Chapter Text
The cold bites into his skin like a knife through his flimsy coat, sending small shivers crawling over his skin. Despite the fact that he’s inside the station, he can still see his breath clouding the air in front of his face. He’s pacing desperately, his hands shaking as he walks past isles of colorful snacks that his dad would never in a million years let him buy, much less eat.
He’d been alone for what had to be the last hour or so, as the man behind the counter had simply left through a back door not long after Max had walked inside. No acknowledgment, no explanation. Just exited quietly enough that it had taken him a few more lengths of the store before he’d realized.
The man probably had heard his dad yelling at him through the thin walls of the petrol station, and had decided that was not something he wanted to be involved in, even after…
Max didn’t blame the man, in all actuality. His cheek still stings like hell, the cold only going so far to numb the sharp pain to a dull, aching throb. The pain grounds him, though, reminds him where he is. What…
No. He shakes his head, inhaling sharply. It takes actual effort to push those thoughts down, but he manages. Besides, he’s got far more pressing issues, starting with how the fuck is a thirteen year old going to get to a home over a thousand kilometers away with nothing but 30€, a pen, a pocket knife, and a thin, dirty coat that does absolutely nothing for the cold.
He knows his dad is planning on staying at some sort of hotel along the way, but he’s got no idea what country he’ll stay in, much less a town or city name. It’s the math that he’s been churning over and over in his head for the last hour or so. His mom is out, she’s with his sister back home waiting for them.
His grandparents? His aunts and uncles? He’s got no clue as to what their phone numbers might be, much less addresses if they’re even within walking or bus distance from here. He curses himself again for dropping his phone when his dad…
This time, his thoughts immediately scatter like petals in the wind, his steps faltering. No. Problems to solve. Where can I…
And then it hits him. It’s batshit insane, really, the idea, but he’s fresh out of any other ones. And, well, at the very least, it’s the sort of dedication that might even make his dad…proud? No. Less angry, at least.
Before he can change his mind, he reaches for the food, stuffing as much as he can into his coat pockets before exiting the store quickly, his heart racing and his mind full of thoughts he’s doing his level best to ignore right now.
He leaves the store at 12:43 AM, a granola bar clutched between his teeth and the single-minded focus of a teenager once they’ve latched onto an idea, now determined to see it through.
— — —
Three minutes later, at exactly 12:46 AM, Jos’s truck pulls back into the station, the hard-faced man stepping out and walking briskly into the small building, pausing at the entrance and looking around with a careful eye. There’s no one behind the counter, nor between the short rows of shelves occupying most of the space.
“Max?” He calls out, checking the single-stall bathroom in the back.
Nothing stirs in that freezing building aside from a few dust motes that drift in the air and the icy cloud of his breath hanging in nearly the exact spot his son stood not five minutes ago. He is still for a long, drawn out moment, then walks outside with careful, measured steps, the door banging closed behind him. The sound echoes into the night, a sharp knife cutting through the silence.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. Cupping his hand, he lights the end of it after a few tries with the lighter, inhaling sharply. The swirl of smoke hitting his lungs immediately eases some of the tension in his shoulders as he climbs back into his truck, turning around and driving out of the lot.
— — —
Max doesn't know how long he's been waiting. The cold has long since seeped into his bones, and he wouldn't be surprised if they creaked if he tried to move. Twin trails of ice decorate his cheeks, evidence of his weakness. He’d broken down at the sight of the first rays of dawn breaking through the treetops, now slowly crawling across the ground towards his spot perched on the edge of the bench.
He thinks, sometimes during the night, he passed out, given the small circle of warmth left on the frosty glass next to him. He takes small, sharp breaths, even that tiny movement cutting into him.
He can see a town, out of the corner of his eye, just down the hill. He could probably make it there, if he really tries. Making it back, though? Not a chance in hell. Besides, he doesn't know a lick of German or Italian, and turning to check the sign behind him to confirm where he is would require movement and…
And so his thoughts run in circles, chasing its own tail around and around, desperately trying not to think about the failures that led him here.
I deserve this, he repeats over and over in his mind, desperately trying to stitch himself back together after his determination broke down last night. His father always hates tears, saying it made him weak.
He was right, of course. His father is always right, no matter what Max says or does. Especially now, where it feels like his bones are freezing solid and his dad’s likely got the heat cranked up in a hotel room somewhere,
The thought nearly makes tears spill over his flushed cheeks once more.
