Chapter Text
Max Verstappen was having, by his standards, a simply lovely morning.
He’d woken up to sunshine glinting off the Mediterranean, polished off two Red Bulls and a strong coffee, they're after-effect made him hear colors, beaten Carlos in two laps of the sim. A breakfast that tasted like discipline and over boiled eggs. Two hours in the gym. A call with Yuki that began with a car updates talk and ended with Yuki laughing at him like a backstabber. A short team call, which was rare enough to count as a minor miracle.
He was, in short, thriving in the way people thrive when their lives are held together by caffeine, muscle memory, and spite.
And he was alive and living like that. Race weeks, training, workouts, donations, traveling, terrorizing every driver in the grid – very strange that they think of him like his the reincarnation of a twenty-something satan, tsk accusations, accusations.
So he was coping. Very fucking well, actually.
Until something ruined his day.
Max was walking up to his house — he'd bought the apartment in Monaco at the start of the year when he got fed up by his father. He liked the peace it gave him: warm lights, video games, trophies glinting down at the floor, the view, The coffee machine that hissed like a tiny annoyed dragon. He wanted to keep liking it.
But profoundly, and most coincidentally there was a package on his doorstep, wrapped in dark blue paper, looking expensive enough to make him suspicious.
Max stopped and side eyed it.
The box was still a box.
He stared at it anyway.
He frowned deeply. How can someone get this far without the security stopping them, He wondered, half to himself, half to the divine universe.
He examined it from where he stood, hating the fact that a box is keeping him from entering his apartment in peace, making him overthink, but unfortunately he knows how much people dislike him after many a race weeks, so he assumed either death threats or a bomb. But the bomb could be a little bit exaggerated.
It looked neat and untouched enough to make him now suspiciouser. He looked up at security camera above the neighboring building that blinked innocently.
He huffed and approached it like it might come alive. There was no delivery logo. No address. No postage. Just a silver ribbon and, tucked beneath it, a card. He took the card first, and gingerly unfolded it.
Thought you might like it, love.
Yours,
-C.L.
His face screwed up, “What the actual fuck?,” he said, with real feeling.
Max’s stomach flipped. He read it again. Love. It wasn’t underlined or anything – didn’t need to be. The word mentally knocked at his chest, like a digging hammer.
Love.
Who calls him that?
Certainly not his team, not his teammates either – nobody. He clenched his jaw in irritation. Is someone trying to mock him? Fucking thinking this is some funny prank to try out.
Either this person was a downright asshole or downright… something else. He didn’t care which.
Jesus of all the words in the world... Love?
He called security immediately to have it checked, By the time they arrived, he stood with his arms crossed, shoulders tight, and he had gone through the first stages of being annoyed, suspicious, and personally victimized by the concept of presents.
They checked the exterior, then the seams, then the bottom of it, and Max watched with the grim patience of a man being forced to accept that he did not, in fact, know everything about the contents of his own doorstep.
He raised his eyebrows, ‘‘Is it a bomb?,” He asked, voice too calm and unfit for how he's feeling about the situation.
“Its too small to be a bomb, Mr. Verstappen,” The first security said as he handed him the box.
“Perhaps, just a fan gesture sir,” The second one said, french accent dripping thickly from his tongue, “But it's safe”
He gave up a small smile before thanking them and shrugging them off; because this is not a normal thing to be a fan gesture, fan gestures is given in public, after a race, after fan meet and greets, after signing and talking with them.
Not in a building full of security cameras and still succeeding into sneaking one on his doorstep.
Max took the box inside only after they swept it twice and confirmed it was not, in fact, a bomb. Which felt like a low bar. He stood in his hallway holding it at arm's length anyway. He set it on the kitchen counter with the care of someone placing an expensive curse under house arrest.
Then he unfolded it.
The paper came away in careful folds, and underneath was a plain black box, the kind that didn't need branding because the thing inside already knew what it was, Max scoffed at the absurdity of this. because who would take all this time to do this and also give it to him illegally.
It was fucking seamless, not even a finger fold, or a wrinkle in sight. Max huffed in annoyance as he opened the top. Maybe the answer is what's inside.
It isn't.
Instead he found a helmet.
