Wrath & Protest [Max Verstappen]

[f o u r.]

Max had noticed the already-brewing tensions between Vettel and Hamilton, even if it was only the first race of the season. They battled fiercely at the front that day, wheel-to-wheel, several seconds ahead of the pack and threatening to crash each other out just due to how close they were. The congratulations the Ferrari driver gave the Brit on the podium was obviously forced, smile tight and stance rigid. The atmosphere dragged down even Max, who watched the celebrations from afar, and poor Bottas had to tolerate it as he opened his bottle of champagne. All this drama between champions…

And no one bothered to ask about it.

Burnouf currently hogged all the media attention, so much so that Vettel and Hamilton managed to sneak away from interviews unnoticed and spend the rest of the day wherever. Those lucky bastards.

Max, however, was still out and about imagining the amount of pressure Burnouf had to endure as a newcomer. Despite making hher wishes clear during pre-race conferences, she was treated more as a spectacle than a driver. Everyday since the first Free Practice Max could hear journalists ask her how it felt to be different, to be separate, to be somehow an entirely unique entity than the other drivers. She would always try to assert that she wasn't anyone special, but alas, tabloid writers would do anything to get more readers, even if it meant injecting some sort of bullshit narrative into their story.

Rosalie looked so pitiful under these conditions that Max began to feel sorry for her. Unlike her, Max loved the spotlight. As he entered F1 as the youngest points scorer in the sport's history, he handled every single interview with great showmanship, tackling every question with both charisma and a charming air of an eager rookie. This pity he felt for Burnouf was probably why he didn't react much when he found her crouched behind a wall near the Red Bull paddock.

“Rosalie?” Max called, almost chuckling at her when the girl stumbled over in surprise.

She gathered herself and stood, trying to catch the breath she lost from being startled, “Hi, Max…”

“What are you doing here? Trying to spy?” he teased.

“Wha-? Oh no! Nonononono! I'm hiding!”

“Hiding? From who?”

She blushed then, and averted her eyes so that she wouldn't have to look at him. Her hands wrung together, “Interviews.”

The Dutchman flat-out laughed this time, snorting and suddenly bending over 45 degrees. He had to hold his sides to keep them from hurting too much, and as Burnouf panicked, he struggled to keep himself together. He had heard of drivers faking illnesses or injuries go get out of PR appearances, but straight up hiding? At least to Max, it was as unheard of as it was ridiculous.

“You call yourself a driver?” he gasped, feeling tears pricking his eyes.

She sighed, “Well, I'm here, aren't I?”

Max finally found his bearings but frowned at the response. The way she said that… It was almost as if she hated it.

Immediately Rosalie attempted to correct herself, “I'm really happy to be here, is what I mean. Just give me some more time and I won't be as, er, green.”

“You know you're driving in the most prestigious tier of motorsport, right?” Max huffed, “Are you actually complaining right now?”

“No! It was just a long time coming, is all. I'm finally here, so I'm relieved,” she shifted her weight between her feet.

“Well, you can't relax just yet. There's a whole season ahead of all of us, and you know how Toro Rosso is.”

She tilted her head.

“They have no problem kicking out drivers as they please. The grind doesn’t just stop at Formula One, either.”

Rosalie nodded and before Max could go she stopped him by gripping onto his sleeve. Her smile returned, and the light in her autumn eyes was enough to make his heart quiver. He stammered, “What are you…”

“Thank you for coming to congratulate me today. And stopping to talk. Really, it means a lot.”

Max pulled his arm away feeling as if his chest was about to shrink in on itself. This was it. This was solid proof that the girl in front of him was a total and complete idiot. Back on the track, she couldn’t see that he questioned her simply because, for a brief moment, he saw her as a threat. She also seemed to take all of his warnings as genuine advice from a “concerned” upperclassman.

“Get out of here before the Red Bull staff catch you being a creep.”

“I’m not being a creep--”

“You are being the creepiest creep on this property right now!”

Rosalie pouted.

He watched as a swarm of columnists came out of nowhere to follow her for the rest of the day when she left him. He shook his head, trying his hardest to ignore the urge to laugh again. She wasn’t interesting in the slightest, he wanted to convince himself, Rosalie was just weird. Weird and comically naive.