Another car rushes past on the two-lane backroad, not even slowing as it passes. Off to an unknown destination, somewhere far away. He wishes, distantly, that he was in that van, tucked into the backseat with the heat on full blast and a cozy blanket wrapped around his legs.
It wouldn’t really matter who was driving or who he was with, just that he was going somewhere, anywhere, away from here. Maybe it’d be his sister in the backseat with him, cracking jokes and play-fighting with him, like siblings were supposed to. At least, he thought they were.
His sister had left with his mom before he remembered, and he’d never even seen a photo of her. And probably never would, if his father’s words are anything to go by.
And his father’s word is the word of god.
He doesn’t know how much longer it takes, but a bus finally pulls in. It’s fully light out, but that provides little comfort when he moves to get on the bus. His muscles protest weakly as a thousand knives pierce into his skin, the cold so much worse now that he’s not being as still as possible.
He makes it, though. The bus driver barely spares him a glance after he fumbles with his money with thick, numb fingers, handing over 5 precious euros. There’s only one other person inside the small intra-city bus, a hat pulled over a scruffy looking man tucked into the back corner. Max sits down as far away from the driver and the other man, his teeth chattering now that he’s moving.
It's probably not all that much warmer than outside in the bus, given the thick coat the driver is wearing, but it might as well be the full power of the sun to him. He takes deep breaths of the warm, comforting air, almost burning in its intensity.
Slowly, far, far, too slowly, warmth starts to return to his core, a feeling not unlike TV static spreading up his torso and down his legs. His eyes remain fixed on his hands which are shaking uncontrollably, even tucked in as close to his body as he can make them. They’re flush red, at least. He thinks that might be a good sign, at least that’s what it said in that stupid survival book some distant relative sent to him in the mail on Christmas.
It’d seemed dumb even to his little eight-year-old brain, but the package had arrived in one of the rare moments that his dad wasn’t hovering over his shoulder, addressed to him. And so naturally he’d opened it and snuck the book into his room, wearing the pages thin every night reading it over and over for the next month.
He couldn’t sit down without sharp needles of pain crawling up his back for a week after his dad found him late one night, the small bedside lamp illuminating his childish grin hunched over the book.
He was an idiot back then, he knows. Had thought he knew better, not to make childish, dumb decisions, but here he is, facing the consequences of yet another one of his many mistakes. Dad’s always right, in the end. The thought feels bitter in the back of his throat as he moves his fingers delicately, one at a time.
Feeling has returned to them, at least, even if it’s just mostly pins and needles.
The man at the back of the bus says something, then, startling him out of his thoughts. He sits up instantly, his muscles tense as he turns toward the noise.
The man’s looking at him, repeats the two words. He’s got no idea what it is, only that it sounds vaguely Italian.
Max, not knowing what to do really, just shrugs, not understanding.
He tries again, and Max recognizes the harsh, grating sounds of German, though he still has no idea what he’s saying.
Finally, he tries in English. “Hey, kid!” It's heavily accented but understandable.
“Yes?” His voice shakes around the word. He doesn’t know how to say very much in English, but he can read and listen to it pretty well.
“Are you okay? Do you want my coat?” The man holds up a worn but cozy-looking jacket, offering it to him.
Max swallows thickly, staring at it. It would be really nice, but- his dad. If- He shakes his head nervously, curling in on himself more.
“Are you sure?” The man looks gruff, a tangled beard and unkempt hair framing a sunburnt face and a nose that looks like it’s been broken one too many times. But there’s a kindness there, something soft behind those eyes that makes Max almost want to trust him.
The bus pulls up to the next stop, and the man stands up. “I will leave it here, if you want it.” He walks up to the front of the bus, but stops just before he gets off. “It’s going to be okay, kid. Not great, like they will lie to you, but not horrible either, not if you try. It is not easy, but…” he trails off, lost in his own thoughts for a moment. Then, he steps off without another word.
Max springs up on shaky legs, grabbing the jacket and returning back to his seat with it pulled over his existing coat. It’s massive on his tiny frame, falling almost to his knees. But it feels infinitely better to have an extra layer of warmth wrapped around him.
He tries not to think about what the man said, partially because he thinks he’s crazy, and partially because he’s worried the man is right. That he might not ever feel happy about what he’s doing, just…okay. That he might not ever fully like racing. The thought is a punch straight to his gut and he wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn’t fucked up, forced his dad to punish him like this. He hopes, desperately, that he’ll find his dad at the track when he gets there, still red-faced and arms crossed, a cigarette balanced between two thick fingers.