And not just any fucking helmet.
Not a replica, or an inspired reincarnation, or even something you could order online at three in the morning while pretending to have self-control.
He knew immediately, the way you memorize past hyperfixations. A race-worn helmet from one of his childhood heroes, the exact one he had once mentioned in a forgotten interview years ago, back when he was young enough to say things openly with patience and a more than just a few hums.
The one he had tried to buy later, through an auctioneer until the answer had come back as a rejection.
The helmet of Ayrton Senna's 1990 San Marino qualifying run sat in his kitchen.
In. His. Fucking. Kitchen, instead of an auction house or the FIA collection or even at heaven with Senna.
Max just stood there, staring at it in his kitchen like the laws of reality just pulled an uno reverse card on him.
You're turn, Max.
He's jaw tightened, and shut his eyes when felt them burning from unblinking.
C.L.
He stared at the initials again, the red lettering on the card was catching the light in a way that made him more struck — because how the fuck had someone managed to get their hands on it, and stranger still, to press it into his palm rather than tuck it away somewhere private, hoarded like the precious, glorious thing it was.
Max let out a stiff laugh, because what else was he supposed to do?
“Okay,” that was all he could get out of himself. “That’s... very creepy.”
If this is truly a fan gesture, then this is either a very rich fan or something worse. And he doesn't like either.
Max didn’t know if he should feel shocked – or flattered, or maybe just plain creeped out. A strange knot tightened in his chest. Flattery wasn’t right of course, not when this package sat there like an offering, tied with a silver ribbon. If it had a “welcome” sign, he might have screamed.
The thought flickered through his head: Maybe I should burn it. He burned stuff sometimes; it wasn’t an awful idea. But as absurd as it was, he absolutely refused to light a match to Ayrton Senna’s 1990 helmet.
Are you mad!?, he snapped at himself.
Even the idea felt sacrilegious. Still, he shook his head and brushed it off.
No point imagining arson; he wasn’t going to set this thing on fire, he tried to not feel anything else than suspiciousness but his eyes betrayed him as it glowed crystals at the helmet. Adornment yet weary.
He cursed under his breath again.
A shame, really. A bomb would have been so much simpler than the torture of deciding what to do about this.
He picked it up carefully and tried it on. Bad idea. The inside smelled like old leather and something faintly haunting — the specific ghost of a visor seal that hadn't been pressed against a human face in over decades. Max stood in his hallway with Senna's 1990 San Marino qualifying helmet sitting on his head and felt, briefly, insane.
He took it off and set it back in the box with both hands.
Then, stepped away from the counter like it was it on fire, as if that ever scared him.
He looked at the intials one last time.
Then pulled out his phone and called Yuki.
“Heyyyyy,” came Yuki’s voice, drowned out by distant waves and laughter. Yacht party, as he knew from his Instagram posts.
“Yuki,” Max said quickly, trying to sound casual while eying the helmet in the box. “Got a minute? I have a problem.”
“The car update again?,” Yuki guessed immediately, because Yuki had no concept of preamble.
“No,” Max said. “Different problem. Someone left a fucking...” he paused to gesture vaguely at the helmet, “gift on my doorstep.”
Yuki hummed, “Nice gift?,” He joked.
He looked back at the box and sighed, “That's the problem,” he said.
“So it is nice?” He questioned again, uncertain this time.
Max was tempted to yell it, No, it’s a life-destroying omen, but he just grunted.
“Let me explain.” He hurriedly filled Yuki in: the box, the helmet, the freaky note that he refused to read out for him.
There was a very loud beat of silence before yuki spoke again, “What?”
“You heard me,” he said dryly.
“I did. But what I mean when I say what... I mean what the actual fu-”
“I don't know what to do with it,” Max interrupted him, “I'm not giving it to the fucking FIA. But I could give it to his... team?”
''You can. But what will you say if they asked you how you got it? Someone airdropped it to you?” he mocked.
Max rolled his eyes, but still gave second thoughts about it, but Yuki of course interrupted them,
“You said there was a note,” He stated.
“Yes”
“What did it say? Maybe you can know anything from it?”
