of course it does; no one tells you how to do this, handle yourself in times of distress. It’s like wading your way through uncharted waters, oblivious to any possible dangers that lurk beneath the dark surface. The goo sticks on your legs like slime and it’s icky. The feeling is far too familiar. It fuses with your body like a parasite attaching itself onto skin; a nagging thing that stays with you until the end of time. (Well, when you do make it out, the reprieve is much appreciated.) Sebastian extends a hand, a glowing light at the end of the dreadful tunnel that is Max’s life right now. He wants to grab it, too. Take it, take it, take it—

He flops on the bed. Lies down, eyes facing the ceiling. The hand loose and free, not grasping onto any thread of hope. Energy completely drained from his veins and body seemingly surrendered, given up, waving the white flag.

Eventually, his eyes flutter open; like the windows to his soul, creaking open. (This is how you get to be known: rip your heart out and hand it to others on a silver platter.)

Okay. Now for the hard part. Brace yourself and get ready for it.

“I— I am sorry.” It comes out, shortness of breath clearly taking a toll. “I am very sorry.”

Sebastian awkwardly raises a hand, unsure of what to do. Is offering a pat too much? He knows how sensitive Max is to physical touch.

“It’s okay,” he decides on saying. Doesn’t push the physical contact boundary. “It’s not your fault.” (Maybe arguing with his teammate in front of Max was a decision he’d made rather rashly: something he’d done rather carelessly, perhaps even erroneously; and accompanying it, definitely devastating and disastrous consequences.)

✧

Max is lying down.

Suspended by a thread of rope, he lies down. He clings on to the rope like it’s his lifeline.

(if you lie down—horizontality—and let the rope suspend you; it’s like giving up. Admitting defeat where there might be none to be found. Surrendering. Letting fate take its path and leading you astray. Lying down like a wounded soldier that has become just another casualty in war, just another statistic to pen down. Is this the fate you really want?

But if you hang on to the rope—verticality—it's resistance. The refusal to give up, the attempt at escaping. Fighting a losing game. Not losing hope even when you probably should. If you let yourself hang, you’re stuck either way: you can’t give up because you're still holding on, but you also can’t leave because you're still trapped.

if you let the rope go and decide to drop, freefall to your death does that also mean to give up? or does it mean something worse than giving up? Or another third thing? Or is it a rebellion—and rebellions often account for the fact that you might die fighting for what you believe in—by choosing to follow neither even as you know you will surely die?)

This is getting confusing. 

Max is face down on the bed. He’s still down, head pressed against hard mattress, until he lifts it up, pushes himself to sit upright, to keep fighting. Everything looks overexposed from his point of view; he’s feeling lightheaded and frankly like he’s going to faint again. Wearing his body down to the core, invisible chains holding him down. He thinks, if he lays here long enough, maybe he’ll fuse with the mattress and then he’ll never have to leave. 

Sebastian helps him, supports Max’s back with his hand, gentle and warm contact against his skin. He’s grateful for that. He gets up. One step at a time. The room spins. Fuck. Well, the glass of warm water helps. He tips the cup at an angle, lets the water pour into his open mouth. (Tilt it, but not too much. find the perfect angle. Natural instinct, remember? Perfection: nothing more and nothing less.) The remaining silence hangs in the air, Sebastian is not saying anything in fear of disturbing Max—but even in the tranquility he imparts, Max’s head is pounding and his blood pressure is still high as ever. There’s an alloy of both peace and fear in him. He feels as if there’s still someone out to get him, some wretched creature lurking in the darkness of the shadows, waiting for even the smallest sliver of a chance, a blinking moment of weakness, to sink their claws into him. His eyes are going crazy—yet they are tired, so tired, that the said tiredness seeps its way into his eye sockets and forms rings around his eyes. 

Max rests his head on Sebastian’s shoulder. (Really, it was out of pure drunken tired-ness), lets Sebastian’s other arm wrap around his shoulder. (Of course, it’s not something he would do normally, but forgive him, he is far too tired right now.) They repose in the silence, soaking the temporary quiet of the now; the fleeting moments that will never last forever. Downs more warm water and lets his mind just reset. Maybe that’s the key: Restarting, a refreshing beginning, another chance to live your life again.

Max is sitting with his legs hanging off the ledge of the bed. Sebastian is beside him, still (a feeble attempt at) comforting him, and trying to get Max to open up, of a sort. 

“Thank you,” Max mumbles mutedly. His vision is still blurry.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Sebastian decides to offer, because he’s noticed that the sun is setting. If it’s getting late; and factoring in the fact that Max’s father quote ‘does not care when he returns home’, then maybe spending another night in his driver’s room is okay? Maybe? Hopefully?

Max blinks, shakes his head. “No, it is okay.” He says. “I do not want to be a bother. I can walk home by myself now.” 

Various images of the sight of teenage Max, emotionally fragile Max trudging his way home floats through Sebastian’s mind. 

(He’s done this a thousand times over before: When Sebastian has clear 8K-Ultra-HD pictures in his head, but they are not tangible—so he’s learnt to pin them down in words, of which his mastery of is no more impressive than that of the fleeting images that brush his eyes and leave him forever wondering what the burnt corners—wisping past him and still on fire, once held, cradled by human flesh in the form of fingers.)

Sebastian internally sighs. That’s not going to happen on his watch. He can’t let it happen. He won’t let it happen.

“I will drive you home.” He says. Max turns his head, meets his eyes. 

“What?” 

“I have nothing else to do. I can drive you home.” He says, and Max stares at him. Wants to object—in classic teenager-angst Max Verstappen fashion—but he thinks about it, ponders over the thought a while: and there is no real reason to object, so he might as well take it. The guilt still lingers in him like glitter that won’t— can’t be scrubbed off. 