He’d be angry, sure, still as disappointed as ever, but he’d be there. He takes a deep breath, shoving it out of his mind for the moment.
He busies himself by pulling out all the snacks he grabbed and organizing them. There's a fair amount of candy, some granola bars, some nuts and even a bag of sunflower seeds. A water bottle takes up the whole of one pocket, sticking out awkwardly. It’s icy-cold to the touch, but better than the stickiness that's building at the back of his throat.
He takes a small sip, bracing himself against the cold. It’s annoying, but now that he’s mostly warm otherwise, it's nothing more than that. He tucks the food back into his pockets, grabbing back out a granola bar when his stomach rumbles in protest. Munching quietly, he rifles through the rest of the pockets, making sure he hasn’t missed anything.
He finds two more 1€ coins, adds that to his small stash. An old gum wrapper, some receipts he can’t read, and a soda tab. He rolls the tab over and over in his hand, staring out the window as the scenery rushes by. Time slips past him; he knows the bus stops a few times, collects some more people, then drops them off again. Sometime later, though, it’s still just him and the stone-faced bus driver that doesn’t say a word when he pulls up to the last stop and Max climbs off, soda tab still clutched in his tiny hands.
It’s still frigid outside, and up here there’s trails of snow along the ground. Those are leftover, he knows, from the last snowstorm a while ago, it’s been mostly dry here. The grass crunches underfoot as he walks towards the gated entrance, the sun hanging overhead. Between his second jacket and it, he feels surprisingly strong when he makes it to the entrance.
No one’s there, of course. A tiny racetrack on a Monday morning two days past any sort of event? He ducks underneath the security gate, the wooden bar easy to duck under. Why have all this fencing if it’s so easy to just avoid? Someone can easily drive around it, too, he thinks, walking down the road.
He knows the actual track is almost a kilometer farther up, but he doesn't particularly mind, as his legs feel a lot better now that he’s not freezing half to death. In fact, it’s quite pleasant, just focusing on one step after another, meandering on the road. He feels like he can banish some of the worries plaguing his mind and breathe fully for the first time since last night.
In the bright, comforting light of day, last night feels more like a bad dream. He’s safe, surrounded by the sounds of birds chirping and the rhythmic thump of his shoes on the pavement.
The rest of the walk passes quickly, and soon enough he’s at the track that two days ago was filled with people. He notices, oddly, that there’s still one truck in one of the parking lots, all the way in the far corner. It’s a large truck, almost American-like in its design. Bright blue, too, with a manufacturer he doesn’t recognize.
He files the information away, not quite knowing what to do with it. It’s definitely not his dad’s truck, that’s for sure, which makes everything that much more terrifying. He knew, logically, that he likely wouldn’t find his dad here, at least not right away. It’ll take him a while to calm down, realize he needs me, he reassures himself.
He decides to head inside the main building in the meantime, fill up his water and see what else he can find. Maybe there’s a phone he can use to call his dad.
He finds the main building unlocked, thankfully, and barely spares a thought for why that might be before slipping inside, shutting it behind him. There’s a long main hallway inside the concrete structure, with bathrooms on one end as well as registration and concessions. On the other end are a series of storage spaces for both the rentable carts the track uses and space for people to store their own, if they don’t want to lug them back home to work on them between races like him and his dad do.
After filling up his water bottle and downing it a few times, he decides to poke around in the storage spaces to see what he can find. Most of them are locked (big shocker) but the door on the end isn’t.
It’s odd, he knows, and he’s likely not alone, thanks to the truck out front, but he’s just about out of fucks to give, as his dad says. He takes a deep breath, easing the door open.
It is indeed full of carts, like he expected, though it looks more like a fully-fledged shop than a simple storage space. Tools line the walls, and there’s multiple carts in various states of being taken apart, tools and wiring strewn about. He spots a welder, hammers, screws, and a bunch of electrical stuff that his fingers are itching to sort through, to see if he can find anything good to add to his cart.
Except, his cart is back with his dad…likely hundreds of kilometers away by now. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his knees suddenly weak. His hands reach for the wall, grabbing for purchase against the solid brick. He can’t breathe properly, and his heart is racing in his chest as he slides to the floor, his back to the wall.