Max sucked on his bottom lip, half wanting to change the subject, half planning how to avoid saying what's written, and another entirely just wanting the ground to swallow him whole.
“Um no, it didn't give away anything... I called the security and they said it's safe. They thought it's a fan gesture.” Max said, his words coming out quicker than intended.
Great cover story.
Yuki made a thoughtful sound, accepting the change of subject for the time being, “A fan with... Senna's helmet's money?”
“Basically.”
“Max, this is not a fan gesture.” He said in a I-know-you-know tone.
“What else is it, Yuki?” Max huffed, he already knows what it is, but he's willing to avoid it. So willing Yuki has no fucking idea.
“I don’t know,” Yuki said, sounding almost serious now, which meant the situation has gotten strange enough to earn his actual thinking-time.
“But listen, if Senna himself was here, and may god rest his soul. He himself would fucking tell you that it’s strange Max.”
Max looked down at the helmet again, imagining if the ghost of Senna will actually come for him for this. The red of it seemed brighter now, almost smug in the kitchen light.
He made a sound of distraught, “Well, of course it's strange” He exclaimed.
Yuki sighed, “Listen, if anything else came in on your doorstep, I don't think that'll just be an admirer behavior. You will have to check the cameras then” Max grimaced at the word admirer.
Yuki sighed. “Just… keep your eyes open. Don’t throw it out. But be careful if anything else shows up, yeah?”
Max gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ll stash it somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind... right?”
“Right,” Yuki confirmed, “Good plan. And maybe leave out some Van Damme DVDs if it comes back? I hear that scares away stalkers.”
“Very funny.” Max hung up on Yuki, shaking his head.
He shut the door and stared at the box on the kitchen counter. It gleamed innocently under the chandelier. Max felt an uncanny tingle at the back of his neck – like someone was watching him, from nowhere. He forced himself to calm down.
He definitely was going to stash it. Not throw it out – like hell he’d disrespect Senna’s legacy – but... put it away somewhere he couldn’t accidentally trip over it at 3 AM. And somewhere that won't make him feel like it's watching him.
°______°
For the next few days, life returned to normal. Training at dawn, sim at lunch, endless calls about aerodynamics and his car, playing for way too long with his cats, and blasting some loud techno from Monaco nightclub archives.
Yuki insisted on sending increasingly absurd memes; Max retaliated by photoshopping Yuki’s face onto angry cats, It was normal. It was actually too normal to the point he forgot about the box and the card and who could've sent it, which was good.
He thought it could be perhaps a one time thing and won't happen again – perhaps whoever they are, came back to their senses, And that's also good. For them.
He did not open the closet.
Three days after that, another box arrived.
Max was pulling on double denim and a silver shirt, half an hour early to pick up his sister from the airport and already cursing himself for stopping to clean the broken coffee cup that fell earlier.
And there it was: a smaller box on the doorstep, wrapped in a deep, vivid red — not the cheap kind. The kind you found only in niche perfumes or stop signs or if you're implying something stranger; Ferrari.
This is not what I think it is, he thought as he turned it over in his hands, repeating it like a morning affirmation, for the sake of his sanity.
The last time a red anything had gone near him, rumors exploded that he was planning to jump ship to Italy.
Max didn't have time for this, he let it go once. That wasn't an invitation.
He turned the box over and there, embossed into the base of the wrapping: a prancing horse. The exact guess he'd been refusing to make. His grip tightened.
Holy shit.A Ferrari logo.
He pretended that he wasn't looking for a card, but pretending or not. There was no card.
His mouth went flat, “Coward,” he scoffed.
If someone was going to leave Ferrari property on his doorstep, they could've at least plucked up the courage and sign their actual name.
He shoved the box inside and slammed the door like he was pinning down a grenade. It skidded across the hallway table from the sound of it.
He paced a full lap, hands jammed in his pockets, jaw set, “No, no, no —” It came out harsh and rough. He was alone. No one to see it.
“Okay.” He stopped. “I don't care.” He said, quickly, like quickly would make it true.
But, he had errands, he has to work and he has to pick up his sister.
So for now there was just a box and a locked door, and Max walking away from both, telling himself this was a rich fan pushing too hard — and hoping, that the story ends there.