So they pack and load everything in the car. It’s going to be a long drive over, Sebastian knows, takes in a deep breath. The car ride over is mostly filled with silence, only the noise of the wind rustling and engines of other cars whirring filling in the empty gaps of silence on the way there. Like sand slipping through one's fingers, the clock’s hands ticks, moves inch by inch; and time flies by with hurried footsteps; a cold grave of words that die on tongues, that never get the chance to be spoken verbally—locked up in one’s brain forever—never getting the chance to materialise into real and tangible concepts.

He doesn’t know really what to talk about with Max, if he’s being frank. There is the subject of racing, which is safe to talk about—but maybe not now, considering what just happened. And then there’s his parents; and they both know that it’s definitely a touchy subject, to say the least. So maybe not that. Sebastian mentally flips through the topics they share in common in his head. But. He just needs to make an attempt at conversation.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Max doesn’t exactly reply at first. 

“Yes.” He eventually says, meekly. He still looks slightly tense, trace remnants of hesitance stamped on his expression. 

The sky on its last moments of open-ness yawns, probably wantimg to go to sleep; spills light across the landscape below. The warm rays of setting sun cast, filter through the car windows; catch onto Max’s hair. It’s a beautiful golden colour and perfectly compliments his eyes. Maybe it’s these moments, the seconds that slip through the cracks—full of bliss and contentment—that he should think to savour the moments while they last. 

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. 

✧

Max has somehow reached the conclusion— the stabbing realisation. That Sebastian is here for him, and invariably so. That’s nice to know, he supposes; that with such a binding fidelity, Sebastian is there for him.

It’s a mixed bag of feelings. On the one hand, of course he is happy— it is always nice to have someone there for you. Everyone knows that. But there must be something wrong with him, for he does not feel happy— he does not feel deserving, he does not feel like he has done enough. What is wrong with him? Shouldn’t he feel happy– grateful, appreciative? Don’t get him wrong, he is definitely appreciative, no denying that— however— it is so hard to feel. Feel, when he has never done this before.  Again, he is sorry. He is sorry that he is not like everybody else.

Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?

✧

They reach back to Max’s house around a couple of hours later. 

Alright, Sebastian thinks. “We’re here.” That seems to snap Max out of whatever reverie he’s in.

“Oh.” You really did not have to do this for me, he’s thinking; but it’s left unsaid. “Thank you.” He supplies, instead. There’s a beat of silence. Max doesn’t really want to leave, he’s realised that now. But he doesn’t really have a choice. He also doesn’t want to leave Sebastian right now. 

(There is no easy way to say goodbye. There never is.)

Sebastian glances over, and there's an inexplicable expression stamped on Max’s face—he can’t tell what Max is feeling. In his mind sits a puddle of slight worry mixed with concern; he wonders if Max is okay right now. 

“I can help you unload?” He tries.

“Okay.”

The rest of it goes quite smoothly and silently. Max carries his things; they are quite large, it really does make him look tiny in comparison. In the last moments of company, Sebastian waves goodbye. Max stands at the door, there is a substantial amount of distance between them—one hand already on the handle.

He waves back.

man comes / & puts his hands on artifacts / in order to contemplate lineage / you start with what you know / hands, hair, bones, sweat /  then move toward what you know / you are not / animal, monster, alien, bitch / but some of us are born in orbit / so learn / to commune with miles of darkness / patterns of dead gods / & quiet / o quiet like / you wouldn’t believe //

TURING TEST

Interlude, a break. 

At the age of 10, Max starts to grow waxen wings. They protrude out of his back and the feathers make their home in his presence.

(Icarus, oh, Icarus. However did you manage to pull the coarse rope over your fingers, looping it, looping it, in endless succession, looping it, with only the hope of an impossible flight to soothe the burning in your fingers, the pounding in your chest?

Right. You never used rope. You never needed it. It would only be a chain to hold you back down to the earth you tried so desperately to escape. Keeping you tethered to this plane of existence.)

Papa tells him to hide them. Reminds him to never take flight and gaze at the sun. He listens, of course. Pliant a child he is.

(I really hate to associate myself with you. You, the one who so chose to pay no heed to your father's warning and rebelliously reach for the sun, flying too high, much too high. What were you expecting, I so often wonder, the question drifting through the hollow cavity of my skull on many a sleepless night. What did you wish for? To touch the sun? To hold it in your greedy hands, cradling it with much love? My dear Icarus, that is impossible.

They say it is the birds who lead the best lives, for they have the freedom of flight, carried on their born wings to places no eyes of any man can ever hope to see. They may as well have called me a bird too. But my wings are torn and tattered, golden streaks long faded. Gifted, genius, amazing, prodigy. Not one of those words were ever said to my face but the look in their eyes seemed to bore into me as if I was the physical embodiment of them. They gaze at me with a thousand eyes, full of curiosity as if I was a test subject and not a fellow human like them all. What have I done to deserve this? Why am I the subject of their scrutiny? Look somewhere else, please, I beg of you all. Look to the skies, to the birds, to the true geniuses, the ones who truly have received the gift of 'god'.)

The wings are white. Off white feathers, accompanied by a golden accent. The wings are heavy, too. They are big and weigh him down. He’ll just have to learn how to adapt.

(I know I would be better yet be described as an Icarus. Icarus, I watched you, in the moving of words rather than pictures, take flight from your prison on the island of Crete, your hope resting full and unrestrained on the wings of fragile wax and still more fragile feathers. I have watched you many times growing up, and sometimes you soared forever, never touching the ground, and sometimes you crashed before your feet ever left the ground. They say birds are the most free, but what they forget to tell you is that those who fly must be even more ready to fall down, crashing, burning, hopelessly falling, free falling, to what you know goes by only one name.)