He draws his knees up to his chest, curling up tightly. The beginnings of tears prick at the corners of his eyes despite his dad’s voice in his head calling him weak, pathetic whenever he broke down in front of him.
Most of the time, that’s enough to stop them. Not this time though, not after last night. Once the first one falls, he’s helpless to stop the rest. His hiccupping sobs echo in the cavernous room.
— — —
Far, far too much time later, the last of them seem to fall, leaving him worn out and exhausted. The concrete floor is incredibly cold underneath him, and his back aches from being pressed up against the wall for so long.
He sighs, closing his eyes and thumping his head back on the wall, attempting to gather the energy to stand. Max knows he has to get up, find a phone or…or something. Anything to get him out of this shit and back to his dad. The reality is, he has absolutely no idea what to do. He doesn’t even know if his dad’ll pick up if he tries to call, if he’ll just berate Max like he always does and then hang up without another word. That’s probably what he’ll do. Better then…his stomach churns as the grim thought crosses his mind.
The door pops open, startling him out of his thoughts. A small boy takes a few steps inside, then freezes as he sees Max curled up on the floor. The kid lets out a high-pitched squeak of surprise before turning and running back out the door.
Max shoots to his feet, catching the door before it could close. “Wait!” he yells in English, his voice hoarse.
The kid glances back, his black hair a mop flailing around him. If Max had to guess he’d say he looked about eight or nine years old. The kid doesn’t stop, just rounds a corner and disappears from sight. The door to the outside slams shut.
Fuck, Max thinks, heading down the hallway to follow the kid. He might have a phone, at least. That’s his only hope at the moment, he recognizes in a cold, distant corner of his mind that’s been under the iron clutches of his father for the better part of a decade. Most of him is still curled up into a ball, bone-dead exhausted and balling his eyes out.
He opens the door and walks outside, cringing against the bright light after the dim electrical lighting of inside. He’s probably delirious, he knows, and definitely not thinking straight.
He finds himself face to face with a gruff, middle-aged man with a thick, bushy black beard and a stern frown on his face. He’s a full head and a half taller than Max, and has his arms crossed, a pair of pliers clutched in his grip. They look tiny in his massive, callused hands.
Max swallows nervously, shrinking back, pressed against the door.
The man says something that Max can’t understand, likely Italian. He tries again, in English this time. “What are you doing here?” His voice is harsh, but surprisingly accentless. Max notices, distantly, the little boy clutching onto the man’s belt, mostly hidden behind his massive frame.
Max opens his mouth, then closes it again, searching for the words. “My…my father…” He stutters out, his heart thumping in his chest. He’s shaking, quivering like a leaf as he feels the cold, calm, rational part of his brain retreat. Shattered in an instant by the ghost of his father, standing in front of him.
It doesn’t matter that their faces look different, or the fact that his dad never wears tee shirts, even in the height of summer, or that he doesn’t have a dull, metallic wedding ring wrapped around his left ring finger.
Max sucks in a shaky breath, using the last of his energy to stave off the fear crawling up his spine, thick claws sinking into ribs with every frantic beat of his heart. His eyes drop to the grass in front of him despite his father’s voice in the back of his head yelling look me in the eyes when I’m talking to you, idiot!
“H-he…” It’s silent for an agonizingly long moment while he looks for the words in English. The man doesn’t say anything, at least, seemingly waiting for him to continue.
“Left me,” he sobs out. “He left me.” The words feel foreign, wrong, in his mouth as he says them. His lower lip trembles.
“Hey, hey.” The man is crouched down in front of him, his hand outstretched as if to pet his back.
Max flinches away from the touch, the pain in his cheek still a living, breathing thing, despite being more of a phantom than anything else.
The man abruptly pulls his hand away. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do that. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come home with us, spend the night, get some food, and we can sort this all out tomorrow? Does that sound good?”
Max nods, though he’s barely listening, half trapped in the horrible haze of memories the word home brings roaring to the surface.
The man stands up, gesturing to the blue truck that’s parked in the distance. “You’re safe, now, kid. Safe.”
The little boy reaches out, tiny, soft hands grasping his own, wrapping them in a comforting blanket of warmth. “It’s okay,” the boy whispers. Okay, he mouths again, and that seems to unlock something in Max, who mouths it back to him. Okay.
He allows the pair to lead him towards the truck, his heart finally slowing, at least a little bit.