He wants to jump. He’s staring down a tall building. It’s impossible to tear his eyes off the sight below: thousands of people that look so small and controllable from the height he’s at. If he closes his eyes and thinks about it hard enough, maybe he’ll be able to take over and hold the entire world in his grasp. If he jumps, he’ll probably reach terminal velocity in record time.

It’s a good way to atone for his sins, after all.

(Death. I have long pondered the tale of your flight, Icarus, and one question bugs me forever. Why did you want to fly so close to the sun? They always whisper it was because you were rebellious, an insolent brat, that you, perhaps, even deserved to die. And perhaps that is why I relate to you so. Does someone deserve to die only for the reason that they wish to touch the sun? Is it such a sin to be ambitious?)

It has never occurred to Max, that maybe it is so. Papa always punishes him when he disobeys, when he does something out of line, when he is too ambitious and fucks up a race. Like Icarus, his waxen wings melt, and sends him falling: tumbling to the ground with such disgrace and shame. You fool, everyone is watching as you fall! What a disgrace you are, little insolent brat, ingrate! Papa’s reproachful gaze burns through. The watchful gaze of a million eyes all shine on him and melt, burn the wax, until there is nothing left but him. The bare exposed back.

(Another thing they so often, too often, forget to tell you about birds, or anything that flies for that matter, or rather anything that falls; is that they once must have flown, in order for them to attain such a great height that their falling is of any significance. You would almost certainly gasp in awe if you see an eagle get plucked out of its flight and come hurtling down with all the sudden-ty and finality as a plane that forgot how to fly. It is simply unimaginable, how such great creatures, known to all as the ones who fly, are even capable of a lack of flight, of the act of of falling. Yet they are. They are capable of falling, and they fall so much faster and further and harder than anyone who never got off the ground in the first place.

So, Icarus, is flying worth it? Is the flight worth the fall?)

Max thinks it is worth the fall. It is worth it, you only get to experience life once and so make this worth it. Live every moment like it’s your last.

(I think myself as a synonym of thee, and the memory of thou waxen feathers and a heart chasing freedom to the skies and beyond death, it still amazes me every time. I think myself synonymous to thee, like I could ever hope to touch the sky. That is sarcastic, by the way. There is no world in which I can ever even hope to touch the sky. But I once might've been looked at with the hopes placed upon my shoulders that I may one day soar. Those gazes, glaring gazes, burning gazes, melted the wings of wax on my back and now I am falling. I have been falling for a while now. I forget how to phrase my words to ask politely for help because all that I can feel ripping out of my throat are ugly, inhuman screams. The impossibility of my mission, whether self inflicted or pressed, shearing like a branding iron—now I am marked like livestock; I feel like livestock—into my back by foreign hands, had dawned on me long before; it was stupid to keep trying to chase the unattainable. My childish eyes have been ripped from my head, rinsed, replaced with new lenses and they are the colour of blood.)

Ah, Papa. The judgeful gaze of Papa. How critical. It’s like a dagger stabbing into his heart. Twisting at every opportunity.

(Were you mad at the world for dropping you out of the sky, Icarus? Was touching the sun worth the searing, white hot thunder that ripped your flesh apart as the wax seeped into your pores, into your veins, into your heart, where it would solidify your glorious dreams as a feared cautionary tale of never straying from the path?

Did you fly knowing this is how you will be remembered? Rebellious son, insolent brat, child unable to follow any instruction, to the point of his death.)

Maybe this is what happens when one does not listen to Papa’s commands. It’s happened to Max before. If everything Papa does is for his own good, then Max will simply obey and fall in line. If he complies, maybe Papa will love him. 

(But oh, Icarus, I wish I had met you sooner. I have found a way for us to rebuild our wings. Will you trust me, a synonym of you, to teach you how to fly again? 

Icarus. They often say you are a child, maybe 12, so young, so brave, too brave. I wonder if you knew what you were reaching for when you flew too close to the sun. There is a way for us to fly once more; rebuild your waxen wings, take flight, jump off a cliff and fall and pray and soar. Alas. I forget that you have long since fallen into the ocean. What has come of your fate, I never came to find out, only that you breathe no more. Icarus, I mourn thee, but by that logic, I mourn myself, oh burnt out genius, like wax on your charred wings, oh clip-winged bird, oh sleepless dreamer. You cannot complain when you are presented with a cage and told it is freedom, for you have never seen freedom, and have no right to say it does not constitute a cage. Maybe, Icarus, you and I might've done better in our own cages, but then you would've never touched the sun and I would've never donned that racing suit and gotten a kart.

As an Icarus myself, I think the flight was worth the fall. To ever fly is better than to stay with feet rooted eternally into the ground.)

Max is in a kart. He’s ready, he’s never been more prepared in his life: he’s on pole position, foot on the pedal and waiting for the whistle to blow—

(Icarus took flight for the first and last time, waxen wings lifting into the clouds, soaring, until he reached too close to the sun.

I stare over the balustrade, innocent eyes, almost innocent, peeking over the edge, green laying, sprawling, below me, a number of floors below me; I had not bothered to count. All I knew of the number was that it would suffice in breaking my neck in two clean halves and leave me sprawling like an arrow through a bird's nape would render the fowl immobile. It would have to suffice. It would have to. Icarus had trusted the wings upon his back, slick with wax and probably sweat, feathers so soft and almost pretentiously innocent to the implications of them being gathered in such numbers in a parade of such neat rows. Jump, Icarus.

Erased as I have, every other trivial matter that could possibly have eclipsed my mind, forgetful mind, train of thought that crashes upon itself and explodes like the forming of a black hole every 3 ticking seconds, a time bomb, the moving of a hand, closer, always, to midnight. I do not realise it when the storm clouds start closing in above me, yet they cannot be above me for the roof is above me, drifting, feeble, wispy hands, threatening strangulation; flooding; painful death; yet the rain that falls is so soft upon skin it is hard to imagine this can ever in a million years come close to taking life.)

—and he crashes. (Well, not of his own accord.) Someone had hit his kart from behind and sent him derailing off into the wall. But what he feels in the moment is dread: not for failure, but for Papa’s wrath.

Imagine just beyond one’s peripheral vision, maybe behind oneself, or maybe to the side of him or in front of him; or, really, anywhere but where one can lay eyes on it.

Max knows that something is quietly closing in on him, creeping behind, footsteps so quiet, in fact, he can only hear it as silence. There is nothing to be heard. He’ll just find those pockets without sound. That’s where it—Papa— is. Brace yourself for this, he reminds himself. Right in this moment: don’t look. Keep your eyes away from Papa. Don’t face him. He’s terrified.

Now take a deep breath; go ahead, take an even deeper one. Only this time as he starts to exhale, a shaky breath, then can he only try to imagine how fast it will happen, how hard it’s gonna hit him, how many times it will stab his jugular with its teeth (or are they nails? Or a knife? Or something worse?) But don’t worry, that particular detail doesn’t matter, because before he has time to even process that, he knows should be moving, he should be running, he should at the very least be attempting to flee before Papa inevitably gets him— but he doesn’t. He’s frozen in place. Waiting for Papa’s teeth to sink, to bite into the bitter reality of it all. And when he do; he gets a taste, and it is like a stab in the heart. Like salt poured into an open wound and like his heart has been ripped out of his bare body— it hurts. But boy, does Max ever meet his demise.

The wings. The wings. The wings. Oh, fuck. Where are they?

He looks back and Papa is there, he’s fuming, and Max knows he’s absolutely screwed. But this one is different— it hits in a way no other can— it is wretched and absolutely soul crushing and damn it is painful. And still, he survives. Barely, though. It feels like time has slowed down and the days blend to one at this point— and so he lets it. He lets it pass, lets it happen, lets it fly past him, even though it’s all precious time slipping through his fingers that he can’t get back. He lies down and takes it. A learned helpnessness.

Keep your eyes peeled, he thinks. Always keep them peeled.

(Icarus had drowned in the ocean, in a collection of eons of rainfall salted with the tears of generations; at least I like to think it to be as such. How many people cried into the ocean; what did they have to cry for? It turns out the clouds bring not a gentle rain, for the soft pitter patter of the blooming bulbous sacks falling in quick succession starts to fall in quicker succession still. It is a thunderstorm, before I know that there even was lightning due upon the horizon; perhaps it forgets its part in this play; thunderstorms are often entertaining to watch, but Icarus had died on a clear afternoon; clear enough, at least, for all to see him fall. Such glory, such bitter triumph, such melancholic irony.

Icarus must've cursed the sun as he fell, I tell myself. He must have. If the sun was not in existence the wax on his feathered wings would never have melted and he would never have had a reason to fall into the ocean; never a reason to die.)

It does not occur to Max that the sun is the reason everyone is alive at all.

(I will not run from the rain; it seems to invite me; puddles, its embrace around the body about to meet them on the ground, too alive to sink into a grave; too dead to jump childishly in the pools of muddy water; sediments. Icarus, perhaps you would have survived should you have taken flight on a rainy night, when the rain will douse your burning skin and the sun hides, nowhere to be seen.

My arms convulse where they bend, I fear for my life that my limbs and bones will snap right into pieces, crumble; and for rightful reason too, for my life really is hanging by the puppeteer strings around my neck; loose noose; strangle me; drop me; allow me to cease to exist— but wait, not yet, I must decide the exact moment at which I spread my own brittle wings; they are made of bone and they will send me crashing; hurtling; crunching; down to earth, a pool of blood, predetermined in its trajectory, awaits. I see it as the strings snap.

I am falling, oh Icarus, I am falling! Is this the freedom you so felt when the wax melted, fused into one with your skin? Oh the wind whipping my hair, I wish for this to never end; but a few story’s fall only lasts that long. Icarus, oh Icarus, lend me your great waxen, feathered wings; I wish to fly once more. I kiss the ground and close my eyes; I look to the sky and wish to see the sun but alas it is covered by the evil forms of unyielding clouds, hovering as they often do, over the orb that illuminates the world. But too much sun can cause death, painful death: the death of the sun is the death of the universe in a scientific sense.

Icarus's death. A death caused by the sun. The blinding rays striking you down like a punishment for your sins. Oh Icarus, I wonder if you knew what you were doing with your life when you rose too high and fell too fast. Curse Daedalus, his father, for ever giving him those wings; covert him for letting his child realise his dream and touch the sun.)

Curse Papa for giving him these wings. Why does he even have these wings? When did they appear? Are they even real, or is it some visual hallucination? These waxen wings tower above him so tall and large, Max is certain he could cocoon himself in them.

(In that sense I am a synonym of you, I wonder what I do with my life, and I wonder so often if I could fall into great pleasure and into great pain too. You have sat, caged in the recesses of my mind, wings folded into you like a long tongued bird I had read about in one book or another, but tired of their singing did the owner cut their tongue out and then comment to guests how tame his piece of the sky was. Until a week ago, where I have chanced upon your figure once more. You are old too, Icarus, I refuse to believe otherwise, let us stare at a mirror together and count the wrinkles on our cheeks; we are dying, and that is the only thing that remains the same between us, always.)

They—mostly Papa—hurl criticisms his way. Oh, what a truculent child! They cry out loud; what a defiant, insolent little brat! It sends daggers through his little heart, leaves him clutching his chest desperately and attempting to claw at the skin on the surface. He’s falling! No wings will save him from jumping, plunging into the bottomless pit of void, to his very demise.

Intertwined with Icarus is he, the same fate from one soul to the other; the same waxen wings, the same fall. The same damn wings. Little iconoclast, child, fallen angel, melted wings. And so he fuses with the tarmac, becoming one with the asphalt: binding to it like glue.

the 3-am arse end of morning, livid / from

the nightly beatings of the sodium lamps /

and your eyes open in the dark. thoughts

circle, waiting for the unguarded throat. 

the bruises? you’ve borne bruises like those

in your time: the truth is, everybody has. /

after a while your younger self comes in,

/ sits on the bed, whines that you ruined his

life, the way people do. pretty boy, open wide

/ and taste your own corruption. a string

vibrating with self-righteousness, he frets,

/ wonders aloud if it wouldn’t be better now,

to hold the pillow down over your face, a cat

drowning in cream. you grin sourly in the darkness.

 

/ see? he’ll learn. he’ll learn.

A HAUNTING

Max is in his house again. Unfortunately.

It goes the same as it always does—it always feels like he’s walking on eggshells, the feeling of bare feet being pierced by glass shards—penetrating skin and letting blood out. It doesn’t matter how many oblations he offers up to Papa, how many sacrifices he makes for Papa, how many times he takes the beatings; the truth is that there really is no end to it. (The sooner you accept that, the sooner you escape the state of being in limbo.)

(You are born into a name many people know and recognise; the three syllables a reminder of Papa, reeking with the controversies he left behind. Lingering in you is that expectation to match and surpass Papa, a need, a demand, a requirement. The catharsis that driving gives you is far usurped by this. Maybe if you ferment your skills with enough experience, you’ll be able to make Papa proud—just once.

From the moment you are born, the beginning of it all: you begin to bleed. Bleed a crimson red and everything is bloodied. Your life fast tracks the rest: Memories (core or otherwise) are remembered in violence and the witness of blood being spilt. Your tender soul, at a young age, standing at only a couple of feet tall, is bloodied. Your shadows, your reflections, your nights and days, your dreams, they are all coated in deep red. Oozing out of every crack and pore this red becomes an integral part of your life: you do not know what life is without this red thing; and perhaps this has caused your red tinted vision. You see red, you always see red: surely it has become a permanent fixture by now.)

(Oh, What a painful experience it is! How agonising it is to burn at the sight of red, red on your skin, red that keeps spilling out no matter how much you attempt to stop it. Does it make your heart ache? Does it cause you much discomfort? Does it stab you in the heart in the form of a dagger, sending soul-crushing anguish in waves through your bloodstream?)

✧

the alphabet / in fingertips / fades

into dust and blood, my eyes / see

blood, / my eyes are / blood. 

Who knew home could wound? Who knew home—supposed safe haven above all—could be the one sending spikes through young skin? Sewn into his skin, the needle penetrating into his bloodstream, tiny threads laced with the painful memories—the worst of all. Know: the brain forgets, but the body remembers all. Of course he remembers. Max remembers it all the way down to the bone marrow. Memories will fade and slip through his fingers, wash downstream and away with the tides of time; but the subconscious will always remember; a permanent stamp imprinted into his brain. 

Who knew home could wound? Max surely didn’t; until he found out it did. It’s like he’s trapped in a burning building with every emergency exit door locked with chains. Whatever god that must exist out there really don’t want him to escape, do they? Safe haven? Think again. Crashing of plates and broken shards as residue from fights—yells that echo and haunt him, screams that hurt, words that taunt him and shoot a hole through his heart. 

(Who knew home couldn’t wound?)

Violence, violence has shaped him. Moulded him. You know what they say, children often imitate their parents’ actions. It’s no wonder he turned out this way. (I learned your mannerisms and your speech, and like a parrot, copied them, stored them in the deepest recesses of my mind, engraved, in pretty text, a manual titled "How to be a 'Human'". I do not think I am 'human', per se, such an odd thing to say; I am a copy of you.) Such animalistic behaviour, giving into basic instincts— oh, you savage beast, you surely need to be tamed! But alas, no leash can control him— no chain can tie him down. 

He had often watched Papa and Mama fight—Papa usually the aggressor, and Mama the one taking it. That was until, of course, the divorce. Max still hasn’t processed it, really. Papa didn’t hit him often, or at least to his knowledge. Not in the home, at least. But he has this one memory— the feeling of sharp blade against neck, the feeling of impending doom as the knife closes in, threatening to spill blood. Papa had been angry: probably saw red. And Max had— he had frozen. Didn’t know what to do. Couldn't even scream or shout or cry for help. How did he survive that? He doesn’t even remember, everything after was a blur and no one would tell him anything even if he asked about it. 

Ah, now that he thinks about it…

He presses the imaginary blade against his jugular and wishes to be dead again.

(It’s night-time now. Lights out.)

He collapses into bed and drifts to sleep with the thought of Sebastian’s comforting presence in his head, the thought his only solace in this place he calls home. Place might be too grand a word for it, though, now that he thinks about it. 

✧

the bull’s horns shake and

pierce this trembling earth /

this heart – my heart – my

heart – / my stubborn heart

is wounded.

When he next opens his eyes, it’s only to hear yelling and slamming coming from the next room over. He pulls the blanket over himself and clasps his hands over his ears, prays this will pass soon enough. If he focuses enough, he can almost hear the sound of his heart racing. Perhaps leaving the house tonight could help. He just needs to climb out of the window.

Every goddamn nerve ending in him is raw. It’s okay. Only 6 more steps to go, he thinks.

If you ever need help, you can call me; Sebastian had said to him once. He’ll consider that later. It’s too late right now. For now, it’s 5 more steps to temporary reprieve from this hell.

Max needs to be disciplined, he can hear Papa saying from the next room over. He winces. 4 more steps. A creak of the window—

On the last step, he freezes. Papa is standing there. In the doorway. Silent. Just standing there menacingly. And then Papa’s charging into his room, screaming and yelling at him, but he looks unrecognisable—when Max stares up at him, he sees a monster with claws so sharp and piercing; and whoever this is, he decides it is not Papa. It has the voice of Papa, the behaviour of Papa, but it is not Papa. The creature throws stuff around haphazardly, makes a mess of his room, pulling his hair and screaming obscenities at him. The thing rips open his jaws; reaches its hungry, greedy, hand—black void, the hollow emptiness—into Max’s body and rips the soul out of it. His vision is rapidly fading in and out and in and out and he swears he’s going to fucking die.

Where is that damn instinct to run when you need it? Why does he freeze up every time this happens? Why?

Just as he’s reorienting himself from the pain, his eyes tilt up only to see Papa ripping the lion plushie in half; the stuffing tumbling out on the floor, and Max freezes. Closes his eyes and prays this is not happening right now. His breath hitches. He watches, powerless to resist, as Papa swings a claw across his body. And then, his vision goes black.

Terror forces Max’s eyelids open. Okay. It was just a dream. He wakes up in a cold sweat and damn near thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. At least it was just a dream. Actually, it would be more accurate to call it a lucid nightmare, because it felt real—too real for his liking. Max looks out the window and blinks out into the distance that stretches before him; for the sky is pitch dark and the moon hangs above. Sitting on his bedside table, the alarm clock reads: 3:35 AM. And so he finds that it is not night, nor is it day, but some third interval that had somehow slipped in between them—an overlap, the inbetween—and gone unnoticed. Max stares at the four numbers in hauntingly saturated red, the only thing illuminating in the dark of his room, and his eyes have never felt more heavy yet energetic. His eyes dart about the room, as if trying to find something, some creature in the dark that he thinks might be coming for him. He gets the dreadful sensation that something, or someone is watching.

Nestled in between dimensions, he drags his body through the sea of tired-ness and forces his limbs awake enough to function. He turns his head over to check if Seb is alive and well, though. (Thankfully, it's still perched besides his pillow, in one piece and evidently, alive. Max can sleep peacefully knowing that.)

He hugs the plushie to sleep that night.

✧

The days blend to one the longer he stays at home.

He’s lived with this thing—some lingering feeling of constant paranoia and fear for so long it's become a part of him—it stays in bruises, a souvenir of the past and all the memories tied to it. If he had to say, he would say he doesn’t know when exactly this thing fused with his soul, when he became one with this thing; but what he does know is that it has infested every corner of my life. It's all slipping his mind, really.

(I sit in my ivory tower and I stare below: others may not be as privileged as I am; but they are blessed with the gifts of a father’s love and praise, something I will probably never get. But I still hold out hope that someday Papa will love me unconditionally. Just maybe, maybe, one day, Papa can love me, prove I am capable of being loved, prove I am worthy enough.)

(To someone who has never known what being loved is like, what will you tell him? That there are families out there that have a cohesive family dynamic, and that is how it's supposed to be?)

Time blurs, blends into one quick breeze of wind. Time you can never get back. 

let the dirt hang heavy in your chest / drag me

deeper down below the ground / know that all

my love will be your breath / and i will save you

when your lights go out

CANARY IN A COAL MINE

Papa is angry again. This is not new. This time, it is over a DNF. Which, fair enough, Max gets that; but it would be nice to have anything but a lecture right now. He already feels like shit, he doesn’t need Papa to sink the knife deeper. He draws in a deep breath. It’s only temporary, he reminds himself. Just a couple hours more. You’ll make it. 

But perhaps something in his eyes signals that he is disinterested or not listening to Papa, because he is now yelling about respect and how disrespectful it is that he doesn’t even care enough to listen to him, how ungrateful he is—Max has heard it all. Fuck if he’s too tired for one more lecture. His muscles are sore from the crash and overexertion from earlier. He doesn’t have the energy for this one.

“Are you even listening to me?!” Papa is yelling. Max does not really care right now. “You useless, good for nothing—!” He’s heard worse from Papa. His eyes are half lidded and fuck, he’s so tired he thinks sleep will capture him if he does not escape right now. He stands up so quickly the blood drains from his brain and the room spins.

But.

He has forgotten one very important detail. The most crucial element, the last piece of the puzzle.

✧

a man will drown / if held under

/ by his own dead weight / or a

stranger’s hand, pushing him / to

the piss-slick tiles. / there’s no

safety in a closed door, but a man

wouldn’t hope for more than he’s

given – a body / desperate for the

air in another’s lungs – take his

mouth, this ragged breath. / a

man will drown if held under.

Max doesn’t hear what Papa is yelling before his hands are reaching for his throat, and he thinks he might actually die this time. It’s a weird sensation, being suffocated. Oh, his head is pounding, it feels like lead. Chokes splinter in his throat, finds fingers applying pressure to the soft skin of his neck—

—and he finds himself wishing, on every fibre of his being, that the hands grasping at him, fingers digging into the flesh, would smash to pieces. He’s prayed to gods that when the hands grab a knife again and wish to make it kiss flesh, that he is not there, so he can be saved from the odd mix of feelings in his stomach that slosh around like the most vile, half digested stew that will definitely be vomited up later from the aftertaste; it being the image burnt into his mind of trying with his aching child's body to push knife holding hands away, to kick, to bite, anything, even to go as far as to wish the knife will sink into his throat, so it doesn't seep into that of the other 2 lives crying behind him: Mama and Vic. He looks up and sees a face that he does not recognise, even though it claims to be someone he knows. Papa.

(No, no, no, no, no—)

(This is worse than any of his nightmares. The pain is insurmountable.)

It’s not enough; because Papa’s fingers are already wrapped around his neck and squeezing tight, and Max can feel himself losing consciousness. It feels like the chilling sensation of a cold blade pressed against his jugular, threatening to draw blood. That sinking feeling where he is there—yet also so far away, and his arms feel like their bones will snap like twigs and splinter, and then the blade will hit his artery anyway—is unavoidable. So why even try to avoid it, when the most he can do is push it to the flesh and bone of someone else? Is it even suffering when it has become such an integral part of life, that it occurs more often than he has been brought out to see the sky, playing outside in a playground and scraping his hands against the roughness of tree bark? The scars come not from happy and nostalgic childhood memories, but painful ones. He has, instead, scraped his face upon the gaps between the smooth tiles. Bloodied and marred the skin.

Holy shit, he’s thinking. He’s going to die. He’s going to die today. 

He wishes so often that someone else can be stabbed to death in his place— but not Mama or Vic, he’d rather take the fall for them, protect them. But if the hands finally kill something, they would have exhausted all their murderous intent and maybe— just maybe, leave him alone. Surely it is normal if no one ever talks about it? Like how having five fingers is normal, how having hair is normal, until it isn't. So if no one ever said anything, then these must be one of the things that are normal, no? Papa is never nice to him. Max really wishes he would be more proud of him. He’s done everything to make Papa proud, so why is he never satisfied? Is he that bad?

—but something drives Papa as if he’s operating on autopilot and this is something he just does, and there’s no time for further judgement or second thoughts before Max’s airflow is cut off. Papa’s hands press on and constrain his throat, unrelenting and ruthless until he’s sure his hold has wrought rings of contusions and bruises around his neck. Papa bears down on him— such a brutal punishment he deserves for his sins, ignoring Max’s pleas— merciless and cruel until black patches blur his vision and his lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen; and adrenaline is the only thing keeping him afloat in this sea of torment. Papa’s fingers dig into the soft flesh and make their marks, many abrasions. He can feel his body shutting down, feel the bruises coating his skin; feel the pain as he chokes on a mixture of saliva and air when Papa’s hold finally slackens, releases him, sends him shriveled and crumpling to the ground in a fusion of dancing flesh and bones. But it’s too late, and he’s losing consciousness as if he’s hit full throttle—

(Now this reminds him of the blood eagle: an execution method attributed to the Vikings and other tribes of nordic descent, where they would cut open the back of the victim, stick in their hands and pull out their lungs out the cut in their back, making it look almost like eagle wings, and the lungs were often described in theories on the practice, to still be pulsating as neither the cut nor the moving of the lungs was fatal enough to kill most cases, so they had about half an hour to an hour of just lying there with their lungs hanging out of their back.)

That’s the last thing he sees before the world fades to black.

✧

His head is spinning.

When he comes to, it’s Sebastian that’s by his side. Max blinks. Doesn’t know what to say. His breathing shallow and inconsistent, still trying to suck in air in desperate breaths. His lungs feel like they’ve been crushed and his ribs broken.

His wings are— where are his wings? He glances up and sees feathers being connected to puppet strings. He’s thinking he cannot be anything to this world without the chains that keep him from flying. It is, after all, birds who leave the least marks upon the earth itself; their marks are left in the clouds, in the ever shifting clouds, in the rain, the sun's glare, and only a shadow of their glory is ever left upon the earth.

(Oh. I cannot be a bird and still expect to remain in love with the world; is it not the human wish to fly, to explore, to feat the soulless orbs we call eyes upon what we call the "wonders" of the world, forgetting—as we always do forget, such feeble hearts, such fragile strings, shattered in the slightest blow of wind—that the world itself is the wonder and we the parasite.)

His waxen wings are there, but what use do they possess if controlled by another?

(Of course, the wings were never real. That should be very obvious by now.)

He’s going to choke on air again.

(Coming back from a near-death experience is the first time the body flirts with the notion of demise, standing on the brink, like bursting from the surface of water after drowning in it’s hold for an eternity; promises that it’ll all be fine and remain the same— but the thing is that after you’ve done this once,

You’ll always fail to make yourself whole.)

There’s silence for a while. Sebastian’s holding his limp body and supporting it with his own.  

“Are you okay?” is the first question he asks. Max nods, still out of breath. His eyes flutter open and close and open and close again. He doesn't notice the crowd of people that had gathered around them. He swears, if a camera flashes in his eye right now, he’s going to kill everyone. He feels nauseous.

Sebastian grabs his hand, leads him away from the crowd of people that have gathered around; intending to bring him to his driver’s room. In that moment he forgets any implications of what he’s just done to his career and ignores the glaring pairs of eyes, boring their ways like inchworms bore into the cores of apples, judging with stoic, immovable certainty. What is he doing? That isn’t his child. Fuck that. Even if Max is not his, he should still be allowed to ensure he is safe and alive. Right? Also, why are there so many goddamn people here? So many people have gathered, pulling their phones out, recording videos and taking photos, and Sebastian can already notice how the glaring flash of the phones have started to overwhelm Max. Everyone is pissing him off today. And the annoyance is mutual, it appears.

(Oh such vicious gazes, they want something—him—dead, they want to turn him into a killer, they want to pull the trigger with their eyes.  They are, after all, not the ones who will be firing the shot. They’re not the ones who have to inflict harm on a child. They can return home and say it was another man who shot the bird, even as they may be cooking the flesh of the bird for dinner that same day. They can always say they never verbally told the man to shoot, that he did it off his own accord, that they had no hand in the death and therefore they will sleep peacefully that night and every other night.)

But, really, Sebastian’s thinking; how can one simply stand by and watch as a sorry excuse of a father strangles their innocent kid? How does one sleep soundly knowing this? As a bystander, one cannot claim innocence when one has all the power in the world to stop that detestable perpetrator—restrain him, but no, they just stood to the side and watched. Watched as Max struggled. The chains shackling him; and they simply looked on as he attempted to fight, but to no avail. 

Fuck, he can see Max second by second lose the energy, eyes fluttering open and close; the intervals between stretching longer and longer each time. They get to the driver’s room just in time, however.

Sebastian notices the bruises on Max’s neck. Gets an ice pack—doesn’t dare to touch Max’s neck in case he’s not comfortable with it—just hands it to him. 

He swears, he’s going to kill Jos.

✧

I suppose, it should be important to give a backstory:

Sebastian’s walking through, just wanting to grab a bottle of water, when he notices in the corner of his eye— Is that Max? Instinctively he stops in his footsteps like he’s slammed the brakes on a car—and in the small slit of space, he sees Max. Max, and Jos.

He can’t exactly make out what’s happening. But wait, it does not look right at all. He squints, focuses his eyes on the scene unfolding before him, and—

He freezes. There's no way. It’s not clear and he can’t really make it out; but it looks like Jos is strangling his son— what the fuck. Boiling rage fills his bloodstream, possesses his being. The anger courses through his brain and it’s like someone just dumped a bucketload of adrenaline into him— beacause his brain is running on autopilot and he’s charging into the room before he can control himself— landing a punch square in Jos’ jaw. Sebastian’s balled up fist collides with his jaw, sends him reeling and stumbling backwards. Deserved, he thinks. He grabs the very unconscious Max Verstappen and runs out the door before Jos can catch a glimpse of him. 

There are people around before and after. Gathering. Recording. Not caring about a child’s safety. The notion makes him sick. With hurried footsteps he quickly rushes back to his own room, locks the door. If no one protects Max, he’ll do it himself.

✧

Max doesn’t really remember the rest of the day, if he’s being honest. He remembers Sebastian— and that’s the most shocking part, really—

But why?

a bird in flight / should be / like any other animal in

motion / & in its element / yet a bird in flight is always

nebulous / more than a butterfly / more than a frog or

a leopard / a bird’s bones are made for just one thing /

the breath of the sky / and its quick changeable shapes

/ not to hold marrow / not to hold time

A BIRD IN FLIGHT

On the threshold of 2015, Max is announced to join Formula 1 at the age of seventeen.

Of course, Sebastian almost can’t believe it. Well, so does everyone else, because the prospect of a seventeen year old—a teenager, not even an adult yet—driving a Formula One car is crazy at best and life threatening at worst. But this is Max, so. He’s not surprised. He wonders if Max remembers him. Well, he does have his phone number, so he reckons he might. But it’d be nice if he did remember him. The fact that Max had been fast-tracked into Formula 1, though, rattles Sebastian a bit, really, given what he knows. He wonders if Max is okay after all these years. But he knows Max is in august company (Helmut, Christian, really, just all of Red Bull), so he’s sure Max will be fine.

And then he sees him: Golden hair, glowing in the sun. He’s beaming. Sebastian hasn’t seen that type of smile on Max in a long while. A warm feeling blooms within him upon witnessing that.

(He hopes Max remembers him.)

Max’s gaze catches onto Sebastian’s figure. Sebastian looks up, and their eyes meet. A moment burnt into his memory, etched into the few seconds that stretch between them. Everything else seems to fade away as they stare at each other. Max still has those vibrant blue eyes that Sebastian remembers seeing a couple years back, and the sparkle has somehow returned. The mind forgets, but the heart always remembers, he supposes. At least there’s one good thing coming out of that. He waves. Max waves back.

He stares at the fact that Max is now the Youngest F1 Driver, watching people criticise him for his age—saying stuff like he’s too young and that he will be a danger to the sport. It makes Sebastian irrationally angry, quite frankly. Because they do not get it, they do not get how Max worked so hard for this and that he absolutely fucking deserves this. They simply do not get it, they haven’t seen what Max has been through.

Sebastian approaches Max a bit later. 

“Hey,” he greets, “How are you?” He’s trying to act normal, for the most part, because he doesn’t really know how to address the elephant in the room—that only he and Max are aware of—without scaring him off. Tiptoeing around the subject would just be weird, and not addressing the subject entirely might make things a bit too awkward. 

“I’m okay,” he replies, scratching his head. (Sebastian really wants to ruffle his hair. It’s fluffy.)

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.”

They don’t talk after that.

✧

His eyes stare above and trace the stars hanging in the night sky. A sky full of stars, a sea of stars so bright it blinds. But they move too fast, and his pupils can’t catch onto the light, can’t grasp it and memorise it permanently in his brain. They don’t trace constellations; they only absorb the darkness, a gaping void, maybe even consuming it. He thinks, he would watch that dark blue sky for hours, days, weeks, maybe even years. Trying, in vain, to reach out and touch one of them, become one of them. A glowing sun in the sky; just trying to believe that maybe he’s indispensable to the world, that his existence has made an impact, some so-called famous figure that ends up in history books. He can’t stop looking. Maybe, it’ll get so bad he’ll be afraid to look away, avert his gaze.

Max glances at his phone. There’s a message from Seb.